NIGHT MARE ON ELM STREET

*EXCERPT from the book SOUTHERN SILENCE*


A weathered black hand knocked against the fragile glass on my driver seat window, bolting me back to reality as I was studying my map. Frozen by this stranger able to reach for me I was unable to speak. I knew stopping with my Sport Utility Vehicle in the middle of a secluded gas station parking lot was probably not wise. I was lost in Cincinnati, and I just wanted to find the interstate. He wanted money for gas he said, as his hand trembled. His children were in the van stranded if I did not help he said. I did not want to suspiciously look into the van, I wanted to speed away. He would show me how to leave his end of town for the interstate if I just helped him this one time he said. Another young black man stood at the door in front of the building and watched us like this was our last Wednesday to breath the smog that rose from the ghetto streets during the spring heat. He was dressed in a white jogging suit with a gold chains around his neck waiting to see whether or not I would help the vagabond banging on my window. My hands were shaking as I reached for loose bills I kept in the glove compartment. Warning him that I had very little, I offered him fourteen dollars. Thanking God for my generosity he walked towards the man waiting at the door. Turning my engine on, I was thanking God for my life as I quickly left the parking lot.

Hoping that I was soon forgotten by the men, I drove to the nearest burger joint drive thru. I felt defiled, like I had been taken off guard like a silly woman. I had never allowed fear to pulse through my veins and my attention to be dulled like that before. City driving had left me exhausted, and there I was ordering an ice coffee across the street so that I could watch the man who had my fourteen dollars. I sat indignant, needing to just know for peace of mind if he were using the money for gas. My view was obstructed as the man turned his back while talking to the man in the jogging suit. My heart sunk, as I watched them exchange words and hand him my money. Unable to see what was exchanged in return, I slumped down in my seat. In under five minutes I had sunk from a fearless career woman to the helpless victim. It was an easy transfer in a parking lot full of addicts.

Rage pulsed through my head as I drove away from the drive thru. The manager chased behind my car waving to stop me and hand me the iced coffee I had purchased but left behind. Mesmerized by this man across the street, I did not even think through the consequences of being seen a second time. I drove by wanting to forget about the money I was going to use for food that day, it was only fourteen dollars. It was my fourteen dollars, and my life that had been treated lightly. My soul and my safety were unimportant to these men raised without a conscience. I was merely involved in an exchange, and left with a slight feeling of gratitude for the extra years of my future that I had rescued. I had become common, a stereotype in the middle of justice statistics rattled over and over on paper and now on online dialogue. My voice dissipated, for the remainder of the day. I was visiting the city to attend a gang violence seminar at the Freedom Centre. If I had doubted the effort I was making to be amongst concerned citizens regarding gang violence, my illusions of city life had left with nothing more than squealing tires.