"Give me your purse."
Leap Day, 1988
I found this excellent article on phlegmfate's blog,
and asked her permission to mirror it here -- permission she generously gave. Although her
tale is chilling, there are important lessons here for those who would learn them.
This is going to be an odd post for me, and if it's boring or terrible,
then I apologize in advance, but this won't be my usual ball-of-fluff.
It's just that I have a story I've never mentioned here (I don't think)
and it turns out this is the day to post it, if ever there is one.
Though I'm not one to hang a lot of significance on dates, leap day brought
itself into sharp relief for me forevermore on February 29 of 1988. I'm
probably one of the least superstitious folk you'll ever meet, but when
leap day comes back around, I always remember 1988.
I was 22 and working for the US Post Office at the Bulk Mail Center, armpit
of the greater Dallas metro area. I had some office details, but mostly
I threw around 70 pound sacks of mail for a living. Yes, I was fit and
healthy, but then again, at 5'2" I was still no Linda Hamilton. I was
paid well and liked the work itself, if not the way the place was run.
I went to Europe occasionally, went to every concert that took my fancy,
and I was having the proverbial fun a girl was meant to have, very carefree.
I generally didn't hang out with co-workers, although I found some to
be passably nice and even pleasant to talk to. One couple I liked in particular
kept asking me to meet them out at a bar in a large entertainment district
at the west end of downtown. One day, I finally agreed and I showed up--
leap day. I was wearing ballet flats, olive cotton pants and a white tank
shirt with little purple lilacs. Oddly, I carried a small purse that night
with a long strap crossed diagonally from my right shoulder to my left
hip-- I normally didn't carry a purse, finding them cumbersome and a general
pain in the butt. The olive pants had no pockets, though, so the catch-all
accessory was a must that night. There were a lot of people around, and
I felt fairly comfortable, even though I wasn't that familiar with this
complex of bars and restaurants. It was still early enough to be light
outside.
I walked around the corner where the couple said they'd meet me and instead
of my colleagues I saw two tall black men walking toward me. They were
memorable because they were both wearing very tight white jeans and white
t-shirts, also tight. Strange to coordinate in such a way. Hmm. Whatever.
I've always been the never-met-a-stranger type, and I made eye contact
with one of the men and started to say "hello," but I instantly sensed
menace(?!) in his gaze and I averted my eyes. I heard the words come out
of his mouth as if they were shouted from the other side of a field:
"Give me your purse."
What? No! He didn't say that. Brain can't process this.
Yes, it happened very fast but I could chart and graph every scintilla
of the experience.
I gave him the only response
which made sense in my universe.
|
I kept moving forward and the man nearest me reached and grabbed the part
of my purse strap over my sternum as he said:
"Give me your fucking purse."
I have less than a fraction of a second to process what's happening. I
flip through my memory bank of their attire, and considering the tightness
of their clothing, I decide they are not carrying guns, and I plan my
course of action and move forward with it. I give him the only response
which makes sense in my universe:
"No fucking way."
People all around. People everywhere. Every direction I look there are
people. How can this be happening?
My hands go instinctively to my purse grasping at the corners, a strap
extending from each desperately clutching palm as they push me down.
I am in a foetal position around my purse, on my knees. They each are
beating with one hand on the back of my neck and on my spine, each pulling
on one side of the purse strap with the other hand. I see people standing
around in an ovine stupor, useless. I see Madras plaid shorts with hideous
tourista white socks. The fists on my spine surprise me - in a way they
don't hurt, I feel the force of the blows but it's not that bad, for some
reason. I'm on my knees looking around for any help, any port in a storm,
and I see a silver BMW sedan with two white couples, men in front, women
in back seat, stopped in the street, staring gape-mouthed. "Muffy, look!
How quaint-- a mugging!"
Isn't anyone going to help me? A mere female chick being beaten up by
two big goons? What in Hades is wrong with this picture?
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Isn't anyone going to help me?
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When will this stop? I earned the privilege to have this purse and all
it contains, you sniveling piece of shit-- I busted my ass, I sweated,
this is mine. I'm hanging on for dear life, and I can hang on for an hour,
if need be. Someone has got to stop this. This must stop. Someone will
come along. Someone...
My heart sinks as the leather betrays me and one side of the strap snaps
free from the bag. as if this were planned - as if they'd been practicing
this very move for weeks, the instant the strap breaks free, the guy on
the other side grabs the little bag from the underside and pulls the straps
clean out of my hands, free, and they are off and running. For hours I
won't feel the rope-burns on my palms. I run into the street after them
immediately and they run into a parking lot. I stand in the street, screaming
yelling an inarticulate babble of rage and despair - what just happened
to me?
A big Irish cop comes on the scene and gently guides me out of the street
onto the sidewalk by the parking lot where the goons both ran. He was
the beginning of the universe setting itself aright. A security guard
for the parking lot who "saw the whole thing" came over to lend a hand,
acting like the calm voice of reason to my sputtered, breathy regurgitation
of events. Thanks, pal. Really.
The goons pull up in a 70s car and out of the parking lot exit. The officer
does nothing to stop them. They drive away. We get make, model and license
plate number.
Emergency room, bruising, no serious injuries. In coming weeks I field
an array of variations on "why didn't you just give it to him?" and am
told by all and sundry that I'm a moron for not just handing my stuff
over on demand.
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"Why didn't you just give it to him?"
|
My dad got in touch the detectives who were handling the case. My dad
is the same kind of salt-of-the-earth man they were - the men who make
things right. I felt they were as committed as my dad to the objective
of holding these dirtbags accountable. We were told it was highly unlikely
a mugger would ever be caught, and even more unlikely he'd be positively
identified in a lineup. I could see their faces, though, and I still can
- identification would be a snap.
In late April, I got a call from the detective: the car was pulled over
in connection with another robbery, and could they bring some photos by
the BMC for me to look at? I identified the man who was driving the car.
The detective would later testify that I shuddered when I saw his photograph.
His pubic defender insisted I identify him in a live lineup - I had named
the wrong guy. Again, I had no difficulty in fingering the excrescent
congregation of flesh which matched the image seared on my brain.
The trial was set, and so began a pattern: I'd take the day off, meet
my dad at the courthouse, then the pubic defender would ask that the trial
be postponed at the last minute. This happened about 4 times.
Finally, the day of reckoning came about. The assistant district attorney
was a pistol-of-a-woman and one of my personal heroines. On a pound-for-pound
basis, she whupped him way more on the stand than he had done me on the
street on February 29. She had the most fetchingly homey east-Texas drawl
you ever heard - her voice was the aural equivalent of a big, old comfy
leather chair - HOME! When the sentencing phase came around, I'll never
forget the words with which she admonished the jury:
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we have asked for a sentence of 20
years and a $10,000 fine, but you do not have to issue that sentence:
you may sentence him for more if you think it is appropriate."
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I learned that in the moment of real crisis, no one is
going to step in and save me: I'll have to save myself.
|
I was elated. Props to the lady in shining armor on the white horse! Finally,
someone steadfastly in my corner, someone who agreed and said for the
record that- dammit- this was my purse to which I had sole right.
In the end he got 7 years and $5,000 fine. He did a plea bargain on all
the other charges against him, including raping another inmate, so he
probably ended up cooling his heels in lockup for at least a couple more
leap days. Happy endings.
It was an incredibly strange adventure. I wish it never had happened,
but I learned a whole lot. I learned that bad crap can happen to you and
that you can still survive. I learned that other people are very afraid.
I learned that other people will try to shame you into validating their
fear-based approach to life. I learned that you can not shrink from threat
and just hope it will go away. I learned that if you have no plan to react
to a physical attack, you won't really know what to do when faced with
that situation. I learned that in the moment of real crisis, no one is
going to step in and save me: I'll have to save myself.
If I'm ever in that position again-- unarmed and under attack -- I mean
to come away from the experience (even if dead) with at least the trophy
of one eyeball from my tormentor with which to festoon my trophy case.
Next time would/will be tooth-and-nail. If I have time to access it, my
weighty little Leatherman will be slammed forcefully into an accommodating
temple-- I will do my best to kill with my bare, immaculately manicured
hands: no more Mr. Nice Bitch. There are kneecaps, eyeballs, shins, insteps
and wedding tackle among the array of vulnerable areas on an attacker,
and I'll set about my business if I must.
I didn't believe in just handing it over, and I don't even moreso now
than ever. I'm still no Linda Hamilton, but I think this is a principle
that applies not just to possessions or your life, but to our very freedoms
and rights as human beings. Don't just give it away without a fight. Passivity
gets you nothing but soundly and thoroughly ensconced in the bitch-seat,
and you teach the aggressors they were right to disdain you.
Yeah, it's possible someone will divest me of a handbag in the future,
but next time, I'm going to take something in exchange, including a heaping
helping of their DNA.
ΜΟΛΩΝ ΛΑΒΕ, and all that stuff.