Δαφνη Ευτυχια Αρθουρος

Well, it finally happened. I got physically bashed.

I wandered out to try to figure out which direction the thumpy bass I'd been hearing for the past three hours was coming from, and while I stood near the corner looking down Fulton Ave., two vehicles pulled up on Lombard St. at the stoplight behind me. They started making comments about how I was dressed. I turned around. They got more emphatic. One driver started to get out and someone yelled, "Get his camera," then everyone else got out. I had hope that it'd just be an exchange of words until two of them started swinging -- one at the camera, one at my face -- after which the others joined in. I took blows to both eyes, one cheek, and my temple, and went down badly, hurting my back and scraping my elbows. Fortunately they didn't continue after I fell, running back to their vehicles instead and zooming off.

I staggered back to my door, unplugged the modem, and dialed 911. I am still waiting for the police to arrive. *grumble* I'm feeling less and less goodwill toward the police.

These were not people from my neighbourhood. They were too nicely dressed (khakis instead of sweats and jeans, slightly too-nice shirts -- still casual, still sneakers that I dodged a kick from). Six to eight young African-American men. (I was noting locations of the nearest ones, not counting); I think at least three, probably four, landed blows on me. Their rides were a little too new, too recently washed. They weren't from my neighbourhood. They were passing through, and took the time and trouble to pummel a stranger who looked funny.

Right now I feel three things: loss, because after swatting the flash off my camera one of them snatched it, and that was my last properly-working flash; frustration, because there's no chance the police are going to find these assholes and bring them to justice; but mostly rage. If I thought I had a chance of locating them, I'd be in my car with camera and sword in hand looking for payback.

They beat me up in my own neighbourhood, meters from my own house, and they weren't from here. They were passing through and assaulted me on my street. I'm pissed. I want to do something that'll make them regret this. But there's probably nothing I can do.

So the remaining question is whether the police can do anything to make this kind of thing less likely, and will they?

Oh yeah, a fourth thing I feel. Pain. One cheek feels like it's swelling up quite a bit, my elbow burns, and I can't stand up quite straight because of pain below my left shoulderblade. (Should I have asked the 911 operator for an ambulance? [Edit: Shortly after posting this entry I did decide the inability to take full breaths was scary enough to call an ambulance for. The ambulance arrived before I could edit this entry to say so. See this followup) But the pain, as strong as it is, is no match for the anger.

They don't fucking do this to me on my block. I shouldn't have to fear it anywhere, but especially not at home.

And so ends a decades-long streak of being very visible and never getting attacked for it. (The fellow who came after me with a baseball bat years ago did so out of what later became known as road rage, and I was wearing boyclothes, coat and tie, at the time; the one other time I felt a person verbally harrassing me might turn violent, I was able to slip away.) I really liked being able to say I was one of the lucky few, to keep that streak going. I kind of counted on being able to mollify friends who worried for my safety by saying, "I know people like me get attacked, but so far I've been okay." As of now, I'm another statistic.

A really fucking angry statistic who'll be thinking about going armed.