In Practice
"A Miracle in Philly"
A number of years ago, my partner inherited some furniture from her aunt who lived in Philadelphia. After some deliberation, we decided to rent a truck and pick it up ourselves.
My older son and I decided we would handle things and took off for Philly on a Sunday morning. It was a long drive from our home in upstate New York, although it turned out to be a beautiful sunny day and our spirits were high.
We turned the radio up and enjoyed our journey as we listened to the music in our rented truck.
Four hours later, we were in downtown Philadelphia. As we ventured into the neighborhood, the streets were becoming narrower and narrower. As we approached our destination, the roads were tiny compared to our sizable moving van.
As I made the final turn down Pearl Street, Collin and I looked at each other with trepidation, as we realized the road was so narrow there was no way to turn around. It seemed that between the narrow lane and the cars that lined the street, to make it to our destination, we had our work cut out for us.
After about a hundred feet, we reached a spot where it was so narrow we had to move at a snail's pace. My son hung his head out of right side of the truck and I watched the left, as we slowly rolled down the street.
At the narrowest point, I asked him, "Are we good?" He waved his hand back and forth in what occurred to me as "go ahead". As I stepped on the gas, I could hear the crash of shattering glass and the snap of breaking plastic. In that moment, I realized my son's hand gesture meant "no way". We had broken one of the parked car's rear view mirrors completely off.
Realizing what had happened, I pulled the truck onto the sidewalk, to take a look and deal with the situation. As I opened the door, a very large unshaven man seemed to appear out of nowhere. He was furious. He grabbed me by my shirt and pulled me out of the truck and onto the sidewalk. As I struggled to break free of his grip, he dragged me into the street while my son looked on in horror.
He began pounding my face with his fist. A crowd began to form, cheering him on. As he continued the beating, blood was beginning drip off my brow into my eyes and I was becoming dizzy. It looked as if I was going to be beaten to death right there in front of my son.
In a moment of clarity, I remembered that I had my cell phone in my pocket. I scrambled to regain my balance and ran down the street while dialing 911, turning and running back toward my son and the truck as I spoke to the operator. The crowd dispersed like a frightened flock of birds as I ran back to the truck and jumped in. My son was there waiting... speechless with terror.
As I looked down to turn the ignition key and make our escape, I realized it was gone. We were trapped. I looked up and noticed the streets were now completely empty. Suddenly, the neighborhood looked like a ghost town - not a soul in sight.
For fifteen minutes we waited... perhaps the longest fifteen minutes of my life.
As we sat, we made our escape plan, in the event of my attacker returning. I would run into the street to get his attention, as my son would duck behind a nearby dumpster. I gave him my cell phone and we waited, scanning the abandoned street. Sitting there in the intense silence, I couldn't help but notice the irony of being in this situation on such a beautiful, warm and sunny day.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by a windowless, graffiti covered van skidding to a stop at the end of the street. We readied ourselves for our escape. As the rear doors of the van swung open, our fear turned to shock. Eight police officers, dressed in full protective gear, poured out of the vehicle and covered the street in military fashion. We watched, wavering between fear and relief. One of the officers gestured with his hand, signaling us to get down and stay in the truck. While two officers stayed behind, the others disappeared down the street. We waited and watched, as this seemingly surreal situation played out.
Five long minutes later, two officers returned with my attacker standing between them in handcuffs. A third officer approached us, with my missing keys in hand. As he handed them over, he explained to me that the car we had hit was owned by this man - in fact (I later found out), it was the only thing he owned. In fact, he was homeless and he slept in it. The officer continued to explain that the car didn't even run and was not registered or insured. He asked if I wanted to press charges.
I looked over the officer's shoulder at the man who had beaten me. Although it would have seemed natural to respond to his anger with more anger of my own, something completely unexpected happened.
All I could see was his pain. He seemed hopeless, flanked by the two large police officers, as he stared at the ground before him. All I could see was years of misfortune on his face, the pain that he had experienced... and, in that moment, I could clearly understand this man - how seeing his car, his bastion of security and his one physical stake on this planet being destroyed, had sent him over the edge.
Yes, I was pretty beat up - but I was safe. My son was safe. I would go back to my home and family and my life would return to normal. My wounds would heal.
As I looked down the street toward this shackled man, something became crystal clear to me. I refused to be part of the continuation of his pain and anger - pain that was so great, it spilled over onto me - and anger that was about to make his life even worse.
I told the officer that I wanted to speak with the man they had apprehended. The officer responded with an incredulous look. "No, you don't," he said with conviction. I took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye and replied. "Yes, I do." After a few seconds, the officer shrugged his shoulders and walked over to my attacker and his captors. After some discussion, all four of them turned and walked toward me. I spoke to my attacker, as he looked down at the sidewalk between us.
"I'm sorry for hitting your car. I have insurance and I'll make sure it gets fixed." He slowly raised his head and we made eye contact for the first time. He studied me for a moment and finally spoke. "I'm sorry I hit you." He raised his cuffed limbs to shake my hand. As the stunned police officers looked on, I reached out, shook his hand and simply said, "I understand."
As I think back on that day, I realize a cycle of pain was broken, at least for that moment. It could have consumed me and destroyed him. I could have been part of the "locomotive of punitive justice" - depositions, court appearances, testimony, all designed to send this man to jail to be punished. He would have been arrested, prosecuted, imprisoned and separated from what little freedom and dignity he had left.
Instead, thanks to the clarity I was given in that moment, it was over - no judgment, no punishment, no anger, no hate - a world we could all live in.
My son and I drove off, with a police escort. We got out of the neighborhood, onto the larger roads and after a few minutes our escort dropped away. We just looked at each other in silence as I realized that what had just happened could have been very different for all of us. We both burst into tears... tears of relief, sorrow and gratitude. We turned the music back on.
