Yesterday I heard loud noises outside my window.
Nothing new in my neighborhood, but I always check to see what’s going on.
Not because I’m a nosy Karen, but because the list of things that could be happening right outside my window is long and storied. And sometimes – many times – people need help.
My anxiety about “hey what’s that noise out there” has increased by 800 billionty percent since the Gestapo Klan has been aggressively pursuing the body count demands of Stephen Gargoyle Miller who’s been screaming “my precious” every time he thinks about a fruit or flower vendor who hasn’t yet been thrown into an unmarked van.
Yesterday, the noise was caused by a young man, clearly in the grips of a mental breakdown, drug reaction, or probably both. It’s difficult to describe what he was doing. It was kind of like…. Stop, drop, and roll. Is that still taught? If you find yourself on fire, stop. Drop to the ground. And roll around to put the fire out. Not sure if this actually works. But this guy was trying it. Only he wasn’t on fire, except maybe in his mind.
In addition to falling to the ground, he was climbing into the stairwell in the apartment building across the street from me. He was jumping on hoods of cars and rolling off, then climbing onto roofs of cars and rolling off. Over and over. In spite of the fact that he was super skinny, throwing himself onto a parked car was enough to dent the hood and roof of one, and then, he threw himself so violently against the windshield of another car that he caved in the entire windshield. It shattered, completely. If I hadn’t seen this with my own eyes, I’d never believe it could happen.
The owner of the car came out and started hitting the guy with a broomstick and it didn’t seem to phase him. I came outside at this point to check on my neighbor who had just lost his windshield.
The Man in Crisis ran toward another lot near us where he started rolling on all those cars. Another man ran out to say this guy also pulled the wiper blades off his van.
I have a pretty standard rule that I don’t call 911 unless it’s ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NECESSARY. I live in the Rampart District, so not just regular bad LAPD, but notoriously bad LAPD, and that was before things got to this point - where LAPD has exhibited the most ramped-up cooperation with the Gestapo to-date.
So we’ve got a lot going on at this point. A Black man rolling around on all the cars and accomplishing quite a lot of property damage. An Asian man (and possibly his son?) saying his van has been damaged. A Latino man and someone he knows – another Latino man – lamenting the shattered windshield. And me. The blonde white lady.
And I sure as fuck don’t want to call the LAPD into this situation. One where I might be the only one to escape unscathed by those who are supposed to serve and protect.
I call 211. Which I’ve done before but naturally it takes forever to get someone on the phone. And their resources are stretched pretty thin. (Maybe we could take 70 billion dollars or so away from ICE and put it into mental health services, just a thought. I know, I’m a crazy Commie.)
But I’m hoping if I can get someone out here who can de-escalate the situation without kidnapping or murdering anyone, it’ll be a great Wednesday.
As I’m talking to the 211 operator, who is trying her best to help, the Man in Crisis is heading toward 3rd Street, which is always pretty busy.
I find a debit card on top of the car with the dented roof, and hold on to it, thinking it might have fallen out of Man in Crisis’ pocket.
I head towards 3rd Street. I’m explaining to the 211 operator that this guy is now falling on to the sidewalk in front of a church, over and over. He jumps up, runs in small circles, pats his body, putting out the fire of the madness and the drugs, then falls to the ground. Again. And again. And again.
Then, he starts going into the street. I’m yelling on the phone that he’s going to get hit. Cars are swerving to avoid him. He’s laying IN THE STREET. Then jumping up, then back in the street.
211 Lady says she’s going to have to transfer me to the police. I’m not loving this. But someone has to help. The Asian man tells me he called 911 already.
A cop car shows up and I immediately go over and of course, they are not friendly. Telling me to back up, even as I’m trying to explain that I called 211, trying to share what I’ve seen.
They make it known they don’t want me there, but obviously I’m staying. So is the Asian guy. Later he tells me his name is Peter.
The cops do cuff Man in Crisis, but at this point, he does need to be restrained. He is causing himself serious bodily injury throwing himself around. He’s wounded, bloody. And an ambulance is on its way. The cops bind his legs too, but they are being very careful with him. They have an audience and they know it.
Suddenly, a woman appears next to me. She pulled over and is trying to see if she can help.
She is a goddess. I mean, for real. She’s like six feet tall, and stunningly beautiful. She asks me what’s going on. I fill her in as quickly as possible. She’s Black, so I hoped Man in Crisis might be more willing to talk to her than cops or me, but she has no luck either. The demons in his head are too loud. I don’t even know what language he speaks. I think I heard some Spanish, but then I heard another language that I didn’t recognize. Who knows. It could have been Arabic. It could have been the demon tongue of drug overdose.
This woman needs to leave, is late for something. I told her I would stay until he was safe in an ambulance. I said, “right now I’m just gonna keep standing here, looking white.” She laughed, “Good.”
When she left, she thanked me for being a good citizen. I had told her I found a debit card I thought might be his, and she advised me not to turn it over to the cops. I took her advice. (Listen to Black Women y’all – unless they are Candace Owens, then do not under any circumstances listen to whatever-the-fuck is going on there).
Meanwhile, Peter keeps saying it’s “so sad” that this kid was so drugged up. I said, I wanted to stay and make sure the cops weren’t mean to him. Peter laughed, and said “You’re too soft. So weak. You’re so weak.”
I didn’t get angry (surprising), I just blew it off. Then he asked me if this was the first time I’d seen something like this in this neighborhood. I laughed. I’ve seen plenty around here. I could tell he didn’t believe me. I’m just a naïve, soft, weak little white lady that is shocked and appalled by homeless people on drugs. Sure, Peter. Pity is noble; empathy is weakness.
Man in Crisis is lifting his head and trying to bang it on the sidewalk and one cop holds his head – gently – and says “we don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
And the fire department paramedics show up.
They get the man onto a gurney, out of restraints and into an ambulance. Peter gives them the cell phone and shoe that Man in Crisis had lost in the scuffle.
When it seems I’ve borne whiteness – I mean, witness to all I can, I go back to talk with my neighbor who has to replace his windshield. A man who could be kidnapped any day for trying to get to work to earn money to buy that windshield.
My Spanish isn’t good enough for this complex situation. Hell, my English isn’t good enough for it.
I go home and call the bank to report the debit card lost.
I think about standing on that sidewalk, feeling like I was babysitting cops as they gently cradle a Black man’s head, and say “we don’t want you to hurt yourself” while that man writhes and flails and kicks to get free of them. You could say, he was resisting help. And they gave it anyway.
Their good behavior isn’t proof that cops are good. My keeping watch doesn’t make me a White Savior. But with privilege comes with responsibility.
If no one was watching, there’s a strong possibility those cops would have handled him more roughly, would have let him crack his skull open on the pavement rather than protect it.
I can’t help but wonder how they behave when they don’t have an audience.
When a Too Soft, So Weak, White Lady isn’t watching their every move. Phone in hand.
How I’ll never have first-hand knowledge of what happens when there isn’t a white person in the story.
Oh god makes you wonder and breaks my heart. I can only hope all of humanity has a heart but we know it doesn’t. Funny when you show compassion it’s considered weak no wonder no one shows it - the truth is compassion requires great balls!