What THEY do in MY Neighborhood

This story began as an e-mail to nearly my entire inbox and has now turned into my first full-length feature blog. So, world out there, picture yourself opeining your e-mail one day to find a message from me under the subject, "the epic tale, available for your reading pleasures". Although I am not providing all of the background, you are smart. You'll catch on quickly.

_____________________________________________________________

The curiosity around my mugging has been overwhelming. Thank you for your interest. You are officially invited into a story dripping with irony and full of invaluable life lessons. I warn you, this is not the Cliffs Notes version. For that, skip to the “lessons learned” section at the end of this blog.

Okay. Hold tight. Here we go.

This story actually begins 7 hours and 45 minutes prior to the time of the incident – at 9:45am to be exact. I was in Tony’s car. He was blasting Nirvana and we were feeling the rawness of our disaffected, X-gen, advantaged status. We were on our way to a forgotten neighborhood in Oakland to mentor some kids who will likely never escape their surroundings. They may end up in jail, on drugs, riddled with bullet holes, robbing people at knifepoint -- or, if they’re lucky enough to get noticed, they’ll end up in college. We aim to notice them.

I feel unsafe on our ride to the Oakland location and Tony puts up the top and locks the doors. He said it’s so that I don’t get cat calls. I think it’s so that we don’t catch any stray bullets.

At the high school, I become acutely aware of my privilege. These kids and I – we do not come from the same echelon of society. I may be deeply in debt and living month-to-month, but I have 22 years of education and financially stable parents to catch me. I’m on my way up; they’re probably on their way to more-of-the-same, or worse.

After our work is complete, Tony drops me at BART and I go to the city to meet Annie and to buy some jeans. My materialism disgusts me, but my body is changing with my ever-adjusting thyroid hormone levels and none among my collection of pants fits well. I need new ones. I never settle for less than a deal and I find a sweet pair at the Levi’s store for $30 (The worker who made these jeans, on the other hand, probably earned like 30 cents or something. Yick.). Not even Katie, wife of Avi (worker at Levi’s) can get her jeans this cheap. Another deal achieved.

Before leaving the city, with jeans in hand, Annie and I stop at the Washington Mutual so that I can grab some cash. I got my first real paycheck on Friday and I’m excited to be able to take out $100 all at once – finally. Nothing like fresh, crisp 20’s carrying the promise of coffee for a month, or more. Little did I know this would be the last time I would go into my red leather wallet (purchased after my first robbery experience) and remove my ATM card with the unique 4-digit pin that will go unnamed. I will never key those digits again.

Annie and I catch the BART back to Berkeley, looking forward to a suburban hike to Indian Rock, a dinner at Zachary’s Pizza, and a trip to see Fahrenheit 911. (We are the only 2 people in the greater Bay Area who have NOT seen this movie. We still haven’t. Events that follow steered us otherwise.)

When BART reached downtown Berkeley, we exited the station and headed North on Shattuck – toward home. Then, a fateful decision was made. Fateful. I said, “Shattuck is too crowded. Let’s walk on Milvia.” Good choice in theory -- not in practice. Not on Saturday July 18 at 5:30pm, anyway. We walk off of Shattuck at Hearst, onto Milvia and then two blocks north on Milvia to Virginia.

SCENE OF THE CRIME: Milvia X Virginia, Southeast corner of street, immediately across the street from the Presbyterian Church. God’s block.

Annie and I are about to approach the intersection. I see two men, very dark complexions, very short hair, dark shirts, deep denim long shorts, gym shoes, 5’9” and 5’11” and, as I learn later, a 7” knife and blue sparkly dental bling. This is what I recreate when the police quiz me 30 minutes later, anyway. The reality is, I had more attention focused on the knife than on the appearance of the thieves. I could tell you every last detail about the weapon. The length of the handle, the thickness of the blade, the fact that it was serrated, not smooth. But the assailants? A bit fuzzy, really.

The shorter one approaches me; the taller, my little companion Annie. The shorter one, as it turns out, has the knife.

“Give me your money. Drop your fucking bags. Give me your things. DO IT!”

Knife comes out and lunges toward my stomach. Two inches from my BratFest 2004 Sweatshop-free Tank -- and my liver.

[Annie] “What the **** is going on?!!?!?! Get the *** away from me!!!” (Just because she’s little doesn’t mean she doesn’t pack a solid verbal punch.)

[Joanne] “What the *** are you doing?!?!!?

Okay, okay. Whatever. Take my **** things.”

I hit a state of extreme calm, given the situation. Things suddenly slow…to…the…pace…of…molasses…in…Minnesotan…winter. I discover a Zen-like place – my belongings no longer matter to me. I feel every move I make, eyes fixed on blade. Left arm lifts around neck, removes shoulder strap of bag purchased in France 4 years ago, drops bag to ground. And then…

Pace of life returns to normal. Punk with tooth bling and knife grabs my bag. He and friend high tail the hell outta there, down Virginia toward MLK and, supposedly, to the getaway vehicle - the same getaway vehicle that drives them to a gas station on San Pablo in Oakland (near where I was just 7 hours prior trying to do MY part in THEIR community) where they buy gas on every piece of plastic in my wallet. I hope they develop the film in my camera and see pictures of people they know taken hours earlier. It would do them justice.

And then the rebuilding begins.

What was in the bag? Do I remember? Wallet. Two credit cards, one ATM. California State ID. No social security number. Thank god. That was my mistake last time. My camera (time for a digital). My phone with several key locks due to my slightly paranoid nature. A hat. Some Lush shampoo, just purchased. My sunglasses. And – this is the worst part – my journal. 75 pages of a 100-page book complete with thoughts and experiences and lists. Many lists. I’m a list maker. Thankfully, most of the things I list are easy to remember without written record (ex – brush teeth, buy yogurt).

Forward past the police report, lock changes back at the ranch, calls to credit card companies and credit agencies and T-Mobile.

And the next day? More Nirvana. Numbing out to the icon of our disaffected generation. I will be idealistic again soon. Give me 4 days to be pissed off and racist and I’ll get back to normal again. But for now, I tell everyone who asks me for money, “I’m sorry. I have nothing on me. I was robbed two days ago and, frankly, I’d much rather you had my money because you’re nice enough to ask me kindly without weapon. But you can’t have it because THEY do.” They also have my journal. And that’s what hurts the most.

So, to sum up, there’s a barrel to be learned from this experience. I highlight here:

1. You may be more in danger in your own privileged neighborhood than in a run-down, forgotten, drug-ridden location that is regularly mentioned in the news for shootings, robbery, drug rings, gang fights, and rape.

2. Always keep your cell phone on your body. They will not take it that way and you’ll be able to call the police. However, do not expect 911 to pick up in a timely manner. Be prepared for a 10 minute wait.

3. If given the choice – Shattuck or Milvia – CHOOSE SHATTUCK!

4. Never get too attached to your material possessions. They may disappear on you like that.

5. It is wise to put key locks on your cell phones. But then, a couple of guys from Oakland whose lives are contained in a two block radius around their residences are not exactly going to call France (thanks for that point, Annie).

6. If the blade of a knife is pointed 2 inches from your stomach, give up your things. Your things do not matter. They can be replaced. Your liver, however, cannot be.

7. Do not carry your journal on your person. That is irreplaceable.

8. If ever attacked, try to focus your attention to the appearance of your attackers rather than the weapon they’re carrying. You may be asked to identify them later. It is less likely that you’ll be asked to identify the knife.

9. The job of a locksmith is far more than it appears. These men/women are the unrecognized therapists of the world – and they catch you at your most vulnerable, provide their wisdom and advice, keep you safe by way of new locks and keys, and give you a rose, if you’re lucky. (“My wife will have to be okay with getting only 11 roses today.”)

10. There’s nothing like a cheeseburger, curly fries, a shake, two friends, a viewing of Fight Club, and several glasses of wine to recover from a rough day.

And with that, I give you this advice: Live your life to the fullest - because it’s ending one minute at a time.

Over and…you know the rest.