Saved by the Projectile

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This is part of our continuing series of accounts by readers of how they shed the illusions of liberalism and became race realists.

In the latter part of 1999, I had moved from a fairly safe working-class neighborhood to a neighborhood that was considered to be “turning around.” My small rental house, which I had lived in for several years, was on the market, so I needed somewhere to land and didn’t have a lot of time to make the move. 

The new duplex was clean, near a park, and seemed fine during the day. The neighbors were okay, definitely diverse, and I had even had one — an older gentleman — help me move a few things from my sidewalk into the house. His wife brought me cookies. 

I knew, however, not to venture out alone past eight or nine in the evening without some sort of protection. There was an adjacent area across the main road with some questionable-looking, rundown rowhomes, burnt-out cars, and even more questionable-looking residents. I figured that was where the revitalization project was heading next.

After my first night, which was actually quiet, I woke up to find my Weber Bar-B-Kettle gone. I needed to get to work the next morning, so I phoned the police when I got back home. They took the report but said there wasn’t much they could do. With the exception of my plants, I brought everything from my porch inside. 

The next two months proved to be somewhat challenging. Although the weather was getting cold, people were still out at all hours in the evening. Some nights were quiet; other nights I’d hear sirens and loud cars hot-rodding up and down the street. 

The weekends were the worst. When Fridays hit, I’d usually plan to spend the weekend at my parents’, who were a state over and about an hour-and-a-half away. It occurred to me how much more relaxed I was there than at my own home! Even with their occasional nitpicking, it was a better option than feeling on edge at night. Nevertheless, the arrangement wasn’t convenient. 

Y2K worries had been on the rise, but even after all the media hype around it, I noticed that things fared just fine when the calendar changed over to 2000. But I also observed a lot more police presence in the rowhome community across the street. I stupidly thought that was a sign of better times to come. 

Because I had not really had my eyes opened to what it was like to live in such a diverse area, I still had some trust in people. After my barbecue was stolen, my truck was broken into, and then my Bianchi bike, which had been locked in the gated storage area, was stolen. Somebody actually had cut through the KryptoLok. Reports to the police did nothing other than catalogue the incidents. Sometimes they’d bring handy pamphlets, which had all sorts of safety tips and crime-prevention measures. 

My last month there was the dealbreaker. One day, I had gotten home from work in the early evening. Although I had a small yard for my dogs to relieve themselves, I would walk them twice daily. That night started out no differently from any other evening walk. 

Staying on the side of the road where my duplex was, I walked toward the park. My dogs did their business, and we turned around to go home. I made it halfway up the street only to realize that there was a group of maybe five kids who were on the opposite side of the street. They were walking parallel to me and keeping the same speed I was. 

When I was about four houses away from my home, they crossed the street. Within seconds they had formed a circle around me. It was five young men, with one or two not much older than 12 or 13 years of age. 

I had pepper spray in my pocket and an alarm key chain. My dogs were large, but super friendly and both were aging. I don’t think I had ever been in such a highly alert state. 

“It’s the white b*tch with the white dogs,” one of them said, taunting me. Another one said something unintelligible, but I was certain I was going to get attacked. My Labrador mix let out a low growl and one of the kids tried to kick my other dog, who lunged toward him. 

Unable to fully twist the top of my spray, I managed to think fast and threw a bag of fresh dog excrement toward one of the boys. It hit him squarely on his jaw! I yelled “Back off!” at the top of my lungs, and the little circle they had formed started to disband. I held onto both my dogs’ leashes tightly and sprinted back to my house. 

Thankfully we made it home in one piece (sans some dog waste), I decided that I would give notice the next day. My landlord let me out of the lease, and I found a small house in an area that was not going through “revitalization.” The next month an eight-year-old white youngster, Kevin Shifflett, was murdered by a black man two streets away.

If you have a story about how you became racially aware, or about your firsthand experience with race, we’d like to hear it. If it is well written and compelling, we will publish it. Please feel free to use a pen name and send it to us here.