11/12/17

As many of you know, I, along with two of my friends, were attacked by a group of ten people in Grant Park almost four years ago to the day. We were within steps of our college campus, and from where my head and body were being beaten into the ground, I could see the lights of 600 S Michigan Ave gleaming. A false safety net--a good metaphor for Columbia College Chicago really. I intend on going more into CCC's shortcomings later--this post isn't for that. This post is to share my fear with you. My fear is so great and paralyzing that I would be lying if I said it wasn't part of the reason I left my beloved city.

The first time I realized I suffered from PTSD came just a few short months after the attack.

It was a cold January evening and time for a Meijer run. As I wandered aimlessly through aisles of snacks, looking for anything to placate the emptiness at the pit of myself, I became aware of two masculine figures who happened to be venturing down the same rows as I. They checked out and casually followed me out of the store. Could be a coincidence, but my shoulders tensing told me otherwise.

I made it to my car and they went to theirs--no intent to follow or attack. I locked my doors, and even though I knew I was safe, I hyperventilated and sobbed in my car. Why why why was I so terrified of two people with no ill intentions?

That's when I realized a monster had latched itself to my back. And as of today, November 13, 2021, the monster hasn't loosened its claws.

I would love to know myself free of trauma. I would love for you to meet that version of me.

Instead I can offer you this poem that I wrote in July 2021.

7/12/21 - the city

where can i feel safe?

there is always somebody just behind my shoulder

following me

a shadow on my back with the sun (maybe just an orange streetlamp)

brightrightlight in my eyeballs

dimming anything and everything else

but one spot on the pavement

and my feet walk one over the other, always forward

always extremely fast

(seriously-i could beat the ladies who walk in the mall for exercise)

ready to run

ready to grab

ready to hit

ready to hurt

do you know what it’s like to be afraid?

not just fear of spiders, or butterflies, or birds

but to truly be gripped so tightly as freezing fear is forced down your throat

so cold that it burns

like gripping an ice cube in your hand right before it starts to drip

or whipping wind off the lake, tunneled through the city,

assaulting your skin and eyeballs

until tears stream down your pink (now almost red) cheeks

that’s kinda why i left

to find somewhere

where i can feel safe

still looking.

Ok that's the end of the poem.

I would like to use the rest of this space to reflect on my attackers and the police involvement.

I hope the perpetrators are okay. Truly.

For someone to be desperate enough to attack a group of college students for maybe $100, they have to be in a bad bad situation.

I believe they didn't mean to inflict years of trauma or three concussions and a broken nose. They simply needed means and were going to stop at nothing for it. Imagine if their needs were met and provided for. The structural imbalance of the distribution of wealth is to blame for my trauma. Just one of the many reasons to hate capitalism.

Speaking of capitalism, let's talk about the police. Who do they keep safe? Because they sure as hell didn't keep me and my friends safe. It was CTA workers who came to help when I was screaming my head off and being told

"Shut the fuck up, bitch, or I will kill you."

Seeing those orange vests (as good as golden angel wings to me) running up to us scared off our attackers.

The police were called and took us in for a long night of questioning. Again and again we were called to the station, asking us to repeat our traumas and try to identify our attackers from line ups. I was terrified to condemn the wrong people and ultimately didn't give the cops any sure answers.

It didn't seem to matter to the cops if I was unsure, they were ready to convict at my slightest sigh.

I later found out our attackers ages ranged from 15-25. 15. A child. Children subjected to violence of the state.

I stopped responding to the pigs because it aggravated my trauma and I couldn't see the justice in putting kids (or anyone for that matter) behind bars.

My conception of justice isn't the same as the state's, so I am going to now refer to this concept as accountability.

If I were to hold my attackers accountable I wouldn't have them stand in court (which I was called for as witness but refused), I would just like to sit down with them and explain what I've been through these past four years. And then I would like an apology and I would be happy to go our separate ways in the world.

When are we as a society going to realize that locking up and forgetting about our "problems" doesn't help anyone or solve anything? Especially not our young perpetrators. When will we start to address the root of these "problems?" Maybe my trauma could have maybe been avoided if Lori Lightfoot (queen cop herself) would funnel money into underfunded communities rather than stuffing pigs' pockets with an ever expanding police budget.

I hate seeing myself as a target. A victim. But the monster on my back incorporates that as part of my essential identity.

Target. Victim.