A Stranger in Danger

I’ve been asked the question several times. Where you from? The answer varies, because you never know what they want to hear, what the wrong answer is.

In the past, I had been able to defuse the question by merely taking off my bandanna (one guy suggested at gunpoint that I remove it) or by quickly saying I didn’t run with gangs. “I’m not down with all that,” I told a group of five guys who stopped me one night. The answer seemed to satisfy them.

But two months ago, in an encounter with another gang, I could tell that reply wasn’t going to work. It’s the kind of thing you have to learn if you’re a young man of color living in Los Angeles.

I had come to Los Angeles expecting such trouble. Before leaving Ohio five years ago, I surrendered my fire-engine red coat to my brother and used my favorite blue bandanna to shine my combat boots after word made its way back East that wearing the wrong color in the wrong neighborhood can get you killed. I purged my wardrobe of excessive red and blue. After all, I rationalized, the coat was much too heavy for sunny California and the bandanna was old.

But nothing you do is really enough. That was made clear by what happened two months ago.

It was a Saturday morning and I woke up with a craving for fried fish. I put off driving to the best fish place I know because it would have involved a potentially nerve-racking trek to Inglewood from Koreatown. As the sunny day cooled into evening, my hunger got the best of me, so I changed into baggy jeans, a blue pullover and a sun visor, and finally made the drive. I almost didn’t come back.

Although I am bothered by the purse-clutching syndrome that many minority males encounter daily, I have learned to keep my eyes open for my own danger signs. I parked my car and was walking to a friend’s apartment when I saw them.

It was a group of youths. Two wearing plaid shirts and dickeys, two wearing white T-shirts and baggy shorts with white socks pulled up like stockings. They could tell I was not from there. “Prepare to fight or take flight,” I thought.

It was like the shows you see on the Discovery channel where the lion or wolf is about to make his move on the gazelle or rabbit. I knew I could become someone’s prey, so as I walked down the sidewalk, I casually looked over my shoulder. (You have to be cool.) After the first few glances, nothing.

Then I looked again and saw them running toward me. It was truly like a pride of lions--two circled around one way, while the other two went the other way. “He’s trying to get to his car!” one yelled.

When I glimpsed one of my assailants struggling to pull a gun from his belt, I was already in flight, jumping over fences and racing through the yards of strangers. “There’s a dog!” another said in a singsong voice.

I ran for several minutes, not able to discern whether I was still being chased because the footsteps were drowned out by a loud chorus of invisible dogs into whose territory I had also ventured.

With each fence I leaped over, I was jumping into the unknown. Just like in the movies. The soundtrack was the chorus of dogs, who, while alerting their owners to the action taking place in their yards, were also pinpointing my whereabouts. I finally dove underneath a truck.

Adrenaline is some good stuff. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, they began to dart back and forth, scanning increments of space like an owl. I could feel my ears twitch as they listened for the footsteps and voices of the gangbangers. After what seemed like a year, I crawled from beneath the truck and tried to figure out a way to get back to my car.

I tiptoed down the street, staying close to the houses so as not to be seen too readily from a distance by my stalkers. As I approached a corner, my breathing slowed until Damn! There they were.

I guess they had made a pit stop, because they now had two bats and a couple of other weapons. I heard one whisper, “There he is!” Adrenaline kicked back in and I sailed past more dogs, more fences, fell a few times and made my way up a hill. As I ran, I passed several people--a couple holding hands, two women pushing a baby in a stroller. I didn’t even bother to ask for help. To them, I surmised, it must look like I had either committed a crime or was out for a Saturday night jog.

I was tired of running. Because of my pounding heart and heavy breathing, I wasn’t even sure where my assailants were. But I just kept running. When I was just about to collapse, I decided to stop at one of the houses to rest, hide, something. I was surprised at the vanity I was displaying. “I don’t want to get shot,” I thought. “If they shoot me, please let them kill me. I don’t want to be permanently scarred. No bullet holes or bat dents in the skull!”

I scanned the row of upcoming houses, trying to decide which was the most inviting. Through open curtains, I saw the shadow of a man. I stumbled onto his stoop, knocking frantically. A middle-aged Latino opened the door slowly, with a perplexed, slightly horrified look on his face.

I was so out of breath, I couldn’t speak. So I drew 9-1-1 in the air and put my hands together mouthing “please.” The man said, “Por favor!” and pointed toward the street. I took that as a “get lost” and resumed my journey up the unfamiliar street.

After much inner debate, I decided to call the police. I had hesitated because I figured they would just shake me down and treat me like I was the gangbanger.

But finally, after finding a pay phone that worked, I called. (Again, the misplaced vanity. I tried to sound calm so that, if the 911 tape made the news after my death, I wouldn’t sound too frantic. You have to be cool.)

Finally, an officer came and, as I guessed, grilled me suspiciously. After about 10 minutes, he took me to my car.

For days after the chase, I wore bandages on my hands, cut while scaling fences. Those wounds have healed. Psychological wounds are another matter. I never had to watch how I dressed, walked or spoke before, and never had to pay attention to how others dressed, walked or spoke.

But now those are my clues. It’s the same thing that makes people clutch purses.