OABK: A Follow-up on Fear and Sensitivity

After an overwhelming response to this post’s predecessor (On almost being kidnapped), I figured I should follow up with something.

But first and foremost, a huge thank you to everyone who took the time to read my post. I guess commentary is good either way, right?

That being said, I wasn’t really expecting any negative feedback. Why? Because last week’s post was this: Me telling a story of something that happened to me over the summer and how it made me feel. Simple as that. My goal was certainly not to unleash a societal commentary on what is or is not “appropriate” to post about on a personal blog. It was merely “here’s something that happened to me and how it made me feel.” So I definitely didn’t expect so many people to have opinions on my opinionless post – and I definitely didn’t mean to insult anyone by my story.

This week, I’m doing something I didn’t think I would have to do. I’m defending my work.

Some negative responses seemed to carry similar themes.

1. My post was insensitive to actual victims of kidnapping.
2. The encounter was merely “harassment” or a joke, and it wasn’t actually a big deal – it happens all of the time. My post was “over-dramatic” and I should just “get over it already.”
3. I wasn’t actually almost kidnapped.

Let’s work from the bottom up on this one.

I know the hubbub of a response to my post was probably based on the post’s title. Calling a post “On almost being kidnapped” was bound to get views from the start – it’s just one of those clickable reads. Choosing that title, though, didn’t mean I was hung up on something and trying to create some dramatization of a life event.

What it actually was: A reflection of the fear I felt on that day.

On that day, at the time of the event (and as a disclaimer, last week’s disclaimer read, “This post was written in the week of August 12, shortly after the incident”), I feared that I could actually get kidnapped. The fear was real and raw and something I had never felt before. And that was the root of the title and post altogether. An expression of fear.

Fear is pretty individualistic, isn’t it? You might’ve thought I was overreacting. I’m sure some people think that fearing a dog or a spider is a bit of an overreaction, too, wouldn’t you agree? But to those people, the fear is real, and that’s all that matters.

Now, I can look back and say that my chances of getting “actually kidnapped” were probably pretty slim (thank God). But it doesn’t change my momentary feeling of “Oh my gosh, what do I do if the guys get out of the van? Do I run? Do I fight?”

On point numero dos, we can’t deduce people’s situations when we weren’t there ourselves. This is one of those times where you just gotta trust. Trust that when I said it was more than two guys driving by and cat-calling, it was actually more than that. And remember that disclaimer that started off the post? I literally penned that puppy nearly 2 months ago, right after it happened. No worries folks, I’m over it, living and loving life – I’m not sitting in Starbucks playing a “woe is me” card over something that happened in summer. I wrote a story about a moment in my life and thought it was worth sharing – simple as that.

Now the doozy – point #1. In saying my story is insensitive to actual kidnapping victims, I can just offer the following. I was in an unknown situation where I feared something worse could happen, but I ended up just fine. Consider this: A kidnapping victim escapes his/her attacker and describes a fear from captivity that the attacker would kill. A terrifying fear. Would the victim’s retelling of the story, including the fear of death, be “insensitive” to kidnapping victims who were tragically killed? Unrelated to kidnappings, is boasting a new job or promotion through Facebook insensitive to those who were just fired? Is talking about being lucky in love insensitive to those who are recovering from a breakup?

If anything, I’d like to think an actual kidnapping victim could best relate to a story about fear – they tragically lived fear.

 

I chose to live in a big city, in a way, because of its imperfections. And now, city life’s imperfections are allowing me to grow and strengthen as a person. I guess it’s all a part of this “blossoming” that this blog is all about.

I really appreciate all of the commentary that I got from that post. Because it means that people are taking the time out of their insanely busy schedules to read what I had to say. And thank you to the people who shared their own frightening encounters with me – it’s nice to share support with one another and offer a friendly boost.

Next hump day, stay tuned for something a little less heavy – some inspirational know-how or happiness booster or post about fashion or love.

For now, on a completely unrelated note, check out this ridiculously adorable kitten-gone-wrecking-ball. No worries – it’s G-rated and sledgehammer-free.

 

lovelovelove,

E

Day 4: This one time, when we crossed a Philly gang…

Photo: knightdealers.com

Today’s prompt: “A story about a time you were very afraid.” 

This past summer, two dudes in a van almost tried to take me. But that long story merits an equally long blog post, so stay tuned on COMING UP ROSES for the full scoop on that fearful saga on a coming Wednesday.

That post will detail my all-too-brief summer stay with Boyfriend in a less-than-magical area of Philadelphia. But. That is not this post.

This “blossoming city girl” story is about that one time when Boyfriend and I encountered a Philadelphia gang. At a Sunoco. At 11:30 at night. (I know, I know, what could we POSSIBLY have needed that late to risk a dangerous neighborhood convenience store run? …We’re milk people. It’s our gasoline.)

Boyfriend had run into the Sunoco as I sat in the passenger seat, parked right in front of the main entrance – I could see him checking out aisles through the gunshot-impacted glass door. Everything was all fine and dandy until two less-than-stellar characters strolled up to the shop. Why “less-than-stellar,” you might ask? It was an educated guess based on the headgear choice of one: A black snapback hat with “HORNY” in bright, neon green across the front. A fine gentleman, I’m sure.

Before entering Sunoco, though, they made one of those all-too-long glances in my direction, and it dawned on me that I was sitting in an unlocked vehicle. And reaching over to the driver’s side to pop down the manual lock would be super obvious and probably not jive too well with the colorfully logo-d pals. Crap.

I put on my “I know how to mess S*&% up” face and tried to chill until they strolled inside Sunoco, and I popped down that lock like it was my job. Good thing, too, because then two more chums walked by.

Now I was thinking. “Hmm. The first two were clearly chummy, and they clearly know these chums who are about to make an entrance, too. What an odd coincidence…”

So I turn around to see where they’re all coming from.

Each gas pump was occupied by a full vehicle, and the vehicles’ occupants were chillin’ on top of their rides with their choice cigarettes and drinks in hand.

As I watched the growing parade into Sunoco, it dawned on me – Boyfriend was still getting milk. Alone. Probably a foot shorter than the fellows that were now in full view inside, at the counter, yelling at the cashier for who knows what. Their lone female accomplice had made it inside now too, and she seemed eager to get in on the yelling action. They’re all pointing and yelling and swearing up a storm.

But Boyfriend. Alone with what is CLEARLY some sort of ‘friend group.’ Please dear Lord Sweet Baby Jesus let this NOT be a gang. But alas, there was no denying.

If one of them would have laid a finger on Boyfriend, I knew I would’ve done the irrational. I would’ve ran into the store in a fleeting moment of misguided courage, desperately wanting to protect the one I love, probably regretting it the moment I would’ve realized I was in an impossible fight. I didn’t trust reason in that moment, because I was already prepped to get inside if need be and “save the day.” (No worries, folks, I would’ve called the police first.)

At least I fully realize and admit the stupidity of my almost plight. I see my taller, stronger guy under attack by even taller, stronger guys – that’s guys PLURAL – and I think I can go all Wonder Woman and beat them to a pulp? Who am I kidding? The only thing I can beat to a pulp is fruit for a hearty juice or smoothie. But you can’t blame me for wanting to play bodyguard; I couldn’t imagine sitting helplessly and watching something terrible potentially transpire.

Thankfully, Boyfriend is smart. Brilliant, actually. He steered clear of the tumult at the cigarette register and politely waited for the pack to move elsewhere – it was then time to buy the milk and skedaddle.

And BOY did he skedaddle.

Frazzled, he hopped in the car, locked the doors and turned the ignition with new intensity, and said, “They had teardrops.”

We made it home together and doing fine, just hoping what had just transpired would be a one-time thing. Lesson learned: Go milk shopping BEFORE the sun goes down in Philly.

And no, the Sunoco visitors weren’t upset about the argument with the cashier. For anyone unfamiliar with the stigma behind a teardrop tattoo, stay tuned for a soon-to-be post on COMING UP ROSES. I’d be remiss as a blossoming city girl if I failed to explain the stamp.

lovelovelove,

E