Hello my little lieblings!!
Welcome back to my mind palace, and as always, thank you for being here.
Today I want to talk about FIGHT or FLIGHT…
(TW: racism, graphic imagery and physical assault)
I don’t know about you all, but living in NYC often leads me to wonder about what it would feel like to be in a dangerous, potentially life-threatening situation. Maybe it comes with the whole anxiety thing… but I often think about how I would react. What does it feel like when your instincts take over? Would I be able to make smart, split-second decisions? Would I run? Would I fight? Would I freeze?
I have been fortunate enough not to have experienced any true life-or-death situations up to this point. Traumatic situations, dangerous situations, terrifying situations- sure. But truly LIFE THREATENING? Can’t think of any…
I recognize how fortunate I am since I know life can be a little bitch and super unpredictable and unfair. So I am very lucky. However, I also kiiiinda contribute this to the fact that I am an incredibly anxious person and I have control issues- which doesn’t leave a ton of room for very risky behavior.
BUT… I live in New York.
Which means, shit goes down… and some shit went down this week.
I was heading home from a birthday celebration for a sweet friend… it was a classic Sunday night on the N train heading back to Astoria. I was listening to the new Maggie Rogers album (blog post on that queen to come) when I stepped onto the train.
It quickly became clear that there was already some kind of verbal altercation going on. It’s odd- I could feel the energy around me before I heard what was going on… people were tense—sitting at attention. The couple next to me was whispering to each other. Everyone’s eyes were darting back and forth to a man sitting on one of the benches slightly across the train from me. The spidey senses began to tingle. Everything was not A-OK on this train….
I will fast forward a bit through what happened next, although in reality all of this occurred between 57th/7th and 59th/Lex- which for those of you who don’t live in NYC- is literally only TWO stops.
(it’s funny how time slows down when fear kicks in, isn’t it….)
Basically-man on the bench is visibly drunk and running his mouth at a guy across from him. Antagonizing. Baiting. A girl across the way chimes in- “Leave him alone.”
A kid to my left decides to get involved. “Shut the fuck up bro!”
Drunk Guy smiles…. a new target.
Drunk guy says some shit. Kid to my left gets up, "You’re drunk bro. Your English is wack. Go to sleep.” Kid to my left sits back down. Strike one.
Drunk Guy says something in Spanish. Kid to my left crosses over and gets in his face. “I’m not scared of you. Whatcha gonna do?” It’s a warning. Strike two.
Drunk Guy says “Where are you even from?! YOU’RE BLACK.” Dripping with smug vitriol. Girl to my right sits up… “Oh HELL no!” White girl across the way… “OMGGGGgggGGg don’t SAY THAAAaaaAAAT!” Strike three.
A quiet moment… and then Kid to my left launches into the air and begins what I can only describe as HAMMERING this guy’s face with his cell phone. People scream. We pull into 59th street as Drunk Guy finally gets up to fight back, blood streaming down his face. I’m standing behind the pole as they fight in front of the door. Fists fly as I move to exit and they barrel into me. All I can remember is blocking them with my arms and saying “okayyyyyyyyyy” as I push my way past them. Kid to my left has Drunk Guy on the floor at this point and is kicking him in the head. His blood is everywhere. He’s helpless… he’s fading.
… and for some reason…I don’t leave the car.
“HEY!!! HEY- He’s good, bro. He’s GOOD!” …The voice is mine. I grab the kid by the shoulder. For some reason, the kid stops and tries to leave the car, but Drunk Guy has a fist full of his sweatshirt. I stand in the doorway; Kid is halfway onto the platform. I grab Drunk Guy’s fist and try to pry it loose.
“Let go of him” I demand. Drunk Guy looks up at me, belligerent and bloody. I repeat “Let him go. Let go. Let. Go.”
He lets go.
Girl to my right collects the kid’s keys from the ground and hands them to me. I see Kid on the platform and shove his keys into his hands. “My hat!” he exclaims “That hat cost me a fortune!!” He moves towards the car. I stop him. “Don’t go back in there.” I move to block the doors and call into the car…”SOMEBODY GRAB HIS HAT!”
The conductor scolds me over the loudspeaker for holding the doors as someone shoves his cap into my hands. “Here. GO!” I say as I hand it to him. “Thank you…” he utters as he rushes away- pausing only briefly to cross forearms in solidarity with a stranger who witnessed the encounter on the train.
I watch as the doors close on Drunk Guy- now upright, looking at me, and hanging onto the center pole- the floor around him spattered in blood.
”…Yaaaaah fuck it,” I think, “I’ll just get the next train…”
As I wait on the platform I slowly start to notice that I have blood on my hands… on my jacket…and spattered on my LuluLemon sneakers. How fucking ANNOYING.
Also, fun anecdote for anyone who has never experienced this…but having someone else’s blood on you is a weirdly uncomfortable and intimate experience, especially if you don’t know the person.
ANYWAYS…back to Fight or Flight…which one am I?
The results are still inconclusive…. but if I were to guess? I think I’m a fighter. Which concerns me…
Now, to be fair- I have a theory that our trauma responses may change depending on the circumstances and varying levels of perceived danger. In this instance, I was not the intended TARGET of violence, which offered me some protection. There were also no weapons involved… I do think that the presence of a weapon might change things. I would like to think that my priorities would shift if there was an immediate threat to my survival.
While I am not the type of person to instigate anything like this incident... I do find that I have a hard time NOT getting involved when I see that action needs to be taken… especially (this is important) when NO ONE ELSE is stepping up to do anything. It’s like there’s this little voice in my head that’s saying “Someone should definitely be doing something about this…” and if there is no one, that someone becomes me.
*cue eye roll*
Here’s the biggest problem… in these kinds of situations I tend to act before I think... And if I have learned anything from every fantasy movie EVER- it’s that the heroes always die. The ones who survive are the ones who get away.
Like- let’s be real- I got lucky. I have ZERO SKILLS that would qualify me to get involved in a fucking subway beating. I should have left the stop before anything happened. The moment that I knew the tensions were rising. Listen to those spidey senses folks… our bodies know what’s up.
Oh well, we live and we learn. Maybe I will know better next time….
One thing I WILL say… I don’t condone violence as a means of solving any problems, and watching someone get beaten to that extent was not a pleasant experience. HOWEVER… somewhere hidden in that experience is the heart of what I love about New York City, (obviously not the violent subway beating on a Sunday, that was annoying AF) but strangers banding together in service of helping their fellow man. No one wanted to see this drunk man die… and some of us stepped in to stop it from going too far. But also… everyone who witnessed the encounter understood the silent justice in what happened to him. Those of us who stayed in that car were determined to help this kid get away and then move on with our night. Drunk Guy was given chance after chance… and he instigated this fight over and over. I will never understand the hatred behind his words, or his choice to continuously provoke and intimidate innocent people. Sometimes I wonder- when people get to a very dark and low place- if they incite this type of thing on purpose. If they go out of their way to look for violence. If they begin to beg for pain. My only hope is that he takes something away from that night, and allows himself the space for change.
For those of you thinking… “But why didn’t anyone call the police?!” Fair question. I suppose they would technically be more equipped to intervene, though not necessarily more qualified but that’s another discussion. I will say- the first thing I did when I got to the door was look for the cops on the platform in case things went too far. There weren’t any (surprise). And there was no time to call for help. AND most importantly… let’s think about the way our justice system is set up. Think about who the cops would be doling out the “justice” to in this situation... Unfortunately in America, racist hate speech isn’t the crime they care about.
I'm interested if anyone in the collective has thoughts on this….
What do you think you would have done?
Please comment, I want to know.
As always, thanks for stopping by. Next week will not be as heavy… maybe.
Endless love to you all!!
-Ellie
P.S. The answer to the title question is hydrogen peroxide. I learned this INVALUABLE lesson from my roommate, Deanna. This shit is MAGIC- it got the blood out of my shoes AND my jacket. Amazing. Who knew?