“Himpathy”: 3 Reasons People Expressed Concern For My Attacker After I Ran Him Over
It was Saturday night, and we’d just left a party at the Sheraton. Three floors of well-heeled sisters and brothers mingling and dancing. Celebrity DJ Kid Capri had just wrapped his set. The hotel staff turned the lights up, a subtle nod to the party closer: “you ain’t gotta go home, but you gotta get the hell out of here.”
To avoid traffic (and inflated valet fees), I parked my car in front of my downtown Raleigh office and took Uber to the party. Two of my sister-friends rolled with me, but one of them left early to enjoy the extra hour of sleep provided by daylight savings.
The Uber driver drops us back off at my car. As I exit the front seat, I hear a man yelling from down the street. It’s not that uncommon, as ‘eccentrics’ frequent the area; most of them mean you no harm.
I get in my car to warm it up and wait for my friend to wrap up her conversation with the Uber driver. Meanwhile, this guy is getting closer to us and behaving more belligerent. She finally hops in the car and we lock the doors.
Instead of passing us, suddenly he rushes towards my car and begins punching the windshield, afterward climbing atop my hood and continuing to punch it. Tiny shards of glass jettison onto my face with each hit.
My prevailing thought at that moment was, “Hey, dumbass, I’m inside a car with four good wheels. Let me show you what they can do.” I slammed the car in drive and sped off with him affixed to the hood. He’s steady punching the windshield and trying to remain atop a moving vehicle. Moments later, he topples off.
I ran his ass over and kept it moving.
I rounded the corner where a club bouncer was standing out in front of a local adult game room. I asked if there was a police officer on the premises. He said they didn’t hire officers, but that the police station was around the corner.
One block over I flagged down a squad car. The officer rolled down his window. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, “uh, a strange man jumped on my hood and began punching my windshield. So I ran his ass over. I left him lying in the middle of Harrington St.”
The officer dispatched units to the area to see if the guy was still in the street. He wasn’t.
The officer took thorough notes, asking questions about if I’d been drinking that night (one Heineken) and if I knew the guy or had encountered him earlier that evening (I didn’t; I hadn’t). Respectful and inquisitive, the officer assured me his intentions were to include as much preliminary information in case the guy tried to claim he was the victim of a hit-and-run.
That was the first time my attacker had been referred to as a “victim.” When the officer used the term, I appreciated his foresight. He was protecting me.
But the other expressions of concern for this guy’s well-being were, in truth, hard to swallow.
How had my attacker been able to garner sympathy after attacking me?
In her book Down Girl: The Logic of Misogyny, Kate Manne coined the term “himpathy.” Himpathy refers to the surplus of credibility men enjoy. Her book does a deep dive on why men like Rush Limbaugh, Brett Kavanaugh, and Donald Trump can be accused of rape, misogyny, and other crude acts, yet still maintain a loyal following, still be confirmed to the Supreme Court, and still be elected President of the United States.
A dense read, her book helped me to see three reasons why “himpathy” engendered sympathy for my attacker:
- Gendered-norms. The attacker was a man. He’s supposed to be primal. I’m a woman. I’m supposed to take it.
- Mamas and aunties know his “other side.” Most of my sister-friends laughed at his comeuppance. But the women who asked about my attacker’s welfare either have sons, grandsons or nephews capable of the same behavior. These women are faithful receptacles of hope, believing that men like my attacker will do better once they get off drugs and return to their roots in the church. They practice patience and encourage others to do the same.
- Women as “human giving,” instead of “human being.” Women are taught to give everything to nurture and sustain life, even to our detriment. The moment I put my car in drive and punched the gas pedal, I was in violation of the nurturer/sustainer role. It was off-putting to some that I dared place my safety above my attacker’s.
The gift of that night is this crazy ass story, witnessed by a fellow storyteller who marveled at my calm resolve. She hilariously re-enacted me narrating my actions in real-time, me telling the police “I ran his ass over…he’s lying in the street,” me flicking small shards of glass from my chest as I declined EMT services. She’s convinced I’m a superheroine.
I’m not.
I am a committed conduit and grateful recipient of grace. For that reason, I’m not upset with those who were concerned about my attacker. Truth is, I, too, am a woman who expressed himpathy. You see when it was all said and done, I thanked God that my attacker didn’t roll in front of my car. By rolling to the side, he met grace and mercy, not judgment.
Because of himpathy, I say, “thank you, God, for looking out for both of us.” May my attacker — my brother — take full advantage of this opportunity to live life differently. Selah.
