Forgiveness

I had seen the man with shoulder length hair and dark eyes often. He hung around the park, where I took Mingus, my hound dog, twice a day. It was a beloved community park. A wide path lined with benches and ceramic tiled stools looped around a grassy area where people congregated. Off to the side, in the shade of palm trees, was a jungle gym.

The man usually sat on a bench. Not always the same one, sometimes near the end of the park closest to the coffee shop across the street, or next to the jungle gym. In Southern California, you couldn’t always tell who was homeless, and being new to the state at the time, I wasn’t sure if he was, although I strongly sensed that he had zero desire to engage in pleasantries.

Early on a sunny Wednesday morning, I took a mug of coffee, tennis ball, and Mingus to the park. I sat on one of the stools, soaking in the sun, throwing the ball, sipping coffee.

I saw the man walk slowly down the path. He sat on one of the stools near me. I looked in his direction and quickly averted my eyes when I saw the anger in his. He mumbled and glared at me, his voice getting louder and louder.

I said, “It’s okay, man. Everything’s okay,” but my heart was thumping. Two men in business suits were walking on the loop path. They didn’t intervene, but the man stopped mumbling. I got up, put Mingus on the leash and left the park.

That Friday, after a mind numbing commute from work, I walked to the corner market and bought a can of soup. The moon, just starting to show its face in the balmy night sky, enticed me to walk further. I took Mingus to the park for one last go round. It was empty. I let her off the leash and she bounded off to sniff trashcans.

I saw him on a bench almost hidden near the chain link fence. I kept walking. Before I thought to whistle to Mingus, he came up behind me, taking me by surprise. He grabbed a handful of my long hair and pushed me to the ground. I dropped the paper bag. You know that game with the round paddle and attached ball that you keep hitting, Bat-a-Ball? I felt like the ball, as he pulled me up and pushed me back down. My knees hit the pavement repeatedly. I tried to grab at his hands, but couldn’t get him off of me.

A family came into the park, then turned around and left quickly. I saw a young guy on a bike stand up in his seat and pedal faster towards us. He yelled, “get the fuck off of her! Get the FUCK off of her!”

And the man let go.

“Mingus!,” I called, shaking. I felt like I was inside a bubble, looking at the world through its thin film. She trotted up, panting and smiling. Why didn’t you come after him? Why didn’t you help me?, I thought. My loyal friend didn’t protect me when I needed her most. My brain scrambled even more with the thought.

The young guy on the bike pedaled up beside me, as I walked on rubbery legs towards my bungalow. He said, “You alright? I’m going to smash his fucking head in with a baseball bat!”

“Don’t do anything, don’t hurt him. Don’t do that,” I pleaded. I said I’d press charges, which calmed him down. He pedaled on when I reached home. I went in and called the police.

Some people were dismayed, especially my brother, a wrestler, when I said that I didn’t fight back, that I felt sorry for the man, that I wasn’t angry. Shocked. Sad. Hurt. Yes. Angry, no. I can’t explain this, no more than I can explain why I knew he wouldn’t kill or seriously hurt me.

Days later, I found the young guy, Daniel, in the park, hanging out with friends smoking cigarettes. He reluctantly gave me his phone number, saying that he wasn’t into talking to cops.

When the court date was set, I called Daniel to ask him to testify. His foster father answered the phone and said that his son would never do that. He hated cops. He’d had nothing but bad experiences with them. I couldn’t do anything more, and I let it go. But I needed support from someone to face the man in daylight.

I asked my friend who had studied law to come with me. We waited in the hallway. Daniel wasn’t there. When we went into the courtroom, the judge told us there would be no hearing. The man — who had been released from jail — had attacked another woman in another park. He was being tried in that case and would most likely be jailed on that charge.

A technicality in the system had put him back out on the street, still angry, still mentally disturbed. He attacked another woman, and only now faced jail. And what a solution that was! Put a mentally disturbed, angry man in a cage and hold him there until he’s paid his dues and then release him back to the streets, the parks. Everything about this situation was wrong.

Once again I felt the bubble form, the brain scramble. We turned the corner of the courthouse hall, and to my surprise, I saw Daniel hurrying to meet us. I told him what happened. He looked relieved that he didn’t have to testify.

This was years before gun violence occurred almost every day. I wonder now what would have happened if Daniel had a gun instead of a baseball bat. Or, if I did. Would we have buried compassion and taken revenge with the pull of a trigger? It takes a lot less effort to pull a trigger than to swing a bat. It’s a lot less personal, too. With a bat, you feel the crack of a skull reverberate through your arm. With a gun? You might feel kickback, but not the weight of someone’s body going down. With a gun? You might not even see the person you shot get hit with a bullet. A pop, pop, pop that could be it. And then that person, that son, daughter, sister, mentor, father is dead.

I don’t know the answers. I only know that when I think back on it, what I think about is Daniel. He could have left the park, or swung his bat to beat the crap out of the man. But he didn’t. What he did was got the attacker off me, followed me home, gave me his phone number, came to the courthouse. Each of his actions, one after the other, were choices. Each time, he chose to get past his own anger to do good. To do the right thing. To help me.

It doesn’t change all the bad that happened or the wrongs endured. But it gives me pause, as anger, fear, righteousness, greed grips our country, our world. Compassion is hard. Forgiveness is hard. But these are the things that, when we practice them, pull us out of the muck, out of hate, and open our hearts to each other.