A shrieking, sobbing, bruised woman running out of her apartment in her underwear.
A cop drawing a 9mm and screaming at three suspects to “get on the fucking ground before I blow your fucking brains out.”
Squad cars, ambulances, fire trucks.
Neighbors hanging off terraces and outer stairwells, whispering about the guy in 210 who was beating the crap out of his girlfriend before barricading himself in his apartment.
The three suspects uncuffed, photographing their bruised wrists on camera phones, taking officers’ business cards and witnesses’ phone numbers, while remarking that as black men, this kind of thing happens around here every single day.
The real perp being carted out of his apartment, unconscious, strapped to a gurney, blood seeping from a head wound through a thick white bandage–
All in the courtyard beneath our 2nd floor terrace.
And yet the only image I keep replaying in my head is that gun in the air, not 20 feet from where my daughter lay sleeping.
We spend so much time as parents worrying about sugar, about TV watching, about Bratz dolls and bedtimes and things that are really so fucking insignificant in the greater scheme of hell that this world too often forces us to confront. Maybe we do because it’s too scary to think about those other things, the ones we can’t control.
Hug your kids.