a tolerable violence

I hesitate to write this blog entry. The violence that exploded in slow motion before my eyes just a few hours ago can be written about and interpreted in any number of ways, but in the end it is a violence that is wholly unremarkable.

Earlier this evening I was in line at a downtown soup kitchen (not Sacred Heart). I was talking with the elderly man in front of me who was sitting with his tired back against the wall. His beard was long and his shoes were mismatched, but the most distinguishing thing about him was his black bicycle helmet that he kept strapped on tight.

We had just begun our conversation when an argument broke out about 15 feet in front of us. It gradually became more heated, and more and more people began shouting at the two antagonists.

I stood up from my conversation and could see the two men that the others were trying to separate. But one man seemed inconsolable. What they were disputing was not at all obvious, but my guess was a disagreement about position in line. Then through all the posturing, the jumping around, and the screaming woman with long, tangled, blonde hair, one man through a fist at his foe, connecting to the top of the other's head.

But just as soon as the one punched, he retreated, and at that point I honestly believe it was still possible to avoid what eventually happened.

The person in charge of the feed line had a moment earlier taken out his cell phone. He did it in plain view, presumably to act as a deterrent of the violence that had yet to boil over. Now that a blow had been struck, it seemed that the one who had thrown it began to realize the consequences of police involvement.

The man who had landed the jab was disabled--one of his legs was twisted in an awkward arc. He then took a swing at the person in charge--a pastor--who was still on his cell phone with emergency dispatch, and that's when the whole group began to move toward him in unison; at first slowly, but then they descended on him like the rush of a breaking wave.

The man stumbled as he backed out into the street, cars swerving to avoid him. One man hit him hard in the ear, and another punched him in the back as he lost his balance. In an instant, it seemed that the whole line was upon him. And at the same time, those who had gathered across the street ran to join in the beating. By now the man with the twisted leg had fallen into the gutter while the mob unleashed their unrestrained fury. They kicked him, they tore at his clothing, they punched and slapped and clawed at him until eventually his limbs stopped flailing, and he seemed to rest peacefully, resigned beneath the torrent of blows.

Those few of us who weren't directly beating the fallen man were circulating through the press of assailants shouting in their ears that the police were there (they weren't) and to stop the assault (they didn't). Running from man to man, I could see the rage in their eyes. Their teeth flashed, they grunted, they frothed and cursed from distorted mouths. Each one seemed to focus his entire being on crushing the pile of bones rolling around on the street within this sack of flesh.

I don't think any of these people had ever before seen the man they sought to destroy. But for that brief moment, they vied with one other to rain down the most violence on this fallen stranger. Having had my camera out to take a photo of the old man waiting in line, I at this point clicked off a single shot from within the fray.

And in an instant, it was over. The throng evaporated and the bleeding victim lay motionless with his head against the curb. I knelt down beside him, and could hear him moaning gently. Then he reached up and grasped my hand. "Please, don't leave me" he begged.

I looked around, wary of a second attack. The street, the whole evening suddenly seemed so quiet, so still. The mass of tormentors had melted back into the park across the way, into the soup kitchen, which had just opened its doors, or had simply walked around the corner and away from the scene all together.

The man gripped me tightly, and trying to rise to his feet, found he was unable. "Please, don't go," he repeated over and over, his eyes rolling about in his head as blood flowed from his temple and from both rows of teeth. I held him and told him to rest, that he was safe, and that an ambulance was on its way. I looked him over and surveyed the damage: his shirt and pants were torn, his flanks were scraped and scuffed, dirt and debris were ground into his hair, the contents of his pockets were strewn about the vicinity, the area around his left eye had begun to swell and darken. He lifted his head, and I put my foot beneath it as a pillow.

Within several minutes, the police did arrive in force. The man I held clung to me with both hands until the police at last took him from me.

It is difficult to reflect on what I've just witnessed--just participated in. So many thoughts now fill my head: Could I have done more to prevent the escalation of violence? There were small steps, each of which edged closer to the eruption of savagery, but none of which were inexorable. Could I have done more to protect the fallen man? I am hardly an intimidating physical presence, but at some level courage and moral presence can command a situation. Why are we as a community content to put thousands into the situation of having to fight for their survival from day to day?

But by far my most disturbing thought is that violence, so long as it remains within the lower economic classes, is fairly tolerable. Most of the violence I have witnessed between the homeless and indigent goes unprosecuted. This goes for rape and sex-slavery as well as street fights. It is primarily when the violence breaks upwards into the middle class that society becomes alarmed and punishes the assailant with full vigor. As long as law-enforcement can keep a lid on things, can keep the violence restricted to the poor, we are pretty well satisfied.

After even the least bit of reflection it seems foolish that anyone would put himself in harm's way for someone mired in poverty and more than likely accustomed to violence.

The question I now ask myself is, Would I have done more to protect someone who looked more like me?