By Dan Randazzo
Last week, I surprised a burglar who had come into my house.
My spouse had just left the house. I was still home, as I
was going to be working from home today. My spouse hadn’t locked the back door.
I was sitting in my bedroom, when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I looked up,
and then suddenly saw this large face peer into my room. I yelled, jumped out
of the bed, and started to run after him. The burglar ran out of the house
while I chased after him, yelling with some rather incoherent anger. At that
moment, I didn't feel violated. Instead, I felt ANGRY; my thoughts followed the
general theme that this is MY house, MY sanctuary, and how DARE you invite
yourself in!
There's been a rash of burglaries in the neighborhood. It
seems as if my area of Baltimore is being targeted by a group of people who are
looking for houses where people are likely to have good “stuff,” and where
people aren't likely to be home during the day.
I called my spouse immediately after I ensured that the
person had left (as he admittedly had, and in a hurry), and she asked me if I
was going to call the police. At this point, between the shock and adrenaline,
I also felt an unusual constellation of ethical conundrums emerge.
For one, the man that I saw was definitely African-American.
I questioned whether I should call the police with a very vague description of
what was effectively a random African-American male. I truly didn't know
anything else besides that. I definitely saw an African-American male who was
wearing a grey t-shirt, dark boots, and dark gloves; that was the entirety of
my memory of the person. I thought that if I told this description to the
police, they might do exactly what they would up doing: canvassing the
neighborhood, stopping anyone walking along who might fit this very vague
description.
The white male police officer who left my house to canvass
the neighborhood found a person who fit this very general description. The
other officer, who was still in my living room, asked me to jump into the back
of his cruiser in order to drive over and determine if this was the burglar. As
I'm staring out the windows of a police cruiser (nevermind that I'm still
wearing my pajamas, and have not even had a cup of coffee yet . . . and I'm
sitting in the back of a police cruiser), I tell the police officer that I
honestly just can't tell. How could I? I was surprised in bed with a
split-second look. Yet, my vague description started this entire process,
eventually leading to two police officers detaining a person who might have
been the burglar . . . and might also just have been walking along the
sidewalk.
A number of questions all popped into my head at once. What
privileges am I accessing by demanding that the police come to my house to find
someone who I can't even describe effectively? Does this situation say anything
general about “white privilege”? What does this say about institutionalised
racism and structural violence? Does it say anything . . . or is it basic, that
I was attempting to ensure the safety and security of others by stopping a
burglar from harming others? I wasn’t certain that I had any answers to those
questions that morning, and I'm still uncertain that I have any helpful answers
now.
Situations like this can cause people to question their
safety, and then to reassess their previous choices in order to more properly
ensure their security in the future. They might decide to lock their doors even
when they are in the house, or even to install a security system and bars on
the windows. I wonder, however: do all these measures actually make them, or
me, more secure? What do we all give up in order to feel more secure? Are we
being proactively and soberly cautious, or are we effectively barricading
ourselves in our houses?
I stand by my choice to do that I did everything that I was
'supposed' to do: I called the police, I assisted them with their investigation
to the best of my abilities, and complied with their every request. Yet, I
still feel challenged by the options that were available to me. All that I felt
that I achieved that morning was in adding to the layers of suspicion that
African-American males struggle with every day, especially in Baltimore. If I
could have given the police a more effective description, a fingerprint, a
footprint, anything useful other than “African-American male wearing clothing,”
then maybe I might feel as if my phone call achieved something productive. I
recognize that police work is slow, and often requires sifting through a
massive volume of useless “noise,” information that's not helpful or relevant
to the case. My efforts might eventually lead to the person(s) responsible for
these break-ins. Yet, they just as easily might not, and I might have just
utilized the privilege available to me as a white person, without any
“productive” result.
I'm frustrated also by the immediate assumption that
'practical' concerns demand that we make our houses fortresses. I'm struggling
with the assumption that if anyone chafes at the measures available for
ensuring security, that person must not care for their own safety or that of
their family. Aren't there more creative alternatives that a person could
utilize to make their house less of a target? Also, what about the unavoidable
and unpleasant truth that if someone wants to enter your house, they will
eventually find a way in? It seems as if there really isn't a foolproof
solution . . . just a jumble of unsatisfying choices.
Dan Randazzo is an
adjunct professor in theology and a PhD Candidate in Quaker Theology in
Baltimore, Maryland.
No comments:
Post a Comment