THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, January 22, 1995 TAG: 9501220042
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: ELIZABETH SIMPSON
LENGTH: Long : 129 lines
We expect violence in the usual places.
Bars, dark streets, neighborhoods far from our own.
And we expect the usual victims. Drug dealers, feuding spouses, betrayed acquaintances.
That way we can box up violence and stash it away from anything we'll ever experience.
But something always brings that box crashing into our laps. For me, it was the woman who was attacked by a man with a hatchet in the Food Lion parking lot a week ago.
Quiet neighborhood. Nine in the morning. Motive unknown.
Maybe it worried me because I seem to spend most of my non-working hours in the grocery store. For the last week or so, I've looked over my shoulder more. And felt alternately foolish and prudent.
What are the chances of some ax-wielding man attacking me on my way to get a loaf of bread?
Reality doesn't always live up to our fears. The most recent FBI figures show a 4 percent drop in violent crimes nationwide, but polls show our fears are up. A clause in the same report sheds light on why. There's been an ``unprecedented shift'' toward random violence. For the first time, more people were killed by strangers than by friends, acquaintances or family members.
We've seen the randomness of violence here. A man who picked out a Kempsville townhouse and took a woman and her children hostage there. Another who shot a woman who was walking into a convenience store. A drive-by shooter who picked off an 8-year-old boy.
Strangers attacking strangers do more than make us fearful. They scare the hell out of us.
In that same grocery store parking lot where I've been looking over my shoulder, I encountered a man sitting in his car several months ago. He couldn't get his door open, and asked me to help.
My first thought was not ``How can I help?'' It was ``This is a trick.''
Fortunately my husband was with me, and he walked over to help. The man's door was stuck. He wasn't going to lure me over and shoot me after all.
It wasn't a trick. It usually isn't.
I felt at once humiliated because I didn't help and angry because I knew my lack of action was probably the wise thing to do.
We place the ``It's a trick'' framework over everything. It's right safety-wise, but wrong in our gut.
A decade ago, I'd stop when I saw someone having car trouble. Now, I keep going. Stop later and call for help instead. It's easier not to let up on the gas pedal. But it's harder on the conscience.
I can remember accepting help from strangers when my car broke down, catching a ride to the gas station with a truckload of guys. Today, I'd lock the door and stick up a sign that said ``Get help.''
I was mulling this over last week when I stopped at a traffic light in Portsmouth in the middle of the day. A woman was wandering around in the middle of the street, her long denim coat flapping in the wind.
She approached the car behind me and motioned the driver to roll down his window. The man shook his head.
I prayed for the light to change so I wouldn't have to face her. It didn't.
She motioned for me to roll down my window. I shook my head, ready to speed away. I looked at her angst-ridden face again, and knitted my brow as if to say ``What?''
``What time is it?'' she mouthed.
Oh.
``It's two o'clock,'' I mouthed back through my closed window. And lamely held up two fingers.
That's all she wanted. The time.
We expect violence in the usual places.
Bars, dark streets, neighborhoods far from our own.
And we expect the usual victims. Drug dealers, feuding spouses, betrayed acquaintances.
That way we can box up violence and stash it away from anything we'll ever experience.
But something always brings that box crashing into our laps. For me, it was the woman who was attacked by a man with a hatchet in the Food Lion parking lot a week ago.
Quiet neighborhood. Nine in the morning. Motive unknown.
Maybe it worried me because I seem to spend most of my non-working hours in the grocery store. For the last week or so, I've looked over my shoulder more. And felt alternately foolish and prudent.
What are the chances of some ax-wielding man attacking me on my way to get a loaf of bread?
Reality doesn't always live up to our fears. The most recent FBI figures show a 4 percent drop in violent crimes nationwide, but polls show our fears are up. A clause in the same report sheds light on why. There's been an ``unprecedented shift'' toward random violence. For the first time, more people were killed by strangers than by friends, acquaintances or family members.
We've seen the randomness of violence here. A man who picked out a Kempsville townhouse and took a woman and her children hostage there. Another who shot a woman who was walking into a convenience store. A drive-by shooter who picked off an 8-year-old boy.
In that same grocery store parking lot where I've been looking over my shoulder, I encountered a man sitting in his car several months ago. He couldn't get his door open, and asked me to help.
My first thought was not ``How can I help?'' It was ``This is a trick.''
Fortunately my husband was with me, and he walked over to help. The man's door was stuck. He wasn't going to lure me over and shoot me after all.
It wasn't a trick. It usually isn't.
I felt at once humiliated because I didn't help and angry because I knew my lack of action was probably the wise thing to do.
We place the ``It's a trick'' framework over everything. It's right safety-wise, but wrong in our gut.
A decade ago, I'd stop when I saw someone having car trouble. Now, I keep going. Stop later and call for help instead. It's easier not to let up on the gas pedal. But it's harder on the conscience.
I can remember accepting help from strangers when my car broke down, catching a ride to the gas station with a truckload of guys. Today, I'd lock the door and stick up a sign that said ``Get help.''
I was mulling this over last week when I stopped at a traffic light in Portsmouth in the middle of the day. A woman was wandering around in the street, her long denim coat flapping in the wind.
She approached the car behind me and motioned for the driver to roll down his window. The man shook his head.
I prayed for the light to change so I wouldn't have to face her. It didn't.
She motioned for me to roll down my window. I shook my head, ready to speed away. I looked at her angst-ridden face again, and knitted my brow as if to say ``What?''
``What time is it?'' she mouthed.
Oh.
``It's two o'clock,'' I mouthed back through my closed window. And lamely held up two fingers.
That's all she wanted. The time. by CNB