It was a normal Thursday night. My friends and I were out on Hillsborough Street and were spending our evening watching the NCAA tourney. We did take several breaks in the action to ward off the waves of soliciting homeless, but that’s nothing new. It was a typical evening, nothing special other than the anticipation for the next day’s Sweet Sixteen game.
That is, until someone tried to stab me.
As we were walking on Hillsborough, we were met by a man who could most accurately be described as an Italian Santa Claus. He looked to be about in his 50’s, standing 6′ tall with his white hair slicked back with at least a pound of hair gel. This man didn’t seem to be another member of the soliciting band of brothers, so we paid him no mind as he approached. Maybe we should’ve.
Signore Claus stopped us outside the bowling alley with a question: “Number two side, or sharp side?” Taken aback by the question, we had no idea what he was talking about. However, we quickly learned. Before we could respond, he lunged forward, gripping a pencil in his fist in an attempt to impale us.
I have no idea what stopped his effort, the moments surrounding it are blurry. But I do remember my friend’s response.
What they don’t teach you in psychology is, in a stressful event there is a third option besides either fleeing or fighting: going completely insane. My friend’s response to the attempted stabbing was to throw his hands in the air while running around in circles screaming and quacking. None of us saw that coming, but the guy left us alone. You can’t argue with results.
As we resumed our walk down Hillsborough, we all had the same perspective on the situation: “That was one of the more ridiculous things I’ve experienced.” Then again, as Signore Claus trolled further down Hillsborough Street, he must have thought the same thing about my friend.
Looking back, the oddity of the experience had nothing to do with the experience but our reaction to it. We didn’t call the cops, we didn’t go home, we weren’t really fazed at all. We just kept on walking.
Four years ago, my reaction would’ve been quite different. I did not grow up in Raleigh; I grew up in the purgatory of suburbia. I spent my first 16 years in a Lochmere-esque community and the next two in Holly Springs. I never resided in hot-beds for diversity.
Nestling away in the bungalows of cookie-cutter lives is great, to a certain extent. I grew up without a fear of anything, but that was because I didn’t really know of anything. The homeless and the drunk did not line my street. My street was quiet, my life was quiet; however, it was also a lie.
Growing up, it was as if I were colorblind. I was only exposed to part of the entire spectrum that is the human condition. It was only when I came to live in Raleigh that I started taking in all wavelengths. Within a year, it became apparent the world was more diverse than tee-times and Toyota Prii.
What I’ve seen on the streets of our state capital hasn’t always pretty, but I’ve come to find an intense beauty in that. Whether it’s a woman blowing her nose on a store’s window front display and looking to you like you’re the one with the problem, someone longing for a doughnut banging on a closed Krispy Kreme window, or a bunch of college kids drinking at every car honk, I’m refreshed at every turn. It’s refreshing that we’re all so different, that the world is so ridiculous, that, in every day, there is the chance to be astounded.
That said, whenever I have a child, I’m evacuating.
