This is a test

I have been thinking a lot - nonstop, actually, always in the back of my head - about the truth I told in my post Telling this January. Putting my story out here in the world for anyone to see what a powerful thing to do: it changed me, somehow, and only made me more determined to live my truth, to tell the truth. What we do is telling; what we do tells the story of who we really are at our core.

I deeply want to be the girl who promised herself at nine that, if she'd been a German in the Holocaust, she would have done the right thing. As a nine year old I was just so incredibly sure of that difference between right (helping) and wrong (looking the other way); I was untested, and with that innocence, I as absolutely certain that I would have been different than my own family members, who blithely wore the Hitler Youth uniform, who lied about what they did in WWII while they wore swastikas. Plus, I had promised myself, and Anne Frank, that I wasn't like that. I promised to keep my promise that if the time came, I'd stand up and do what was right, even if it was hard.

However, I grew up, and I learned - as all grownups do - that life is complicated. I learned that life is dangerous. I grew to realize that self preservation is a worthy goal, because life has value, and when you're dead it's hard to help anyone. I grew to value comfort and safety. I spent about eight years of my life in cancer treatment - 16 surgeries, chemo, radiation, and so many awful pills that were designed to save my life but in the short term tried to ruin my life with side effects. In those eight years, I learned one thing that I know for sure: I value my life, and I will fight for it. I am desperate to remain on this planet to raise my daughter, and to accomplish some of my dreams, and to feel joy. I do not take one breath for granted, and I value my safety. I don't drive in the Seattle snow (hills and ice and bad drivers), I take the ten essentials (and more) while hiking... I obsessively take steps to make sure that my daughter and I are safe.

It is nearly impossible to stand up to fight injustice and adhere to maximum safety. The two things are in conflict: Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. spent time in jail for his beliefs before he was taken down by a bullet; Dr. Christine Blasey Ford told her truth and then her entire family had to move and get a security detail because of the threats she received. This troubles me. How could I fight to protect my life, while still holding my ideals?

Life is messy. I try to live my life in a way that would make my nine year old self proud; I try to live my life in a way that honors my promise not only to myself but to Anne Frank. However, I wasn't absolutely sure what the truth of myself was, if I would actually keep that promise or if it was just a lofty thing to say (from the comfort of my home, in a country with free speech, in my middle class life, in my white body). Who could know what I would really do?

Now I know.

On Saturday, I was standing in front of my house when I heard some of the most terrifying screams I've ever imagined, and I realized that a neighbor and her children were in the middle of a domestic violence situation. I will spare the details because they are a very real family and they deserve their privacy, and so I tell this not from their perspective, but my own. I stood in front of my house - having been out walking my big dog - and heard those screams.

I did not hesitate. With what I hoped was a little big of security from my large, rambunctious dog, I walked right into the middle of the situation. There were little kids in there, and nothing mattered to me but making sure they got out. I tried to de-escalate the situation, I talked softly, and I got the kids and mom out, and we went to my house for safety while we waited for the police to arrive.

It was only after we were standing in the safety of my kitchen that I learned that there was a gun involved, and realized that I had walked into an incredibly dangerous situation - much more so than I had imagined. It happened a few days ago, and I'm still shaking.

***

Last night I talked to a domestic violence expert about my experience, and told her about my realization that I had not thought it through at all, that I'd only acted on instinct, and that I was concerned I had done absolutely everything wrong, despite the good outcome. I told her that I felt like an idiot - what if I had made things worse? What if I'd risked myself unnecessarily? If I'd done the right thing, how come I felt anxious and frightened and I can't sleep at night?

I keep reliving details. The police came, and after a couple hours of standoff that involved shutting down the neighborhood, police with guns that looked like assault rifles - giant scary guns, not "just" handguns" - out in my yard and on my porch and and all over my street and alley, the man with the gun was taken away for evaluation. The wife and kids were safe. I was safe. But I don't feel safe.

We talked through my feelings of fear and concern that I'd possibly risked my life in a foolish way, and how I'd acted on instinct and not thought about the consequences of doing so, and how shaken I was, and she said words that I can't get out of my head:

"You did not act impulsively. You've been thinking about this for more than 40 years. You made a promise to your 9 year old self, and you kept that promise. You trusted your instincts - which are good! - and you did the thing that your values demanded. Nothing about that was impulsive; it was a decision that you spent over 40 years thinking about."

***

I will never know, probably, if what I did was the bravest thing ever - hand me my superhero cape, please! - or the dumbest (no domestic violence expert, ever, suggests intervening: domestic violence is incredibly dangerous, and people get years of training of how to deescalate situations, and this is not a situation advised for amateurs).

But I know this: two children were cowering. Their terror, and danger, was real. They will never forget this day for the rest of their lives; they will spend their lives either unpacking it and managing it, or suffering from it. And in this day, I hope that they remember that their middle aged neighbor, the one with the big dog, walked right in and said, "It's okay. It looks like this is a really bad day, and it sounds really scary. How about everybody takes a time out? Come with me, kids. I've got you. You can come with me, and I'll make cocoa. Your mom should come too. Come to my house. It's okay, I've got you..." and then I wrapped them in soft blankets and made them cocoa and grilled cheese sandwiches. I hope that they remember that, when they were screaming, somebody heard, and that somebody didn't look the other way, didn't hesitate to stand up for them. I hope that helps a little bit.

And me?

I'm still shaking. I can't sleep. I hate guns and all that they stand for. I hate violence. I hate shouting. This weekend was filled with that, and I know I risked my life - I risked leaving my daughter motherless! - through blind instinct to help.

I'm glad I'm okay, though shaken. (So shaken. No words to describe these feelings.)

But most of all, though I'm having trouble sleeping this week because I keep reliving it and because the adrenaline or cortisol or whatever it is clearly hasn't left my body, all these days later, I know that for the rest of my life I will be able to sleep, because I passed the test. I am paying the price: the price of doing the hard thing is that - wait for it - it's HARD. There are good reasons people don't stand up.

But I did. I pay the price now, but I did it.

My nine year old self would be proud of me.

And now I know,  and I can look my vision of Anne Frank in the eye, and tell not just my dream but my truth:

I would have helped you. I am brave. I am not my grandparents, and I would have helped.

This one was for you, Anne.