May 26-June 1, 2005

slant

Street Savvy

The tragedy of ignoring each other.

by Nancy French

Once I set fire to my house in the suburbs. I heard my daughter scream, ran my kids next door and did what every fireman warns against: went back to fight the fire myself. After all, I wasn't prepared to lose my house over a pot of French fries.

A UPS man noticed my smoky house and a maniacal, pajama-clad woman running into it. Just as he ran in after me ("What Can Brown Do For You?"), my microwave melted, fell onto the stove and splattered burning grease everywhere.

When the floor ignited, he looked at me and said, "Ma'am, I think you've just burned your house down."

He was partially right. The firemen easily extinguished it, but $30,000 in damage was done. From that moment on, whenever the kids saw emergency vehicles rushing to the scene of an accident, they'd pray. "Please, God, help whomever's in trouble."

This was very cute. Until we moved to a Center City apartment located in the middle of three hospitals whose ambulances pierce the night constantly with their sirens. Every five minutes, we had moments of silence for random strangers in peril. As time went on, I began rushing them through the 10th prayer of the day — which usually occurred before breakfast. Eventually they got the unspoken message that their desire for the welfare of others was sweet but inconvenient. Inevitably, the sirens became just a part of our urban soundtrack.

Living in Center City also required distancing yourself from others to ensure your own survival — both financial and emotional. We learned not to make eye contact on the street, give money to beggars or let the homeless guy outside Super Fresh carry our groceries to the car. Twice, I even watched the horrors of the late local news and fell asleep afterwards.

But when Patricia McDermott was shot execution-style in front of my building at 4:45 a.m. last Wednesday, my protective emotional distance was obliterated.

With the details of the murder swirling in my mind, I walked home from a movie after dark alone. She worked at the hospital, lived in the suburbs, was followed off the bus and shot in the head while my family slept just yards away. I knew the killer hadn't been caught, and I casually fell into step with a group of Chinese tourists, hoping to hide in the safety of numbers.

But they were lost, and it would've seemed odd for me to hang out as they consulted their map. Instead, I walked in front of the Liberty Bell, thinking the guards who keep watch through the night would provide some assurance. In fact, they were whistling a cheery song as I passed. But as much as I tried to feel comfort in their nonchalance, I exhaled deeply and weighed the pros and cons of handgun ownership.

Seconds later an altercation broke out when a cab came too close to Independence Hall and wouldn't budge despite the loud insistence of the guards. It was just a typical city occurrence, but it unsettled me, creating an incredible sense of isolation and vulnerability. City streets offer no eye contact, no friendly greetings, no UPS men rescuing damsels in distress.

The distress is here, certainly; we just pretend not to notice. We live within inches of each other, yet are terrified to know our neighbors — because we certainly don't want to pick up mail or feed the cat during their vacation. We build layers of indifference and then congratulate ourselves for being street savvy.

Congeniality on the streets wouldn't have saved Patricia's life — she was alone, on the street, in the middle of the night. However, I can't shake the feeling that our numbness toward others makes us more susceptible to being victims ourselves, that we're ceding ground to violence and suffering because we no longer utilize our strength in numbers.

Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time the kids prayed for a stranger. And I don't even recall hearing the sirens on the early morning Patricia McDermott was killed. I'm certain that if I had, the only emotion I would have felt was annoyance over lost sleep.

But I feel we've lost a lot more.

Nancy French is a writer in Center City. If you would like to respond to this Slant or have one of your own (750 words), contact Duane Swierczynski, editor in chief, City Paper, 123 Chestnut St., third floor, Phila., PA 19106 or e-mail Duane Swierczynski.