Candyman and I

Candyman and I 

I am a yoga therapist and trauma specialist. I work with the manifestations of stress and trauma in the body. I have my share of work experience in the field domestic and international, refugee groups, first responders, post-crisis zones. On this road my own experience of tension and trauma has changed. Nowadays I have a tendency to experience my stress in two ways: firstly from within, as the subject, and secondly from without, as in diagnostically. As a professional making an assessment.  

 But last night something happened to me. Last night I experienced a fear that felt like terror. Last night a brutal feeling tore through me that made my chest pound, my hands shake, my voice escape me, and rivers of tears gush down the side of my face without me even being aware of my crying. Last night my being incurred a wounding. Last night felt like my soul was dragged along gravel until it was shredded with deep, dark ridges.

This morning, where things are more or less okay and I am licking my wounds, I am trying to piece together why this feeling, despite how brutal it was, did not feel unfamiliar to me. When had I felt this terrified before? I am shuffling through the highlights of my fairly average childhood traumas trying to remember.

The time that some kids managed to stop themselves in the middle of a long and winding water slide causing all the children to pile up on top of each other, our bare, wet legs wrapped around strangers with ten kids already wedged in the tight, cold tunnel ahead. No. Last night was worse. Way worse.

The time I learned why minimum age requirements exist on movies, having been exposed to the movie Candyman at way too young an age, causing me to stumble disoriented from room to room while hysterically laugh-crying? No. Last night was worse than that too.

What about the time when at three years old I was separated from my family in an elevator and lost in a thirteen story hotel for hours? I thought I would never see my mother again. Last night cut deeper than that.

Somewhere though, I had felt that terrified before. The way I felt last night was not new territory.  

First you must first know that recently I have had a few run-ins with the law. Yup. After having a public record for most of my adult life that was so shiny it nearly squeaked, the last two months finally brought some drama to what was once an utterly dull read. I was hit with two back to back traffic tickets. Both for running stop signs. Yup. Watch out. I’m a dangerous woman.

The first ticket was sort of funny and deserved. It’s okay. Every five years or so you just gotta. It was January and I didn’t appreciate the 200 dollar fine so shortly after the expenses of the holiday season, but this single girl of early thirties deserved it.

The second was only three weeks later and a lot less funny. I had moved to a poorer neighborhood on the other side of town, but continued my Monday night yoga class on the east side that I had been teaching for years. It pays next to nothing and I arguably spend more in gas than I earn from teaching, but when you do what you love, your students become your grounding force, your community. I was not ready to let this group go.

I was just about the only white girl in my neighborhood and most certainly the only girl living alone in a one bedroom apartment. My landlord had been on some inexplicable war path with me, ignoring my calls for over a week, then being insulting and then hitting me with exorbitant fees for calling his maintenance man without consulting him first. I had started ignoring home repair problems for as long as I could and then sourcing my own handy help when something finally cracked, busted, fell or broke. I currently turn my shower on and off with a wrench. My car was having issues and needed repair, but borrowed a friend’s car while I saved the money to fix mine. The fact that the vehicle was a red, lifted Jeep Wrangler that finally forced me to learn to drive a stick was cool at first. But that was before I realized how much unwanted attention I attracted.

Having finished the yoga class, I made my long way back to my rather grimy part of town and stopped at the grocery store. The jeep was laden to the brim with the paraphernalia that make up this life in working transition – ten rolled yoga mats, straps, poster board, scissors, crayons, spare shoes and clothes, plus the plastic encased basketball signed by the entire 2015 U of A basketball team (a raffle prize I had yet to take to its winner). I was exhausted as I hoisted the groceries into the car. 

As soon as I pulled out of the parking lot I saw the bright lights behind me. I had not the faintest idea what I may have done and so I calmly made my way into the turn lane and came to park right in front of a small, surprisingly still open, gaming and card trading store. I assembled my documents from wallet and glove compartment, I sat back in my car seat and awaited my talking-to as the store’s operator stumbled out of the glass doors into the blue and red disco lights outside his store.  He seemed to be here for the show as he lit a cigarette and leaned up against a wall not 12 feet from where I was sitting.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

I honestly don’t know and take a guess "Umm…turning out of the parking lot into the middle lane?"

"No, you turned into the correct lane, (YES!) but you didn’t stop (Huh?). Every time you pull out of a parking lot onto a street, you have to treat it like a stop sign. Even if there isn’t a stop sign."

I ran an imaginary stop sign at 10:30 at night on a Monday on an empty road, I think to myself. I would roll my eyes if I could.  In my sweetest ways, I attempt to explain to him that I am tired, that it is late, that I didn’t mean to, that I just completed traffic school and that I really appreciate him. He takes my information and goes back to his car. I feel fairly solid that he understands that I am not the entitled college girl he may have taken me to be, but am working on making peace with whatever will be.

Time ticks on and he is still tinkering in his car. To calm my nerves I strike up a conversation with the cat puffin’ on his cigarette out front of his store - what he sells, what business has been like these days and so on. His sweaty and pasty skin and the dark rings under his eyes along with his hoarse voice make me wonder what he uses to stay up all night, but I don’t care. Right now his presence is helping me keep myself calm, even if his ways seem sort of sleazy. I pull the basketball from my backseat and proudly show it to him. He sells stuff like that all the time, he says. Okay. I sigh and sit back in my seat once more and into the stillness my fear rises.

I look in my rear view and then ask the sport’s shop guy "Do you think he is actually giving me a ticket?"

"Yup," He says, "You might wanna take that sweater off and look hot. You don’t stand a chance in that thing."

I feel like I have just been punched in the mouth. If I had had the chance, I would have said something to him. I would have let him know what a pig I think he is. I have worked too hard to become the woman who no longer shoves these kinds of things down far enough so everyone stays comfortable.

But before I can collect myself from his statement, I have the handsome face of the young officer in front of me again and my freshly printed ticket in my hand.

"No..!" I tell him.

"Yes" he says.

"No, no, no" I tell him.

"Yes" he says.

"You know what? Fine," I am testy, "But may I at least get a few things off my chest?" I ask him as my eyes well up.

"Sure", He sounds almost kind

I tell him that this is not fair, not my car, not been an easy few months, that I have learned my lesson here, that I don’t need my wings clipped, that I cannot absorb these fines every month, and that the city does not need these 200 dollars more than I do. He waits till I finish and we sort of thank each other and wish each other a good night.

Four weeks go by. I work my ass off. Between work and teaching, I start an LLC, open a business account, launch the first go around of therapeutic workshops, go on food stamps, am called a brat by my landlord, get my taxes done, buy insurance, 250 dollars for the broken laptop, print business cards, find a new place to live for when my lease ends at the end of May, work on the promotional material and the business plan that is supposed to get me out of this hole.

I decide to fight the last ticket in court. The officer meticulously recreates the scenario on a diagram indicating me with a red X and himself with a blue arrow. I would have preferred to be the blue arrow. He walks around, creating the diagram, taking a superior and authoritative position over anyone sitting on the court floor. I listen as he details that night. I am surprised when he reiterates much of what I said. Verbatim, those things came out of my mouth, but he is being selective and I am unclear about relevance. He even mentions exactly when I started crying. I feel embarrassed, but I hear my sweetheart shuffling somewhere behind me and I have to smile. We had a joke going about my recent water works. The officer’s version does not include where I live, what I do, how hard I work. I let him finish.

I thank the officer and tell the judge that all that was shared was absolutely correct and that I have learned my lesson. That said, I feel the City of Tucson did not need my 200 dollars nearly as much I did. I tell him of my living situation, being knocked around by my landlord, being harassed by the guy outside the gaming store, how hard I work, that that was not my car and that from now on I will make sure to stop at all stop signs, even if they are imaginary. He says he appreciates my ‘upright conduct’, but it’s not in his power to waive the fine. He can’t lift my fine even if he wants to and we have left no room for compassion in this law.

So there. Add 20 dollars to my ticket for having requested a hearing and arrange for a payment plan. I had said my peace at least. Riding the elevator down to the ground floor, I turn to my honey as my eyes bulge and with a huge gasp ask:

"Did we park the car and forget to pay for parking?!?"

"SHIT!" he responds.

Then I go for a quick bike ride - at ten at night on a Friday.

My lover asks me several times if this is a good idea. But having learned that getting in the way of my roaring independence will get a guy mauled, he resigns himself to worrying about me. I am going to be real quick and real careful. Not even taking my phone, wallet or keys. No drama. Be right back. I ride a large loop south and when I came back by his house, I decide to take another small loop north. Just to the main road and back.

I am a strong bike rider and I don’t mean in the Spandex sense. I mean in the city riding sense. I am confident and steady on my mountain bike and when I take my hands off the handlebars, feel the wind in my hair and my music in my ears, I let go. I fly. This is when I can feel my central nervous system unwind and I finally relax.

And then, with the beats of Jurassic 5 in my ears, I get cocky again and push into the busy intersection on a yellow light. I should know that I was playing with my luck, but I stupidly think I am invincible. Before I even made it to the other side of the street, I see the flashing lights of a squad car. It’s okay. I’m a girl on a bike. There is no way this guy is going to give me more than a warning. I slow my bike, still happy and floating from the joy of riding and climb off as I smile at the police officer who is walking toward me.

His face says, he isn’t in a mood to chat.

"Can I see your ID?"

I say "Officer, I am so sorry, I am headed straight home, I didn’t bring my wallet, I just ate a big dinner and wanted to head out for a quick spin before bed. We don’t need to do this. I get it."

"You don’t have your ID?"

"No, I am just five minutes from my house, really."

He pulls out a notepad and asks me for my name. I am stunned. Didn’t we skip a part?

"Wait! No! No! No! We don’t have to…"

I am shocked. I can’t handle another ticket. He is not really giving me a ticket for this?! I can’t afford another ticket.

He repeats himself.

"Name!?"

"Sarah". I spell it out. "S-A-R-A-H".

I am used to spelling out my name since no-one can spell Spieth right, but I am hoping Jordan Spieth, the up-and coming golfer who recently glossed the cover of a Sports Illustrated, will change that.

"Last name?"

I freeze. I have never been in this situation. I have nothing on me verifying my ID. Do I have to give him my real name?

He lifts the mic on his left breast pocket to his mouth.

"Single, white female on a bicycle. Yes."

"Last name!", he shouts at me.

"Smith!" I blurt out. Then I spell it "S-M-I-T-H"

"Date of birth?"

                    

My voice is shaky.

"10/08/82"

Back into his radio: "Yes. E Speedway."

"Last four digits of your social?"

"What?! I don’t have to give you that! This is ridiculous! Come on. Let me go home! Let me just go home!"

He skips onto the next question.

"Address?"

I take a big inhale and push out the first number of the permanent address associated with my driver’s license.

"5" then the next "6….2"

Then I freeze. I can’t get another word out.

My mind goes to my lover. His apartment so close that I can almost see it. But the safety that I feel when my head rests on his chest is a million miles away. I can barely breathe as my eyes well up.

He looks up from his notepad: "Now, I am going to warn you - "

"Oh god!? Oh God! Really!? Thank you!"

My chest opens up.

"No! No, I am warning you that if I go to my car and call this in and find that you have been giving me fake information, I am taking you to jail."

My throat closes more tightly than before, my wide eyes watch as two more squad cars show up. I am petrified.

I don’t see the other two officers get out of their cars and walk over. I only notice them once they are already standing in formation around me. I am encircled by three grown men, their three squad cars, and all their lights that are turning my night into day. My insides are trembling. My body is getting so hot under my hoodie and my eyes start pouring out tears. I would have never expected myself to require that much man power.

He sneers at me: "Now do you want to start over?"

"Yes" I push out.

We start over.

"First name?"

"Sarah. S-A-R-A-H."

"Last name?"

 "Spieth. S-P-I-E-T-H"

 "Date of birth?"

                    

"10/08/82"

"Address?"

I churn out the rest of the information he is asking me for.

"Do you have a warrant out for your arrest?"

"NO!" I let out in a helpless shout.

"Then why are you crying?"

Why am I crying? Is he serious?!

"Because you scare me! Because this is scary! Because I want to go home!"

"Do you have anything on you?"

"NO!"

I sound like an idiot as I whimper: "I am a yoga teacher! I have a Master’s degree!"

I feel neither served nor protected.

"Can I search you?"

"Yes!"

I think it can only help my case as he runs his hands over my body, hot and trembling inside my hoodie.

"If I put my hand in this pocket, will I get poked?"

Is anyone hearing me?

"No!" I push past my tears.

The other pocket. "If I put my hand in this pocket, will I get poked?"

"No", as I shake my head and then let my tears pull my head down.

The officer goes back to his car while the other two keep an eye on me. Even in my hysteria, I am not blind to the fact that there is a well-rehearsed protocol at play here. The officer standing closest to me now has to engage me. He is older and corpulent and has a lisp and I can tell he is struggling to think of things to talk to me about. So the questions repeat, which just adds to me agony.  

"Do you have a warrant out for your arrest or something?"

"NO!" I whine.

He doesn’t seem smart. The angle at which he is standing has him questioning me without making direct eye contact. I don’t know if it is by protocol or because he is socially awkward. He seems awkward.

"Then why did you lie about your last name? If you have nothing to hide?"

"Because I am scared! Because you scare me! Because I am not exactly in this situation every day, you know!"

"Well that was stupid."

Seriously? Stupid? Right now I want to tell him how small he is. Right now I want to tell him that I watched the Wall fall, that I speak four languages, that I remember Desert Storm, and that I have sat in a bomb bunker waiting for the sirens to stop.

Why am I continuously given the idea that because I don’t have a warrant out for my arrest, I ought to be just fine with the events of my current situation? Armed and around me in formation, shining their bright lights on me and making efforts to intimidate me, the three grown men just can’t figure out what’s got the girl so scared! Maybe if I take my sweater off and try to look hot.

The third officer, standing farthest away from me is young and handsome and seems to have a pained expression on his face in what almost looks like empathy for how I am unraveling. But I realize there is a chain of command at work here and I know better than to put my hope in it. 

The first officer’s head pokes out from behind his squad car and tells the other two they can leave telling me to "hang out for a minute". At this point I know I am not ‘hanging out’ to await my gentle warning and my heartfelt wishes for a safe evening. I am hanging out while he takes down everything that I said that he liked in detail in case I decide to fight the stupid ticket he is currently printing for me in court. I am a fucking veteran at this by now!

"Sarah, I am citing you for running a red light." as he hands me my ticket.

350 dollars. The law treats a bike like a car.

I rip the ticket out of his hand and shout at him: "You are a detestable person! How on EARTH am I supposed to absorb another ticket?!"

I can tell he doesn’t give a shit about what I think of him as he makes his way back around his car. As I turn to pick up my bike a tear rolls off my cheek and hits the ground, I shout into the night air "You are a fucking prick!"

The single syllable has barely left my lips before remorse sets in. Fuck! These things are only over as long as the officer says they’re over. A cold shiver runs down my back. I stand frozen staring straight ahead into the night and bracing myself to hear his car door slam and see him stomp back around his car to teach me a lesson about insulting an officer.

He doesn’t. He drives off.

I am still trembling as I turn my bike around and push it back to my lover’s house. My tears slow and then stop. My mouth is dry. My mind is blank. I walk through the dodgy neighborhood, shaken and insecure. My throat and my gut are clenched as tightly as the crumpled ticket in my hand. I cannot figure out what exactly was made safer in all this. It surely wasn’t me.

When I arrive at his house, I drop my bike in front of his door, walk in and unhinge myself onto his bed where he is lying. I wrap his arms around me and curl myself into a ball.

"Hey!? Hey!? Hey…What’s going on, Baby? Hey."

Seeing that something has definitely happened to me, he says sweetly: "Heeey You. Wanna talk to me? Hmmm.?"

I couldn’t get a word out for one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three- and then I busted open. I just busted open. In no time, I drenched his shirt with hot tears and struggled to squeeze words past the shame of my stupidity and having been hit with yet another ticket. Every time I get a little breathing room, I fuck everything up again.

He was still trying to keep himself calm. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to leave him guessing. He has seen too much. He has seen too much of the very, very worst of what happens to people. And he has met the people who do the very, very worst to people. Twelve years in the joint. He has shared only some of the dark stories because he knows how sensitive I am, but what I do know is enough to know that he had reason to imagine a kind of worst case scenario that is far, far beyond what most of us have been confronted with.

As I started squeezing out the words of what had happened, he got angry. He got angry at himself for letting me go and he got angry at me for being so damn naïve. 

I didn’t know. I didn’t know until he explained to me, that those women out there are hookin’ and that this is a drug neighborhood, that the cops have lost a couple of their own around here and are real uptight, that I would have been more likely on a drug run than on a bike ride because ‘I had a big dinner’. 

I didn’t know. I didn’t know that who I was and what I was doing made next to no sense for the neighborhood. I didn’t know that the officers had little precedent on a master’s degree’d, yoga therapist just going for a spin. I didn’t know the high likelihood that any other person they would have stopped on the bike would have indeed had something in their pocket to poke them. My lover struggled to empathize with my collapsed state. He didn’t want to coddle me. He wanted me to grow up, be smart.

I felt really alone. I begged him to hear me, but he couldn’t. Not then. Not till the next day when the horrors that were thrashing around in his mind of what could have happened to me finally stilled.

I can’t figure out if I am naïve or European. I had gotten half way through my teens before I left Germany and I still come from a time where the police were like us. They helped me get home safely and even cheersed champagne with us on the streets on New Years’ Eve. I don’t remember ever being afraid of the police. I rightfully understood myself as part of the peaceful majority. None of my friends in Germany are afraid of the police. But then this is crazy socialist Germany, where you can climb a tree without getting arrested, tactfully alleviate your bladder without being slapped with a lifelong label as sex offender, where you may be belligerently drunk in public as long as you are not hurting anyone or yourself, where children aren’t hit with arrest records that will haunt them for the rest of their lives, and where prison is, believe it or not, rehabilitative.

There is a notion at work in this country that I may ‘expect’ to get in trouble with the police if certain conditions are present. Am I supposed to expect harsh treatment because of what I am doing and how I look? And if that is the case, then is this justice of ours really all that blind? And what if I don’t look like I look? What if I look brown?

Over the last months, I have often thought of the famous Ted talk where brain research expert Jill Bolte Taylor recounts the events of her very own stroke. Much like that, I have been able to apply my Master’s level expertise in Peace and Conflict Studies to the bubble of my very own life. I have had to render the privilege of considering only intellectually the profound injustices in our system and had a chance to feel a few of them on my own skin. I am better for it.

Recently, as I have been driving past scenes of 6 or 8 officers standing around a single homeless-looking person, I wonder why we act surprised that we have a bullying problem in our children.

This is us. And we are looking at two very frightening and interrelated facts: 1) an overstaffed, over-equipped, over-eager and over-funded police force and 2) a system of private prisons that are entering contracts with state and local governments that guarantee a minimum occupancy rate of 90 to 100 percent.

What I am telling you, even If you don’t believe it yet, is that it will be you. It will be you and you and me. It will be us. Injustice and structural violence are a dish no longer just served to the poor.

Forget that the federal prison population more than doubled between 2000 and 2010. Forget that more people are being funneled into the prison system even if actual crime rates are falling. Forget that we are looking at what is called a positive feedback loop with our own societal disease. People are profiting from a malfunctioning system. People thus have a vested interest in maintaining a malfunctioning system. This, by definition, will grow the malfunctioning of the system. Forget all that.

What is much, much worse, is that currently there is a board room somewhere, where people are analyzing recent reading levels of second graders and deciding how many prisons to build.

It is time.

It is time. 

As for me, I am headed back to court on June 10. I have no illusions about getting out of this ticket. But I am going to stand in my dignity. I am going to take back my power. And I may even decide to draw a few diagrams of my own.