Today, I was assaulted in broad daylight on a very busy street. I was on a walk between classes, engaging in the toxic pastime of nostalgia. Twenty-five years ago, I lived in this neighborhood. I was remembering.
Twenty-five years ago, I was also assailed by a man, in nearly the very same spot—just across the street. The circumstances of these two attacks on two different sides of Snelling Avenue were remarkably similar, down to the insults hurled at me. The one today was a bit more violent.
I have an assault-able face, I suppose.
I am absolutely fine, physically, to be clear. I am rattled, though. That was not the memory I wished to call forth while walking the streets I walked when I was a college student.
I got back to my office. I called my husband, simply because I needed to vocalize what had happened. I caught my breath and then reluctantly reported the incident to campus security.
I happen to have some colored pencils and a drawing pad in my backpack. So, with shaking, frantic hands, I drew what was in my field of vision just before the attack, hoping I could excise the whole thing before I have to teach again. It didn’t really work, but here’s my scribble.
