“Come out!”
“Come out of your houses!”
A muffled voice over the loud speaker
immediately grabs my attention, as I race to the dining room window to see
what’s going on. I peek through the blinds, my heart pounding, as I look upon
the snow-laden streets outside our apartment.
I’m scared, I think to myself, as my heart
rate increases. It sounds like police
shouting for someone.
I can’t make out where the sound is coming
from.
My mind takes me back to a few years ago, in
2012, when Ken and I were living in the U-district in Seattle, labeled thus for
its proximity to the University of Washington. I was home alone, listening to
the news on the radio. I had just heard about a shooting a few blocks away from
where we lived. Five people were shot at the little café I walked past on a
daily basis.
“Stay inside your homes and call the police
if you see the shooter,” continued the report.
The shooter was loose in the streets.
Lord, help me. Please keep us safe, I prayed, as I drew the blinds, locked and re-locked the doors –
finishing with the deadbolt before jumping into bed, to hide under the covers,
at which point I then called my older sister and texted friends. Ken was in
class at the time.
What do I do if someone knocks at the door, God-forbid? I obsessed.
Not long after, I heard on the news that the
shooter had been found downtown. The scene ended grimly.
That memory still haunts me. It’s been three
and half years and we are now living in the quaint town of Pullman, in Eastern
Washington. A 90-minute commute from Spokane, Pullman is home to Washington
State University and a year-round population of 30,000. Not bad for a small
town, but not giant either. Residents are welcoming and friendly, not in that creepy sort of way, but in a genuine,
authentic sense. The town’s landscape is like an oasis of evergreen trees
sandwiched among hundreds of miles of wheat fields dotted with charming red
barns and rusted farm equipment. It’s idyllic, and homey, and the kind of place
where you’d want to raise a family.
But when I heard that sound of yelling over
the microphone the other night, I immediately expected the worst. My body went
into lockdown-fight-or-flight-kickass-mom-mode, mentally preparing for some
sort of shootout on the streets.
Mind you, after living in Seattle for four
years, where I experienced multiple run-ins with violent and mentally unstable
people on the streets, Ken and I relocated to Anchorage, Alaska, hoping to get
away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Wanting at best, a safe place to
raise a family, where we could set down roots. It wasn’t until moving there
that I found out that Anchorage is one of the most dangerous cities in the
U.S., according to Forbes, with a crime rate that rivals any of the major
cities where you’d expect that sort of thing. That surprised me.
I’m reminded that you can’t really escape
violence in any part of the world, these
days. There’s so much pain, all
around us.
Peering out into the dark winter night, I
wondered, How could I protect my family
if something bad were to happen? If someone bad was out there? In many
ways, I feel an even greater burden and sense of longing for safety for my baby
girl – a desire I never felt so strongly in the past – for the world around her
to be a safe place.
“Come out! Come out of your houses!”
I instantly see a figure emerging from the
darkness. A large truck towing a sleigh with a jolly ol’ Santa Claus, rounds
our corner street.
“Ho-Ho-Ho! Merry Christmas!” He shouts.
I let out a long, nervous laugh.
And with that, my faith in humanity is
restored.
+++
You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not pout
I’m telling you why
Santa Claus is comin’ to town
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