We are in America

Writing personal essays drill 2: an anecdote (dialogs, gestures, and characters)

It was yesterday. The elevator stopped on the 6th floor. I had a disturbing feeling, because the person whom I least wished to encounter, particularly in a small place like this elevator, lived on the 6th floor. The door was open. My instinct was unfortunately correct. It was him! I kept silent and so did he. The door was closed. What an uncomfortable silence! I tried to be cool, so asked with slight hesitation, “How are you, Sir?” He answered in a low tone, “I’m fine… and you?” while looking at the elevator door. I answered back, “I’m fine, thank you.” There was still a moment of silence until the elevator door was finally open on the 7th floor, my destination. I walked out of the elevator. The conversation was very dry, but rather hopeful.

On a beautiful day in October last year, there was a fierce fight in this building while I was out. When I came home, there was a police car in front of the building and a number of residents were in the lobby, forming a strange and heavy air. This is what happened: a drunken young man threatened an older man and chased him with a vodka bottle. The old man ran into his apartment. The young man kicked the door and shouted. The old man pulled out his gun, opened the door, and shot the young man in the chest. The young man was moved to a hospital and the old man was arrested. My anxiety level soared. Two days later, I read an article copied from the Chicago Tribune in the building mail room. It said that the old man was released because the gun shot was for self-defense and the young man was in a critical condition but would survive. I got furious. The young man didn’t behave, but the old man's life was not threatened when he fired his gun. Am I too stupid not to have a gun to protect my property? Why do the police exist? How horrible to imagine all the residents keep a gun in their apartment in the name of protection! I sought consolation from my friend. She said that it is a law that anyone can shoot whoever treads into their property, and suggested that I talk to the residents of the building about my concerns and be pro-active. I calmed down.

Early in the morning the next day, it was good to meet Mr Franklin, a janitor of the building and my closest neighbor, who had used to call me his princess. I said, “Good morning, Mr. Franklin. I read the article about the fight. What’s going to happen? Will the guy who has a gun be back here?” He said, “Two people fought with each other, so one should move out.” I said, “I can’t believe it was self-defense. He was in his apartment. He could have called the police.” He answered, “He called 911 or police. It seems that he did what he should do… If someone says I am fat and kicks my apartment door, I will do the same thing if I have a gun. I will kill him. I don’t care what others say. I will protect my property.” My blood stopped circulating for a moment. I burst out crying, “You scare me. I won’t talk to you. I will move out.” I walked backward, and he shouted, “We are in America!”

It’s April. I am still in America and live in the same place. But since that morning, I have never talked to any resident in this building about the incident. I was afraid that it would only jeopardiz myself while I looked for consensus and support. I have secluded myself in my little cocoon for the last several months. Yesterday, for the first time after the dispute I talked to Mr. Franklin. Will he call me his princess again sometime soon?

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