The man was pounding on my door, angry drunk, slurring loudly in Spanish and imploring “Maria!” to come out of my apartment.
But Maria wasn’t in my apartment. I didn’t even know who Maria was.
He must have been on the wrong floor.
Like I said, he was drunk.
He kept banging, violent and insistent. Although I was screaming back in Spanish, “No vive aquí!” he wouldn’t listen. Then I heard him trying to bust the lock.
The whole thing was escalating out of control.
Did he have a weapon? The thought of him breaking the door down was in the back of my mind. I didn’t know what I would do. I called building security. No one answered.
I called 911.
Minutes later, he mercifully stopped. But I still heard him fuming at the end of the hallway, in the stairway, as if lying in wait.
Finally, the police came.
When they did, one cop took down my record of what happened while the other rolled his eyes. I was insulted and called him on it. He didn’t care.
After all, I was living in a low-income apartment in a city that saw frequent violent crime. What did I expect?
Read the rest here.
Garcia's personal story is fascinating--but the rest gets even better. I appreciate this essay primarily for the essential truth: your photos (or writing) reflect where you live.
This is a very close-to-my-heart concept, although a bit secondary in my case. I identify with Garcia in that I am sick to death of the same old stories, and long to hear and see news of the kingdom in all its mustard-seed glory. So how many of us are willing to be embedded?