A running joke among Generation X (remember us? The latchkey kids? No? That tracks, and we’d prefer it that way anyhow) is that, in the 80s, kids were being offered drugs on every street corner, setting fires in every forest, running amok doing crime, and being kidnapped left, right, and sideways. We had Nancy Reagan telling us to just say no,
Smokey the Bear reminding us that only WE could prevent forest fires,
McGruff the Crime Dog telling us to help him take a(hhhh) bite outta crime,
and John Walsh reminding us that danger lurked around every corner, all day, every day, and how we should be prepared when it eventually found us.
Having been born with a scathing anxiety disorder, which eventually evolved into an even worse panic-at-the-drop-of-a-hat condition over the years, these messages didn’t miss me. To this day, I have never done drugs (other than an occasional puff or two of the sticky icky, which typically caused more severe panic, so it never became my norm, despite it being all the way legal in my state…oh, how I wish I could partake with abandon!) I remain terrified of all things fire and rely solely on my husband and kids to light our pit in the backyard, and I’ve never so much as a stolen a lima bean from the grocery store (you young kids won’t remember, but back in the day, grocery stores used to just have open barrels of beans out and about that you could scoop into a bag. While I often stuck my hands in them as a sensory boost, I would pick up any that may have fallen to the floor out of sheer guilt over having disturbed them in the first place). But the myth about kidnapping? Well…that proved true for me. I wasn’t actually taken, but an attempt was made. A terrifying, horrifying, life-changing attempt. And I’ll never forget that day for the rest of my life.
As a kid growing up in Southern California, we were rarely allowed to be inside during daylight hours, especially throughout the summer months. The trope is true that our collective parents shoved us out the door in the early morning light, and we didn’t return until the street lights came on.
This was particularly true with my dad, who would literally lock the deadbolt behind us. I’ve mentioned before he was a total outdoorsman. To him, being stuck indoors was akin to prison, and he wasn’t about to have his kids shackled by plaster walls and popcorn ceilings (despite whether my brother and I even wanted to go outside. Sometimes, we just wanted to sleep or stay in our killer bedrooms! That was never an option with our dad). I have no idea what he was doing inside while we were out, I just knew all the doors were locked and the lights were off (because we weren’t trying to power the whole damn neighborhood!)
Where I live now, we know our neighbors. All of them. On the whole block. Some as treasured, lifelong friends, some as smile-and-nod acquaintances, but it doesn’t matter because we would do anything for all of them and they would do the same in return. Everyone looks out for each other, and there is a feeling of safety and unity that is worth more than a trillion bucks. If I don’t open my curtains in the morning, my across-the-street neighbor will text to check up on me to make sure everything is okay. I love it here.
The same couldn’t be said for where I grew up.
Everyone kept to themselves and maintained an air of suspicion about the other. We didn’t talk to our neighbors, people didn’t ask questions, and neighborhood community wasn’t really a thing. You went to church for that kind of connection (or, for my brother and me, the donuts after 10am mass). Everyone either had fences or alarms, often both, and you just knew not to bother them. One time, while out in front of my house riding my fancy pink bike with the banana seat and tassels (I couldn’t have been older than six or seven at the time), a boy in my brother’s grade decided I had made him mad and that he was going to mess with me. He had seen me from across the street and came over hot, insisting I had “given him the finger.” I didn’t know what that even meant? The finger? What finger? All my fingers were attached and in their right place, so I was properly confused. Had I known, you’re damn right I would have given it to him after what he did!
His name was Steve and he played baseball in the same league as my brother. And he was a dick. I’m pretty sure he was the kind of dirty kid who said ‘caca’ that my mother warned us about because geez…what kind of 9-year-old boy comes to harass a 6-year-old girl innocently riding her super sweet Scwhinn? He proceeded to scream at me and tell me I’d flipped him off, I proceeded to cry while paralyzed with fear, then he grabbed the back of my banana seat, lifted it up, and I crashed forward off the front of my bike straight onto the pavement (stopping the fall with my full face). My next-door neighbor sat on his front porch and watched the entire thing and did nothing. Didn’t say a word, didn’t offer any help. Just…sat there rocking in his chair. I ran to my front door, which was locked (a faithful trait of my dad’s), and banged on it until my dad finally answered. Needless to say, I didn’t feel very safe at this house.
A few months later, we ran into Steve at the ballpark. My dad, who rarely (if ever) raised his voice, calmly walked up to him, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, slammed him against the chain-link fence, and quietly told him if he ever fucked with his daughter again, he’d need a good doctor. He then let him down, straightened the collar he’d just ruffled, and asked, “Do we understand each other?” I’m pretty sure Steve made a caca in his pants, because not only was he shaking uncontrollably, he bolted out of the park and we never heard from him again. Ahhh…the good old days, when you could put a bully in their place without getting sued, and it stuck!
The day I was almost taken was no different. It was a sunny, summer afternoon. A Tuesday to be exact. I remember it was a Tuesday because Tuesdays were boring until 7pm, when Happy Days came on, followed by Laverne and Shirley at 7:30pm, and those two shows were life for me! I just had to make it through the day to get to Richie, Fonzie, Ralph Malph, Potsie, Laverne, Shirley, Lennie and Squiggy….Carmine Ragusa…
I was outside roller-skating, because my dad insisted that I not be inside. My brother was somewhere, probably at a friend’s house, I just know he wasn’t there at the time. My mom wasn’t home (she often wasn’t during this time. She was attending UCLA for her Master’s Degree, but also had other extracurricular ‘activities’ that took precedence over being at home with her husband and kids).
The house we lived in at the time was a corner house. There was our house, then one behind us, also on the corner. I knew the little girl who lived there, but didn’t play with her too often, unless she was also outside at the same time. She was younger than me, which didn’t matter much, but according to my parents, her dad was a violent alcoholic and they didn’t want me near him. I wasn’t allowed to go into their house, and I was okay with that, because he always looked dirty and angry and scary. Her mom was nice, but always seemed on edge, and I remember hearing him yell and rage while slamming out of the door a few times, so I was more than happy to avoid that mess.
Our house had a front door and a side door, and to get to the side door, you had to climb two sets of stairs. There were like five stairs, a platform, then another five stairs. We typically used this as the main entrance, because it was right off the driveway and garages and opened right to the family room. The whole house was set atop (what I viewed) a big cement wall. Looking back, the cement wall was probably no bigger than a foot or two, but when you’re little, everything seems so much bigger. Next to the garages and before the stairs, there was an alcove where my parents had laid desert rocks and planted some fabulous cacti.
That was where I first saw him.
I was at the corner of the other house when I saw a tall, skinny man with long, greasy hair pull up in his 70s-era, putrid green Impala, get out of his car, walk into the alcove, and urinate on my house. I had never been so scared. I didn’t want him to see me, so I rounded their corner and headed down their block. I wasn’t supposed to do that when I was outside alone, but my survival instincts were screaming at me to get out of this situation as fast as I could. I remember not being able to breathe, and feeling like my chest was caving in on me. Who was he? What was he doing at my house? Why was he peeing on it? It all just went against everything I knew to be good.
After about 10 minutes, I decided to roller back around the corner and see if he was still there. He wasn’t. So, I decided to get home and into my behind-the-door safety, where I was confident my dad would protect me. I just knew I didn’t want this man to see where I lived. I didn’t realize at the time that he probably already knew, but in my little mind, I was doing the right thing. I hobbled up the stairs (in my roller skates, mind you) as fast as I could and tried to get in.
The door was locked.
I knocked and knocked, but my dad didn’t answer. And I hated him at that moment for that. I was eight years old. Why weren’t we allowed full access to our house? I would have stayed outside like I was told, but Jesus Christ, I at least deserved access to the bathroom.
Just as I made my way down the last step, the bad man was back. While trying to get as far away from my house as possible, he raced up, slammed on his brakes, screeched his tires, and screamed at me, “GET IN THE FUCKING CAR! NOW!” He then threw the passenger door open, and gave me the most hateful, rageful stare I’ve ever seen. I can still see the way his chest was violently moving up and down as his breath continued to accelerate. I immediately turned around and skated as fast as I could to my neighbors, pounded on their door until they opened, and fell inside their house, crying and petrified. I told the mom what happened, and asked her to call my dad.
She was able to get ahold of him, who then walked over to get me. I didn’t even care that I was probably going to get in trouble for going into their house when I knew I wasn’t allowed. I just wanted to feel safe and know I wasn’t going to get taken by this dirty, scary man. When my dad got there, he didn’t yell or get mad, but he didn’t comfort me, either. He just picked up my skates, walked me out, and took me home. If this doesn’t help explain my anxious attachment style, I don’t know what will!
Just as we reached the top step to the door, the bad man came back around, stopped his car, and pointed directly at me. I cried and cried, while my dad unlocked the door and let me back in the house. My mother still wasn’t home at 9pm, when there was a sudden and forceful knock on the front door. I begged my dad not to answer, but he still walked toward it. I was at his feet, clung to his ankles, when I heard the same awful voice scream, ‘GIVE ME THE FUCKING GIRL!” My dad called the police, they showed up, and the bad man was still camped out in front of our door. Turns out, he was drugged out of his mind, and likely didn’t know what he was doing. He was arrested then and there. That didn’t matter to me then, and it doesn’t now. Whatever his stupid reason, he took my peace and I was only eight. Fuck him forever for that.
But no worries! I’ve since found it again and will fight to the death to protect it from here out!
The cherry on this trauma cake is that when my mother finally returned home and heard about the events of the day, she slapped me. Very hard. Right across the face. My parents were against spanking (which I’m so grateful for. I am, too. I cannot imagine ever hitting my kids for any reason, and I never have). But she justified it by what I’d put her through. What I’d put her through. She said I had no right to make her feel that scared, and that her greatest fear in life was someone kidnapping her kids. She wasn’t even there! For years, I believed it was somehow my fault that this gross man had tried to take me. What I understand now is that she felt guilty for a) not really being where she said she was (a big no-no for my brother and me – we were very well aware that lying about where we were was a HUGE offense, so we avoided it like the plague) and b) looking like a ‘bad mom’ (which she continued to make my problem. I was supposed to know better than to make her look bad, and in this instance, I’d failed spectacularly).
To this day, I remain looking over my shoulder, have probably instilled a bit too much anxiety in my own kids about stranger danger, and will run as fast and as far as I can from every putrid green Impala I see.
And I’m okay with that.
