My son was mugged last night. He's 19 years old; such a good and honorable young man who minds his own business. He came in really shook up and just sat there trying to get himself together. I got him to tell me what happened. I knew it would happen one day with the odds being as they are (especially in my neighborhood where there were more people simply trying to exist than there are people being proactive in their own existences).

I could see his father's influence working his brain as he teared up but appeared to fight them. Goodness, I wanted to hold him and cocoon him and never let him out again. It was just a mugging after all, four dumb ass thugs with nothing to do on one of the hottest days of the summer but to reek havoc on others. They sucker punched him from behind and slammed him into a fence. They took his iPOD and demanded  his money. Then, thank goodness, they just ran away . I wanted him to cry, to let it out but I was afraid it would make him feel weak. I knew it would cleanse him and make him feel better but I'm "a girl" and according to every man I know, 'I don't get it - it's a male thing'.

I am shaking now, in anger and in a rage. I should be able to handle this dammit, I grew up knowing that life in New York City can be hard and dark and dangerous if you don't prepare yourself. It can also be so beautiful, so safe at times, so much like Nirvana, but my sons, all being Black/Latino males were brought up differently than the boys in this neighborhood.

I prepared them for confrontations as they were growing up, just like my dad did for my younger siblings and me. I realized last night that he listened to me well and he reacted as I had wanted him to and he came home alive. He was a bit bruised and disoriented but he was home and alive and he had lost nothing that he couldn't replace.

I couldn't prepare him though for my reaction. I wanted an AK-47 and I wanted to kill any piece of trash who looked as if they were a waste of space in my world. (and I'm against weapon ownership unless it is occupation related!) I wanted to beat down the damn police, who I felt didn't care who mugged who because young black and Latino men were all the same to them.

What's so damned ironic is that I fight EVERY DAY for the rights of these thugs. I know (somewhere in my brain) that underneath their indifference, their lack of positive self-awareness, I know that they were simply children, run amok. They were children without direction, without guidance and without true community support.

Yet, in that instant, I wanted to beat them and  hurt them until they couldn't pretend anymore. I wanted to beat them into submission I realized. The same thing that the community and the world around them does to them every day of their lives until they believe they are the animals they portray in the streets.

It took me so long to get over the first time my son was held up - longer than it took him. He was resilient and he was well grounded. Within 24 hours he was standing strong. I could see the layer of armor that the event had created over him and I was grateful for that too.

He would never leave the house the same way ever again. He would pay attention to every step he took as he traveled in the city. He would mentally take down names, faces and places from now on. He would be proactive in his concern for his safety (and my sanity although he didn't know that part!).

That first mugging is always the hardest. I was mugged (at 13) and so were my mother, my aunts and uncles and many of the people I knew that lived in this city. Yet nothing can ever prepare a mother,even a hard-ass like this one, for that first time for their own children.

If you do it right, you teach them their survival skills without turning them into fear mongering idiots. You teach them to see the clear difference between power and cowardice, pride and preservation. It is not cowardice to hand over objects that can be replaced, regardless of their monetary value. None of my sons would fight an armed individual for ANY inanimate object. We don't place ANY value on anything in our home except each other. The mission in a situation like that is to get out alive. Especially if the criminal(s) are armed and looking for a confrontation.

"Let them call you names, 'dis your whole family, question your 'manhood',  because they - don't - know - you!", I'd instruct the boys. If you sense that they are looking for a fight, go into defense mode AND that DOES NOT MEAN staring them down or calling them on it. PRIDE has no place in a street brawl. A smart warrior knows when they must be forced to battle. For me, being the mother of black/Latino males in New York City is a whole different experience. Yes, they must be raised as warriors, whether I like it or not. The world views my sons through different lenses and I'm not going to let them fall victim to that as well.

Whew, it will take me days to get over this. I will give my elected officials a hard time, as well as the police department who NEVER showed up last night, even though I called 911,  the precinct and then the Precinct's Community Liaison's office. But Precinct 81 in Brooklyn South was never very good with their community ties. Like many, they walked through the motions, held the meetings but could not seem to do (or maybe care) enough with what was needed in this area. (But that is a WHOLE other blog entry...)

I've calmed down and I've sat down to write down what I'd like to see happen in my neighborhood, what groups could get involved (if their missions statements are what they say they are), the programs that were supposed to already be in place and what could I do as a citizen and resident in my neighborhood to make it a bit safer. And not just for me and my sons but for those who like my sons mind their own business and don't go out into the streets with the intent of looking for trouble.

They say the first time is the hardest. Boy, they weren't kidding. It's left a deeper imprint on me as a mother than me as a women living in the Big Apple. I'll get over it (in time) and that's because I will have done my part in not letting it eat me up alive.

This is BklynMom3, over and out and I believe in justice, love conquering almost everything, equality, fairness, impartiality, transparency, accountability, education as a human right for all, and most of all beating you at your own game with your own stick. Especially if you are looking for it and deserve it by pushing around others..

Next installment: Growing Up in the Seventies

(here is a glimpse...)

Growing up in Brooklyn in the 70s was like living in another dimension. I was blessed to have come up during a time when residential blocks had a life of their own. Being the daughter of a homicide detective also put it into perspective.

The 70s was also  a time of uncertainty in the world and depending on your own "little world", it definitely contributed to how you would view the rest of the world. My dad's profession brought life's hard and sad realities into the house at an early age.