This I Believe: Running Away from Gunfire

“There are large groups of white folk getting killed all at one time. Eight or nine of them get shot at work all together. But whenever somebody goes on a rampage you don’t really hear news about ten or eleven black people getting killed altogether.

Cause we run… If I’m with you and you start running, well dammit, I’m gonna start running. That’s just how it goes. Once we stop running I’ll find out what it was, we was runnin’ about…

Meanwhile, white people walk right to the trouble. ‘What the heck is going on?’ [BANG]”
- Cedric the Entertainer



I first saw this clip a few months after moving from Utah (1.4 violent crimes per 1,000 people) to Washington, D.C. (14.46 violent crimes per 1,000 people) At the time I was living in the BYU dorms where 1) we were required to carry around rape whistles & mace, 2) students weren’t allowed outside the compound before sunrise, dusk, or on particularly overcast days and 3) we were each assigned a bathroom buddy so we didn’t have to walk the halls alone at night.

Now I live in Shaw, where I can hear gunshots outside my apartment window.

[BANG] [BANG] [BANG] [BANG] [BANG] [BANG]

It’s the week before the 4th of July, and I figure kids are setting off fireworks. So, I stick my head out my window into the alley way behind my apartment to catch a glimpse, and I see two kids bolting frantically away from the sound. I duck my head back in, and the doubt and panic sets in.


OMG! What if that was really a bunch of gunshots!?!?
Should I call the police!?!

I run out to my living room to tell my roommates who haven’t heard a thing.

Roommates: Are you sure it wasn’t fireworks?
Doesn’t your experience with handguns always include a big screen, surround sound and popcorn?
Maybe we should walk back there and check, before we call the police?

Me: No! No! No! That’s what we’re programmed to do. That’s an instinct we need to start ignoring!

But it is difficult. Even I’m feeling the urge strongly. The genetic disposition I have to run into the middle of gunfire was most likely inherited from my father’s family (of Scandinavian descent), a point my Asian mother reiterates every time she calls me “twinkie" (yellow on the outside, white on the inside).

After fifteen minutes of discussing the many ways in which young professional ex-suburbanites get killed, I tell my roommates I have to venture out anyway. Young Apollo is going to be walking from the metro to the apartment, and I don’t want him walking alone. Never mind that I’ll be walking alone to meet him. No, I can put myself in danger, but HE is not allowed to (a moronic hypocrisy Young Apollo continues to point out).

I tip toe outside and make my way to the metro, careful to take cover behind every available tree. I cross the street to avoid the alleyway behind my apartment, but as I pass, I see a police officer with a flashlight searching the ground. I wave to him and walk over (because it’s obviously safe to walk back towards the origin of gunfire if the PoPo have arrived). I ask if he’s looking for fireworks (trying not to give up on my obviously false hopes and inevitably revealing my incredible naïveté). He says he’s actually looking for bullet encasings because they got FIVE calls about six gunshots.

[GULP] Whoa! About that...

And I proceed to give him my description of the suspects: young, tall, slim, gray jacket, blue t-shirt, kinda blurry? Nope, didn’t see a gun... Very helpful I’m sure. He takes my report and contact info and tells me they haven’t found any bodies or damage, but that if they do, he’ll get in touch with me.

Oh, and sir, please stay out of the alley way.