Anne Nahm

Here is my story in response to Cheeky Lotus’ question:

Have you ever been in a situation where your gut was telling you to react? Did you? Do you think it saved you? Or did you ignore it? Were you concerned about being “rude” or “overreacting”?

When I was in grad school, I was mugged at knife point. I was at the training-wheels-level of being a therapist and I was interning in East LA. You may have seen its likeness if you are familiar with Grand Theft Auto – San Andreas.

Think I’m kidding? One morning I arrived to find fresh bullet holes in the window of my office. The clinic was apparently on the disputed border between two gangs. But the clinic was also run by a Religiously Based Charitable Organization. So the drug lords were rumored to have spoken with the diocese, and there were no turf wars during the day in that area. This was the grudging oath of safety we got while working there. And before I tell you all teh mugging stuff? I should say that the rest of the year excluding this incident? It was an awesome internship.

The morning I got mugged, I took my purse and went outside the building to have a cigarette**. Because I am an idiot, thanks for asking.

But in my defense, I was thinking that the clinic offices were not secured, and that my stuff was safer with me.

And my stuff was safer with me. Until I sat down on the curb and a guy came up, put a knife to my outstretched leg, and told me to hand over my purse.

I think I said, “what?” about twenty times. I know, I know. Cue Pulp Fiction and “look at the big brain on Brett” jokes.

Then Muggy McMuggerson said, “don’t make me cut you” and fished the knife around to demonstrate. And even being one of the world’s slowest pupils in Robbery 101, I finally did figure out what the professor was saying. Ohhhh… Purse is what you want. Gotcha.

He never said, “don’t look me” and so I remember thinking, “I’m looking at you real good, asshole. I’m gonna pick you right up out of the line-up! Sweet line-up justice if they catch you, buddy!”

…Because I had not yet had the police kind of laugh at me over the idea of a line-up for a purse jacking by a 5′10″ guy 20 to 25 with brown hair and brown eyes.

But at the time of the muggening? I was looking my ass off, let me tell you.

He took my purse. It was hard to let go. Because, hello? It was mine. And then, really weirdly? As he walked away, I tripped him with my outstretched leg. On purpose. And then I smiled at him when he looked back at me. He said, “don’t call the police.” And was off. Loping across the intersection very Discovery Channel: Mugger and His Purse Kill.

So here’s (the kick in the ass that lead to) the gift I got:

I had two supervisors at that clinic, trained therapists both. The first thing the first therapist said to me was, “well, you shouldn’t have been sitting out there.”

And so I got a very small dose of what it must feel like when someone blames the victim. I mean, I did have my flashy purse on that day, but still – it hardly asked to be stolen. But I also got to look into the shining Face O’ Authority and think with my whole heart, “damn, you are a jackass.” And that was a lesson I really needed to learn.

The other half of the gift jackass therapist gave to me was this: She said to me, (still in her irritation that I could be so stupid as to let myself get mugged) “you decide in the first five seconds if you are going to let someone victimize you”.

I’m not sure if she pulled that fact directly out of her ass or not.  At the time, it just felt like another opportunity for her to tell me how I had enabled the mugger. But this statement she made came in hella handy three months later.

The second therapist at the clinic was a nun. She was 74 years old and retiring that year. She was also about 5 foot and 90 pounds. I had known her only to speak in whispers.

She held my hand for the rest of the day. When the local locksmith wouldn’t unlock my car because I had no keys and no identification to prove it was actually my car (and no money – all in the purse, damnit.) she gave me eighty dollars and in the parking lot, she set her gaze to the downcast eyes of the locksmith who had just said there was no way he could help.

She said, “I am a nun, and by the power vested in me by the Catholic Church, I swear this woman is who she says she is.” And without another word, the guy unlocked my car door, made me a key, and only took half the money he had quoted over the phone.

Uhm… Gift, Anne? You were talking about gift something back there somewhere from the jackass therapist?

Three months later, on Christmas Eve, I was vacationing in a rented beach house with my two sisters. We hadn’t seen each other since Thanksgiving, and so naturally, we had been arguing all damn day.

At around 10 that night, Middle sister stormed out of the beach house by way of a sliding glass door. She did this in such a state of pissiness that she knocked the glass door off its gliders. Not that we’re uber dramatic in the House of dePlume, but it was a rickety old sandy beach house sliding glass door. Oh, and we’re a little dramatic too.

As we continued our bitchfest, Middle attempted to put the door back in the slider. I said, (and here allow me to quote myself in all my greatness), “Just lean the door against the frame and get in here. You are never going to fix it in the dark.”

To which Middle responded, “I can’t just leave it like this. It won’t lock. The door isn’t even in the frame. Someone could break in.”

And I said, “that is so stupid and paranoid. It’s Christmas Eve. No one is going to break in.”

*Cough*

Three hours later we were tucked in on the giant sectional sofa, our heads together and feet down each leg of the sectional like when we were kids. The lights were off and we are half asleep.

And then? Middle whispers, “There’s someone at the glass door. They are trying to get in.”

So I laughed. Right? What are the chances! Very funny, Middle.

Until I saw the shadow of someone at the door. The broken, unlatched, unlocked door. Someone was indeed trying to break into the house. On Christmas eve. The door was actually moving aside as we watched.

And I remembered what that jerk-ass therapist told me.

Not about my flashy purse. About deciding.

So I jumped my ass out of bed and roared, “Get! The! Fuck! Out! Of! Here!” And ran across the room, with my arms flailing up above my head, fully intending to push the broken door out onto the intruder. I was like a pit bull, I tell you. I was growling and frothing at the mouth. And at the same time? I was totally joyful. I had lost the purse because I didn’t know what I wanted. But here? I knew I wanted to protect my kid sisters. So I was winning no matter what shit might go down in a couple of seconds. Right there? I was totally winning.

And the intruder ran away.

Later? I found out it was the landlord’s daughter, not realizing the house was rented and looking for a place to crash. So I guess I’m glad I didn’t kick her ass.

And Middle? Claims that during my attack? I farted real loud.

And now when the family gets together? They tell this story and make fun of me and my attack of the wee landlord’s daughter who nearly died of fright when attacked by Anne the screaming, cursing, farting maniac. On Christmas Eve, no less.

And somehow? Through the power of Time & Ages and my sister’s desire to always be the one telling the story? It has morphed so that Middle is somehow actually the hero because she wanted to lock the door. I? Am the duufus sister who didn’t give props to her Spidey Sense tingling. In a few more years of telling it? I’ll probably be a footnote to the Glory of Middle’s Door Locking Precognitive Skillz.

And watching everyone in my family laugh when my sister indignantly tells the story? And knowing I have the farty roary power inside me to protect those sweet laughing people if the moment arises? That’s the gift.

** Don’t smoke anymore.