Anecdote One: One of the Police officers in Western North Carolina (I know many) told me a story that he can repeat surely so as to get out of any dreaded and traumatizing idiotic sensitivity training which the Army, for instance, puts the infantry through now every six months, making them so sick of this pandering rubbish that they leave the military altogether. But this is a really good story about good sensitivity!
So, a drugged up invincible with no pain druggie guy takes out his gun and fires at the Officer, misses, then runs. The foot chase is on. The Officer didn’t return fire against the druggie. The bullets fired at him, he can see, are not well aimed. The druggie runs into a river and turns and fires again multiple times at the Officer, who, however, doesn’t return fire at all. It’s pitiful, really. The druggie guy runs further across the river (all rivers being pretty shallow here in the mountains) and the Officer pursues him and tackles him and struggles with him in the river, both half drowning, guns everywhere.
The druggie gets cuffed and booked and thrown in the slammer. After a year or so, he has a chat with the Officer, thanking him for not killing him, as suicide was his intention all along, wanting to do the ol’ suicide by police trick. But now he wanted to live and knew the Officer saved his life. The Officer could see this quite plainly from the start. No danger. He was sensitive to this guy just needing help. Crazy of the Officer not to return fire? No. Just good hearted. It takes sensitivity.
Anecdote Two: A snippet from a chapter of my autobiography (eight years old)
On my way home [three miles away] from a great swim, but on a particularly cold night, way below zero on the Fahrenheit scale [Minnesota in February], and with eyes seeing chlorine halos around every distant light, I noted that a very expensive looking black Cadillac Limousine started following me at my walking pace, about forty yards out. He had followed me a couple of other times, but from about 100 yards out. This narrowing of the range was creepy. I was on the road since the sidewalk had about a foot of snow cover. But now, to escape, I ran up the mountain of snow separating the road from the sidewalk, which was set back from the road about twenty feet. I walked along the sidewalk, to no avail. The car stayed exactly forty yards back. He knew what he was doing. I was just at a point where the sidewalk ended in front of a deep, culverted ditch that was being filled in with building demolition, parts of brick walls and great slabs of cement floors, with jagged metal I-beams that poked through the snow and ice with dark menace. I stared at this, imagining myself escaping along this impassable route, but being put off at the thought of freezing to death with a broken leg a half mile from the road, not to be found until the following Summer, if ever.
I jumped back out on the road, right where my stalker would be able to grab me. Back in the day, there were no houses in any direction for about a half a mile along that stretch of road. The field next to me, blanketed with about three feet of snow, up to my chest at that time, stretched all the way to a forest about three miles away. It was pitch dark. I thought I was dead for sure.
And yet, if you can’t run, you can fight, even if you are only eight years old, as I had learned some months previously. I was braver than I was smart. I turned and walked straight to the car and, when offered a ride – just as I thought – I took it. This seemed stupid even to me, but it also seemed like the only option, and so, therefore, smart. I thought I was going to end up in the car one way or the other, but if I took the initiative, the psychological dynamics were such that I could have the upper hand, at least for a while, until I figured out a definitive escape. What a stupid eight-year old! But I was filled with adrenaline once again. And I had not forgotten the bit [mentioned in an earlier part of the autobiography] about letting people hang themselves if that’s what they wanted to do. I learned later on what our Lord did with Judas.
This fellow in the Cadillac Limousine was perhaps in his thirties, and may have been merely the driver for someone else somewhere else. His job for the evening was acquirement (kidnapping). At any rate, he knew his business; it was clear he had done this before. [He] interrogated me about exactly where I lived in town and then what my name was. When he heard the name, he asked me to repeat it, again and again. I told him, and said that my dad had been the mayor of the city (of 48,000 people at the time) and was now an attorney at law, and also worked at the State Legislature, and headed up the biggest law firm in central Minnesota. He asked me repeatedly if I was sure that was my father. Sure? I almost broke out laughing. But instead I also mentioned my uncle by name, since he was the chief emergency responder in the city. At that point, he stopped the car abruptly, right there on the icy street, far from anywhere, at night, way below freezing, commanding me to get out. I mocked him with a sing-song voice, saying he could meet my dad if he wanted to drive me the rest of the way. That wasn’t very intelligent on my part, but he sped away, thank God. I tried to get the license plate number, but it was too dark. I was dumb enough to be a bit too happy with myself, having gotten 1-1/2 miles closer to home in a nice car. I had no idea that I had been in most grave danger, out of which few come out alive.
/// Let’s update that story. Let’s say I was twelve years old for the sake of argument and had a CCW (those were the days in 1972, right?). As it is, I already had my gun training on my 12th birthday at the shooting range in the basement of the local VFW Granite Post 428. You finish the story for me. Be sensitive… And don’t just say I shouldn’t be so stupid as to be on my own at night at such a young age and condemn my parents. Those were different times. Also, I loathe limiting my liberty because of threats. O.K. Now, train me in…
Story modification: If you think that’s an emotionally unfair scenario, take an incident when I was 30 years old, walking from the Sea of Galilee to Jerusalem the day before Saddam’s assault on Israel with scud missiles. I had intended to make it into Jerusalem just minutes before it started… I was delayed for five minutes by Islamicist knucklehead teenagers who ran up to me and were dragging me off the road and me trying my best to break their grip on me and continue on my merry way. They were screaming stuff about Saddam and happy that they had an American in their possession. They were just nervous and “brave” before the war, as expected. Good kids, I’m sure. But good kids and choose to do nefarious things for the sake of fame and adrenaline. They were successfully dragging me away, out of public view (in the middle of nowhere West Bank), but then some older and wiser guy told them to let me go. A felicitous ending, but what if the older and wiser guy wasn’t around, and what if these guys were screaming out Alahu Akbar instead? And what if – ;-) – the IDF let me carry. You finish the story for me. Be sensitive…