I posted a series of photos on my other blog capturing a street brawl that occurred outside my home yesterday afternoon. It was a gorgeous, sunny, warm day—perfect for throwing down the gauntlet in the form of one’s shirt, and going at it, I suppose.

The yelling and carrying on was what first caught my attention. It sounded like an angry riot, a million voices shouting at once.

It is somewhat common to hear this from two doors down, as the household members and friends or family often seem to bring their domestic disputes outdoors, especially in the warm weather. I have watched more than a few fights erupt at that place, and overheard more than my share of personal problems being aired.

Until yesterday, though, I had only seen one other outright brawl bust out. The other time was last summer, mid-day on a Saturday, when the sun was beating down hot on the street. Not many people were lingering outside, because of the heat.

Two young guys whipped off their shirts and started beating on each other. There were a couple of young women near them trying to get them to stop, who were also getting dragged into the fighting. We watched, cowering from inside the windows, not knowing what to do. It seemed, at the time, like something we’d want the police to help with, but also as though we’d attract unwanted attention just by calling the police. A number of people had flooded the street at various points while the fist fight floated down toward one end of the street to the other, and eventually the ladies pried the men apart, and they went their separate ways, glistening with sweat and shouting epithets and threats back and forth.

But that was last summer. Ancient history. And usually, like I said, it’s not fist-fighting I see, near this one multi-family home, but people pointing in each other’s faces and telling them where to get off. Ladies having trouble with their men, and vice-versa.

Yesterday was something different. When I took a look outside, there were maybe 20 or 25 people in the street. Two of the men I recognized as my own neighbors—large, bulky guys in their 30s or 40s—were brandishing large sticks. One wooden pole was five or six feet long; the other guy was holding a long cane. A young woman threatened one of the shirtless young guys with a long metal rod. My husband said he saw someone with a hammer. It was hard to see what was going on, but catching a glimpse of the weapons (thankfully not guns) told us that it was a very dangerous situation, and most of all, more than anything, there was the crazy yelling.

We called 911 to report the incident, because it seemed like no one else was doing that. Looking around the street from an upstairs window, we could see that many neighbors were peering out, but none of them were on a phone.

Instead, one neighbor simply retrieved a parked car from the street and moved it into her driveway (having one of her male tenants take care of it). There was a look of fearful resignation on their faces, if such a thing can be imagined. Almost a pleading, “Please don’t break our car windows. Fight and yell and take up the whole street if you must, but I need to get my property out of your way.”

Then a fist fight broke out. Two young men were wailing on each other, and the three largest men in the group seemed almost to be protecting their space to fight. But the compliance of those around the fight—especially the relaxed stance of some of the females—conveyed a crazy, dichotomous image for me.

I’ve seen plenty of fist fights and hair-pulling catfights in my day. They broke out occasionally in my high school cafeteria. One girl would attack another, pouncing together onto a lunch table, scattering an entire table’s worth of milk cartons and trays every which way. People would clear a space, and watch. Or, they would close in, one foot in front of the other, as though getting ready to start a race, and they would urge the tusslers on. Then school security would barge in and peel the girls apart. The guys chose more often to fight in the cafeteria hallway, which had a granite floor and walls, and plenty of room for getting leverage by splaying one’s feet far apart and barreling one’s head into another person’s face or chest, and kind of wrestling more than throwing punches. These sorts of fights usually took more than one security guard.

Mostly I just wanted not to have to buy another milk carton, so I would steer clear. Forget about spectator sport enjoyment. I hated the hair-pulling and the bloody noses. It was just painful. If people wanted to inflict pain, they could just use words, and it would be a lot less messy. But who was I? Just a nerdy white chick.

And that’s all I am on my street, too. I accept it. I’m still sickened by the watching, but I feel a need to document events now that I didn’t feel when I was 15. My street may be a little like my high school cafeteria, with some high tensions from time to time, but there are no security guards standing by to break things up if they get out of hand. And things get out of hand on a regular basis. From what I can tell, the neighbors do not necessarily know what to do, or that they have options. And it’s easy to see that we are all scared by this.

When the cops arrived yesterday—in three cars—the crowd dispersed as though nothing had happened. Nervous teens trying to exchange drugs quickly did so and tried to avoid the gaze of the cops. A man smoking a joint nearly swallowed it trying to finish before the police car pulled up, then nonchalantly got in his car and drove away. For hours afterward, a small group remained on the stoop in front of the house, going over the afternoon’s events, retelling what happened, talking trash about what they’d do to those kids or those neighbors or those cousins or whoever it was, next time they come around bringing trouble.

The trouble is already here, it is already in us.

Posted by Heather B on 29 March 2006 at 2:55 pm.