That Thief Didn't Rob Her Perspective

"When I was asked to describe the attacker, the police asked me several times if I had said he was black..."

This isn't the story I planned to tell.

I originally wrote a story on violence against women. The article explored the disparity between convicted dog-fighter Michael Vick's chilly reception back into the NFL and convicted rapist Mike Tyson's appearance at the recent Teen Choice Awards to a crowd of screaming girls. It discussed the rapes in the Congo and the disturbing justification for them. The article asked why we were so comfortable seeing women attacked.

Then on the night of Aug. 16, a stranger walked up to me, jabbed a knife into my side — ripping my sweater — cursed at me and asked me if I wanted to die. Understanding my answer to be no, even though words failed me at the time, he took my purse, which contained, among other things, my saved article on violence against women.

I didn't think he'd appreciate the irony, so I refrained from pointing it out to him as he made off with a purse my sister had given me, my phone — which pretty much contains my entire life — my house keys, all of my credit cards and cash, and that small part of me that assumed I — a grown woman — was entitled to walk to the grocery store alone after sundown.

I was lucky. I wasn't injured, and I happen to live in a community where my yelling that I was being mugged prompted several bystanders on the street to call the cops, two to follow the mugger down the street in hopes that they would be able to help identify him, and a stranger to wait on the corner with me and hug me while I cried hysterically over the realization that someone threatened to kill me.

Maybe it's a good thing he stole my article — maybe I was wrong. Turns out there are quite a few people who aren't comfortable seeing women attacked, and fortunately, enough of them were in Downtown Los Angeles with me.

When I was asked to describe the attacker, the police asked me several times if I had said he was black. It was an interesting question considering they asked it before I had offered any description at all of the assailant.

And then they asked it again. And again. When I assured them he was white, they asked in disbelief, "Wait, white or Hispanic?" Through gritted teeth and tears I insisted he was white.

When you're in the back of a police car, going to identify a suspect, your mind wanders. Mine wandered to previous experience with the police.

I've had the cops called on me precisely one time. I tried to use my mother's credit card in a Coach store at her request. She called both the credit card company and the manager of the store to give me authorization to purchase a Christmas present for my sister on her behalf. The manager initially said it would be fine, but she was talked out of allowing the purchase by an associate in the store. I left, went to a different store, and minutes later the cops came in, pulled me to the back, and explained that they were called because I tried to use a credit card that wasn't mine.

I calmly explained the situation, and fielded offensive questions about whether I knew that credit card fraud was a crime. I was a recent law school graduate and had passed the bar a month earlier, but I didn't go all "don't you know who I think I am?" on them.

Maya Rupert is an attorney in Downtown Los Angeles. She has previously contributed to the San Francisco Chronicle, as well as other publications. Her column explores issues of race, gender and politics and appears in the L.A. Watts Times regularly. She can be reached at maya.rupert@gmail.com.

Instead, I called both "sir," assured them I had my mother's permission to use her card, and didn't wonder out loud why they insisted on speaking to me like a criminal. They asked me how many times I had been questioned by police before, and I managed not to scream at them.

Once they spoke to my parents, who had no qualms about mentioning that I was a lawyer, they transformed. They even apologized for "wasting my time." I remember how I felt that day — it was the same way I felt when I heard about the Henry Louis Gates, Jr.'s arrest, and the same way I felt as I listened to the cops jump to the conclusion that my attacker had been black or Hispanic as they took me to ID the wrong guy.

There is an undeniable and widespread bias against people of color in law enforcement, and it will take more than a beer to correct that.

There's a good side to this story, though, because while it reminds me of some of the worst features of our humanity, it also points to some of our best. As ugly as crime and institutionalized racism are, they're up against the beauty of a generation of people as good as those who helped me that night.

I'd say it's gonna be a fair fight, and in fact, my money's on us.

Photo for story collage from Wikimedia Commons