Editor’s Note: This piece describes domestic violence. It might be triggering. Proceed with care.
New York City is a loud place. Outdoors. Especially in the heat. We spill out onto the sidewalks like water, using our stoops and parks as extensions of our apartments. It creates a strange, vibrant sense of community. Or so we think.
It also turns the walk home into a gauntlet.
Instead of villagers greeting each other, people are harassing each other. When this many people are packed together, friction is inevitable. You see fights break out. You see hands land.
I have witnessed it twice in twenty years. Both times, my reaction shocked me. I am a passive person. If a waiter brings me the wrong entree, I just eat it.
The first time was during college. A couple was walking. The man shoved his partner. Threats. Shoving. I followed them for blocks, keeping my eye on the situation. At twenty years old, I didn’t know what to do. I just waited until he left. Relief washed over me.
The second time happened a few weeks ago.
Friday afternoon. A small playground in Brooklyn. I was watching my nine-year-old son and two friends. Just us and a few other moms with toddlers.
Then came the couple. Young. Black. Sitting in the far corner. Arguing.
It lasted an hour. The voices got louder. My son tugged at my sleeve. “They’re yelling, Mom.”
Other moms started looking around. Eyes meeting. Unspoken anxiety.
“Do you come to this playground often?” another mom asked. Phone in hand. “Have you seen them here? I think I should call someone.”
I looked at them. Then at my son. His friends. All of them Black.
I hoped she didn’t.
I moved the kids to the basketball court. Safer distance. Better sightlines. But I kept watching. The argument escalated. They stood up. Paced. Yelled.
Then the man shoved her. Hard.
My body moved before my brain could stop it. I rose from the bench.
“HEY!” I shouted. “Are you okay?”
Her reaction was baffling. Casual. Detached. “Me? Yeah, I’m fine.”
Like she’d tripped over a loose shoelace. Not been shoved.
They sat. Calm returned, briefly. Then exploded again.
He started punching her. In the torso. Repeatedly.
Something snapped in me. Adrenaline. Rage. Primal instinct.
I ran. Across the asphalt. Stopped ten feet away. Screaming at him to leave her alone.
He ignored me.
This wasn’t a movie scene. There were no dramatic pauses. Just a man beating a woman in broad daylight, while children watched nearby.
My vision tunneled. Only three things existed: The attacker. The victim. Me.
“Take your hands off her,” I pleaded. “I don’t want police here, but take your hands off her!”
His response? A bucket of water. Dumped over her head. The empty plastic shell pushed onto her hair. Then he grabbed her. Shove her against the chain-link fence.
And tore her shirt off.
She stood there in her bra. One strap loose. Humiliated.
She looked at me. Dead in the eye.
“Call the cops.”
I did.
I ran to the entrance. Needed the park name for the dispatcher. I had lived here my whole life. Knew it only as “Froggy Park.” Had never seen the sign.
The couple followed me. The man advanced on the sidewalk. Spittle flew as he screamed. “What are you calling for?”
Backpedal. Step forward. Step back. An awkward dance of threat.
“I’m not fighting you!” I yelled, arm raised in universal “stay away” motion.
Minutes dragged on. Until I saw uniforms. Police. Approaching from behind.
He bolted.
I assumed they had come for the other mom’s call. The one I’d initially judged. I felt a pang of guilt. Who was I to think she was being difficult? They showed up.
I pulled a water bottle from my bag. Gave it to her. Texted her mother. Asked for a replacement shirt. Her old one was ruined.
The kids returned. Witnessed the tail end. Wide-eyed. Shocked.
I sat them down. Talked them through it. Tried to make sense of the senseless.
That evening, I slept poorly.
What if the police hadn’t come? What if he had a knife? What if he hadn’t run?
I called a friend. An NYPD lawyer. He chastised me. Said intervening in domestic situations is incredibly dangerous.
Another friend shared a story. San Francisco. A woman filming an attacker. He walked over. Stabbed her in the head.
“Maybe not the best example…” she trailed off.
The weight hit me.
I had jeopardized everything. My safety. Theirs. The children’s.
Pros: Maybe I make the newspaper. Headlines. Fame.
Cons: I die. Three children are traumatized for life.
Is it worth it?
I bought pepper spray. It felt better. But doubt gnawed at me. Did I help? Or did I escalate it? The man’s actions turned from physical to deeply degrading after I spoke up.
What was I supposed to do?
Watching feels wrong. But charging in feels reckless too.
I found an organization online: Hollaback!
They teach bystander intervention. Training on street harassment. Anti-racist harassment. Conflict de-escalation.
My actions? Not de-escalation. Pure reaction.
De-escalation requires connection. Empathy. Calm. I was anything but. I was in a “blackout rage,” as I’d described it earlier. Tunnel vision.
The organization teaches the “5 Ds” for intervention. You don’t have to dive into the fight.
- Delegate. Ask for help. Security. Teachers. Another bystander. “Hey, can you handle this? I have kids.” More people create safety.
- Distract. Create chaos. Drop a water bottle. Ask the victim for directions. Draw attention away from the harasser.
- Document. Film it. Discreetly. From a distance. Get the street sign. Note the time. Only share it with the victim. Let them decide what to do with it.
- Delay. Check in later. “I saw that. It wasn’t okay. Do you need water?” A glance can reduce trauma. Just knowing someone else sees you helps.
Direct intervention? Rare. Only if safe. And if you do it? Set boundaries immediately. Then focus on the victim. Get them safe. Do not engage with the attacker.
That’s my mistake.
I focused on the attacker. The back-and-forth. The anger. That likely escalated his behavior.
If I used proper skills, I’d need to stay calm. Relaxed. I wasn’t.
But I shouldn’t beat myself up.
The woman and I spoke after. Briefly. I hope she got help. I hope she left him.
My son calls me a hero. At seven, that means a lot. Maybe I did teach them something. About standing up for others. About noticing injustice.
But I know better now.
Doing something doesn’t mean doing everything. Sometimes, doing something looks like turning to the person beside you.
Saying:
“Hey. Do you see that?”
