My blog in London- Brink on the Brink- began as a journey. It was partly on account of being homesick for Chicago, and partly to document my experience abroad. The problem, my experience got off to a rocky start.
I arrived in London without a place to live. My mom and I searched for the week she was with me with no luck. She had a flight home and I was running out of money. I did not want to keep staying in a hotel and dipping into the money I needed for rent and a down payment. I ended up crashing on the couch of two people I befriended while apartment hunting. Their lease was up and we submitted an application on a flat. The owners were purchasing a new flat but the deal fell through a few days before we were meant to move in. Out of options and soon-to-be-homeless, I had to improvise and find a single room on my own. I jumped at the first decent place I could find.
Did I mention that within this time my passport was stolen, my phone broke, and I was running out of pounds?! I was unable to open a bank account or purchase a new phone without my passport… Life's struggles, nothing new.
I contacted the university I was attending about my passport, hoping they might help. They informed me they do not 'hand hold' their students, that I was an adult, and 'poor you.' Apparently a genuine term there. I found my way to a coffee shop and made an appointment at the US Embassy. I wandered aimlessly, passing men with guns and a fenced in building, only to realize after my third circle around the square that THAT was the US Embassy. The massive, out-of-place building. I went through security and waiting in a small room. I apparently needed a passport photo. I left across the street, and with tears in my eyes, I took a quick photo and went back past the machine-gun-wielding security. They took my documents that I had prepared ahead of time and said they need to mail them to the states. Apparently, now I needed to wait a month for my new passport to arrive from D.C. What the point of going to the Embassy was, I'm still not certain. Then, I could send my passport via mail to somewhere in Britain for my student visa... So I was stuck in London for the time being.
I settled in and experienced my first tube strike the first day of class. I also drank my first pint that was above 5% alcohol in between lectures. I met my four lovely roommates- the gay Irish best friend, the Italian nerd, the French basket case, and the English bloke. They were all equally amazing!
I found a great running path down the road. I would run past the small market, into a quaint neighborhood street, past some bushes and a fence, right onto the jogging path. It was perfect. The only downside was that the lights were always out near the bushes.
I always ran without headphones due to multiple complaints from runners and bikers in Chicago about the dangers of listening to music while running. I also carried my keys because of the incessant emails and texts from my petrified mother about staying alert and safe in scary Chicago. This prepared me for 'the attack.'
I was finishing my run and heading towards the bushes when suddenly I had a mouth full of dirt and my face was being smashed into sticks and mud beneath me. Someone was on top of me and I could hear him breathing. He grabbed the back of my neck and released his knees from my back, trying to turn me over. As he rearranged his grip, I swung my fist, the keys still between my knuckles from my moms 'safety' message. They made contact near his eyes and he retracted.
I do not remember the run home. The next thing I recall is cleaning the mud and blood from my body. I stayed in bed the next day, fearful of how people would react to the lacerations left on my face and neck. The following day at class, I implied I had fallen in the bushes. I emailed my teacher and asked to meet with her. I figured the black eye and wounds on my face would raise suspicion.
She offered to take me to the police station to report the incident and then travel with her to her house in the country. I would usually never take someone up on this offer, but I said yes. The incompetent officer was unable to ask the right questions and only pushed to take vivid pictures of my injuries. I am sure this is protocol, but the last thing I wanted was to feel more violated. I showed concern over pictures of my face being documented so he requested to take pictures of the bruises on my ribs. He asked if the attack was of a sexual nature. I replied no. He then pressed further for my thoughts on the motive. Reluctant to continue the invasive dialog, I paused for a moment before replying: to kill me.
I told my flatmate only that I would be gone for the weekend. While away, the officers showed up at my flat and informed my roommates of the incident. They searched my room, without permission, and went through my laundry. The other flatmates were unaware I had left and a search was about to be called. Luckily, my flatmate returned home in time to apprise the officers of my whereabouts. This did not stop the french girl from requesting to move out immediately. She felt unsafe. I do not blame her, but I felt a level of irony and discomfort in her choice to leave.
Since the event, I have a heightened perception of incidents such as mine. I am vexed when someone claims they were 'mugged' when their phone was snatched from their hands. While a traumatic event for them, I feel unsympathetic and upset with their word choice.
Life molds us, who we are and who we become. The adversities that we face shape our actions and our ability to empathize with others. An individual constantly watched in a store or treated differently due to the color of their skin is more in tune with the feeling of racism than someone who has never experienced the blatant mistreatment.
This concludes 'the attack.'