A few nights ago, something happened that I’m still trying to process, and I felt the need to share it.
I was sitting at a bar when the staff and a few other patrons suddenly ran outside. Apparently, someone who had stolen from people there before had returned. I followed them out onto the street, where one of the bartenders—a middle-aged white woman—was lecturing someone around the corner. A small crowd of 5 or 6 others stood at a distance, just watching. The way she was speaking was jarring; it was a scolding, dismissive tone, exactly like you’d imagine from a “Karen.”
I peeked around the corner to see who she was yelling at. On the ground was a young Black man, maybe in his early twenties, in the throes of a full-blown panic attack. He was sobbing, screaming for help, and completely unable to comprehend what was going on around him.
I immediately sat down beside him, let him know he wasn’t alone, and just tried to offer a calm presence to help him regulate his breathing. In the middle of this, another customer, also a middle-aged white woman, kept coming up to me. She wasn’t concerned for him; she kept asking if I was okay and trying to get me to leave for my own safety. I eventually had to ask her to please leave us alone.
He finally calmed down enough to squeak out his name and ask for water. I went back into the restaurant to get some for him. When I came back out, the situation had escalated. He was holding a massive railway spike as a weapon, clutching it and ready to defend himself. He was terrified. That was the last straw for everyone else. The entire group of onlookers dispersed and carried on with their night, never checking in again.
Over the next thirty minutes, he slowly calmed down enough to give me an address. It felt like I was an aggressive yoga instructor, trying to get him to breathe with me and find his center so he could do basic tasks like putting his shoes and socks on and setting the spike down.
I called him an Uber. I was so grateful when it arrived and I saw the driver was an older Black man. I could tell he wasn’t going to be afraid of someone having a mental health crisis. I helped the young man into the car, briefly explained the context to the driver, and he was on his way.
When I went back into the restaurant, it felt like stepping into another dimension. My beer was long gone, so I sat back down at the bar and ordered another. The place was full of people who had seen everything, yet no one said a word.
I was left with a profound sadness. All the onlookers, customers, and staff had zero capacity to see this man as a human being in crisis. I don’t know what he may have done in the past, but in that moment, they treated him like he was a contagion, not a person.
