Getting Attacked in Brooklyn Changed My Whole Life

“Gimme your money, punk!” the sneering, wild-eyed leader exhorted, pushing his pistol into my face. As he did, two muscular accomplices fished through my pockets.

These men attacked me on the street in my Fort Greene, Brooklyn neighborhood on the evening of May 25, 2000, as I was walking home from a friend’s house.

The brusque contact and overpowering scent of their excessive cologne recalled the bullies of my youth, who routinely stole my money. With one foot anchored in the past and the other in the present, I freaked out and fought back, yelling, “Fuck, no — fuck you!” I held onto my wallet, embroiled in a high-stakes tug-of-war as an unclasped chrome Swatch slid down my arm.

“Fucking faggot,” spat the leader as he pistol-whipped me. He yelled, “Let’s move!” at his companions, who ran away.

Angry and adrenalized, I chased after them for a full block until I realized I was bleeding. I raced to my fifth-floor walk-up to tend my wounds and call the police. They brought me into the station, showed me mugshots, and drove me around the area to find my attackers. I scanned the blurry streets with eager eyes, but we were unable to locate the trio who had attacked me.

For a full two months, I felt vindicated for having stood up to three gay bashers. And I had sent them scurrying. I was no longer the timid victim of yesteryear; I had become the empowered vigilante of my own present.

But when I found myself on a gun range with friends in Los Angeles years later to kill time, the impact from the kickback retraumatized me. I dropped the weapon, an exact copy of the one my attackers had used, fell to my knees, and sobbed. My buddy Chris came over and gently put his arm around me.

“What’s happening, L? Where are you?” he asked.

“The night I was held up,” I stammered. “I didn’t believe the gun was real, but I really could have died — over a watch, a wallet, and some homophobia.”

“Yeah,” he yelled over the sound of gunfire. “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you. Fighting back was kind of insane.”

“It totally was,” I said, nodding. “I didn’t get how much until shooting that thing.”

The freewheeling, carefree, and naive person I used to be — the guy who fearlessly walked through the park and nearby streets at all hours of the night and early morning — was gone. In his place was a far more cautious and paranoid human. That guy mostly stayed home and found himself terrified around nightfall, packs of young men, and the possibility of being attacked again when he dared venture out.

I ended up breaking my lease and fleeing Fort Greene for a six-month retreat to Eureka, California, after being invited by a former classmate. It was the perfect antidote to all things New York, with its slower pace and folksy townspeople. It also allowed me to start trusting my surroundings again. Once I had, I moved back to San Francisco, for a fresh start. I stared out my window at my view of the foggy Golden Gate Bridge and exhaled in the safety of my new life.