16 February 2020

A bar in Neukölln

Every time a cop drove past, I’d watch like a hawk.

Eyes wide, mind alert, muscles tensed, heart beat elevated. That prickly feeling of the release of adrenaline.

Every time—even if it was an ambulance, even if I wasn’t being Ernestine—especially in Waltham or if I was at home and a cruiser rolled past. God forbid that. I always imagined being frog marched out of my house, in front of my cats and partner.

Here, now—well, first, Berlin is quieter than other big cities. My neighborhood is about as quiet as my old little-house-on-the-prairie in Western Massachusetts. There are few sirens. And when there is one, it’s a friendly European siren sound.

But, WOW. I just had a moment.

An ambulance pulled up beside the bar, bathing it in bright blue light. I felt my customary US reaction begin and prepared to deaden it—an impulse so familiar it goes without thinking.

Then I realized. (How has that not hit me until now?)

I’m not a criminal. I’ve done nothing wrong.

Not here.

I wonder how long it will take for all those accumulated white blood cells to leave my body, for the inflammation to heal, the physical crisis to pass.

For me to believe I have done nothing wrong. Hurt no one.

To un-identify as a deviant (probably never).

There are some hard lessons to be learned about our status here as well.

How long until the blue light signifies “help” or “someone else is in trouble”—or even, as I think I felt before—“not us,” or even: “city.”

How long?