Homie...Strollin’...Boot Cops...Dime Dropper... It was a strange, perilous new world and I loved it. I had come to the inner city right out of college armed with a degree and with a hope. The degree was in Speech and English and the hope was that I could change a world plagued by poverty, gangs, and violence.

But the kids just laughed at me as I struggled to teach them the concept of turning the other cheek.

"Just walk away from a fight. Trust God to protect you."

"Oh, man. Dig yourself, lady! Ain’t nothin’ happen’n!"

And back and forth the argument went. In turn they taught me their language and how to box. Homeboy...Fair One...Got Your Back... I never dreamed during these exchanges that I would soon receive an unforgettable, hands-on application lesson on the real meaning of those phrases...

It was about seven o'clock one warm spring evening when I returned to our Teen Haven Center from teaching a Bible Club in Southwest Philly. Outside it was beautiful and balmy, one of those rare, truly perfect spring days after a long, cold winter. Children were jumping rope and playing stick ball with one another across 20th Street, which was a main bus route from center city Philadelphia during the day. In front of our Teen Haven center, located in a three-story row house which faced 20th Street, a fascinating, unrehearsed fashion parade was taking place. Small groups of teenage guys and girls, out to see and be seen, strolled up and down the sidewalk and congregated on the street corners, while adults sat and visited with one another on their front steps.

Inside the center it was quiet. Besides myself, there were three live-in teens and a senior staff member at this location. The senior staff member, Barb Staples, had not yet returned from a Bible Club at 23rd and Diamond. James was the only other person home. He was our fourteen-year-old live-in, currently in bed with strep throat. James wasn’t the only one recovering from an ailment. I had recently discovered there was more than one kind of peril in my line of work, the peril of a broken heart. Maybe it was the magic of a warm spring evening after a long cold winter, or maybe I was just ready to let go. But suddenly the solitude and tranquillity inside the building enveloped me. I felt peaceful for the first time in weeks. As I made my way to the third floor kitchen, this quiet was shattered by a shout from the street. It was Claire, James' young aunt.

"Look out the window! Those boys fixin' to fight Ronald!"

Ronald SaintClaire was another of our live-in teens. Knowing how quiet, considerate, and easy-going he was, I thought this statement sounded rather unlikely. Just the same, I stuck my head out of our third-floor dining room window. Through the branches of the big old oak tree in our tiny back yard, I observed Ronald, leaning casually against a car in front of an abandoned row house where junkies often hid to shoot up. A group of boys, one of whom looked like Jo-Jo, appeared to be in heated conversation with him. As I watched, Jo-Jo began to poke and push at Ronald, and then he and Ronald leapt apart and started sparring.

We were accepted, even sought out as the neighborhood peacekeepers, so I knew the kids would allow me to intervene. After all, Ronald was a mature eighteen-year-old, and Jo-Jo, a good-natured, heavy-set kid in the neighborhood, had once dragged me out on the street to break up another fight. It was about 7:10 when I reached our front door. By then the fight had shifted over to 20th street. I saw that "Jo-Jo" was actually an older (much taller) guy named Bruce, who used to live across the street. Bruce was with a group of friends I didn't recognize. I honestly can't remember now how many there were. I think six to start.

My first impressions out the door were of the sheer force of Bruce’s punches. The next were of Bruce's friends closing in behind Ronald and striking him so hard on the back and head, that my stomach started churning at the impact. Marching quickly down the front steps into the street, I wedged myself between Ronald and Bruce, and said, "I'm sorry, but we do not allow our young people to settle things this way. If you have a problem, you can talk to me, because I'm Ronald's guardian."

Deference to parental bidding often gave reluctant contenders an honorable way out of a fight. I’d seen this work many times. That’s why it shocked me when Bruce made absolutely no acknowledgment of my presence. In fact, viciously lunging forward to punch Ronald, he barely cleared the top of my head! Stunned and groping to make sense of it all, I heard a comment off to the side about the Moroccos, a rival gang.

"Ronald doesn't belong to a gang," I protested, looking up into Bruce's face to get his attention.

It was then that I really noticed his eyes. They were unfocused, distant, no light, no recognition in them. A whiff of alcohol penetrated the space between us. I suddenly realized that these kids were stoned beyond all reach of reason! My words were like futile, little, clinking pennies bouncing off a closed glass jar, rolling off into oblivion - The adrenaline flooded through me like an old freight train lurching into motion! Oh, No!

Easily reaching around me, Bruce pulled Ronald's head into a relentless vise between his arm and rib cage. Bruce’s friends came up from behind and proceeded to strike and kick him mercilessly across the back and legs. As he jerked and twisted to break free from this barrage, I latched on to Bruce's arm and tried to pry it loose from Ronald’s head. It would not budge! I reached around Bruce, to try to block the blows raining down on Ronald's back and neck. But I couldn’t keep them off. As we all wrestled in this human press, I argued, pleaded and begged the kids to stop. Finally Ronald yanked himself free. He managed to take a few steps before the gang all piled on top of him, bringing him down in the middle of 20th Street, his mouth bleeding. Horrified, I turned and fled into the Teen Haven Center. Scrambling up the stairs on all fours, pulling myself up with my hands, I reached the office phone, clawed the receiver off the hook and dialed 911.

"Heh,plahcuh,eighsisev twha..."

To my dismay, the words tumbling out of my mouth were incoherent. As I struggled to articulate, Jame’s voice came over the line from the upstairs phone. "Hang up the phone, Jeanne! Get back down there! Hurry! I'll call the police!"

I slammed down the receiver, sprinted headlong down the stairs into the street, and plunged through a huge circle of people that had started to form around the action. Somehow Ronald had made it back up on his feet. He had his fists up and was circling in a fighting stance.

I felt so relieved!

"Ronald, let's go to the house!" I grabbed his arm.

He shook me off. "Move, Jeanne! Get away!" His voice was gentle and insistent.

I was dumbfounded. So Ronald wasn’t going to come with me either!

"Get out of the way," he repeated, as he barely managed to dodge someone’s fist! I stepped back reluctantly. I had no intention of "getting away."

Instinctively I swung around to face a slender youth, rapidly approaching with a board in his hands. "If only we can hold out till the police get here," I thought. As I raced to break the impact, Bruce moved in behind me with a board he had picked up from somewhere and smashed it across Ronald's back. The slender kid deftly sidestepped me and slammed his board against Ronald's head.

"That guy's got a brick," someone in the crowd yelled to me!

Wheeling around, I saw a kid take aim. "I've called the police! They'll be here any minute!"

The kid let loose, and the brick barely missed its mark. Feeling each second tick by, I ran over to the sidewalk and looked up at James, who was dangling half way out of his third-story bedroom window.

"Did you call?"

He nodded his head emphatically. Just then someone else in the crowd shouted to me, "That guy's got a bottle!"

I turned and dashed toward it holding my hands out to block it. This time it struck Ronald square on the chest and shattered when it hit the ground.

"Please, Ronald, come into the house!" I started pulling him toward the building. He followed reluctantly, still keeping his fighting stance.

"Don't let him get to the house!" Bruce shouted.

One of Bruce’s guys jumped up on our front porch steps and stood in front of our doorway, staring down at us. We had no choice but to turn back. I felt sick inside. "Where are the police?" By now there was a sea of faces surrounding us. As we whirled around and around in a grotesque dance, I kept recognizing individual features...Renee Holland, who lived down the street; Gracie Jones, our pretty next door neighbor; Sandra Gordon from Opal Street. I caught a glimpse of James' little sister Tony standing in our doorway screaming. Only nine years old, she had come to spend the night with us. At that moment I wanted to go to her, to shield her from seeing this, but I couldn’t. Once a couple of men stepped out of the crowd and tried to take the boards away from the kids and reason with them but couldn't hold them back. Suddenly Ronald bolted through the crowd into the empty lot by the side of our building. Bruce and his friends pursued. Running as fast as my legs would carry me, I caught up with them all at Opal Street.

Here, away from the crowd, I became aware that Ronald was starting to lean on me. Instinctively, I started moving with him, as a unit. Using me as a shield to gain some temporary relief from the brutal blows, he braced himself on my shoulder, while he kept trying to defend himself with his other hand. I also became aware than Bruce and his friends were starting to get annoyed with me. The slender kid with the board kept repeating, "Get out of my way, bitch!"

Finally I lashed back, "You watch your mouth!"

Lunging directly over my head, he brought his board down on Ronald and almost simultaneously with the impact, I swung my arm around, and slapped the kid across the face. Shocked at myself, I reached out and touched him on the chest. But the slap and the conciliatory gesture were totally lost on this kid. He kept on hammering, as did the others. At that point, I thought to myself, "They aren’t ever going to stop. The police aren’t ever going to come. They will keep hitting Ronald until they kill him." I looked up at the sky and thought, "God, where are You?"

Then I realized that for the first time since the fight started, the Bible teacher had stopped to think about God.

The kid I had just slapped brought me abruptly back to reality. "If you don't move," he said in extreme irritation, "I’ll hit you!"

The others chimed in, "Yeah, bitch, we'll hit you!"

For the first time, I had their attention. The ball was in my court.

For one long terrible moment, we all hung there in a state of suspended animation. I was aware of Bruce and his friends looming over me and of Ronald, struggling to stay conscious and on his feet behind me. But mostly I was aware of this overwhelmingly powerful inner urge to turn and run away from there, as far and as fast as I could go. In my mind's eye, my feet were already moving, putting distance between me and that empty lot, that neighborhood, that city. I was running through a grassy field in the sunshine and all of this was far, far behind me. The vision of Bruce and his friends all falling on Ronald like a pack of wolves as soon as I stepped out of the way called me back, back to the city, back to the present. As I stood shaking in that empty lot, my feet somehow miraculously frozen to the ground, I heard Ronald say angrily, "You better not touch her!" Then I heard a thud as Bruce struck him again.

Knowing that I would bolt if Bruce and his friends hit me just once, I said out loud as if addressing Someone invisible, "Oh, Lord, help us!"

To my amazement, the guys seemed to back off for a moment, just enough to make a hole for us to walk through.

"Please, let's go inside, Ronald!" Afraid that he might still refuse to go, I grabbed him and dragged him away from Opal Street, almost bearing his full weight as we stumbled along the side of our brick building, pressing toward our front door. For a moment it looked like we were going to actually reach it. Then Bruce cut across the empty lot in front of us and his friends started to close in.

Safe haven had slipped from my grasp once again. Ronald, half-conscious and in no condition to continue fighting, was about to be bludgeoned to death right in front of me. I snapped. I pinned him against our building with my back and commenced screaming. Over and over. Sucking the air into my lungs till they felt ready to explode. Expelling it out in these gut-wrenching screams. I couldn’t stop. As they racked my body, Ronald feebly reached his hands up around my rib cage and patted me reassuringly.

Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a police car pull up. I found out later that a man in the crowd had run to Girard Avenue to flag one down from the neighboring police district. As the policeman got out of the car, Bruce's friends all blended into the crowd, and Bruce came sauntering toward us casually. I kept right on screaming. Bruce stood silently in front of us for a moment, just staring. Then he drew back his arm and brought his fist down with bone-rattling force one last time. The blow caught me across the side of the head, a huge collective gasp arose from the crowd, and in a second, the policeman went after him, dragged him to the car, and handcuffed him. By now it was 7:40p.

I was so focused on getting Ronald to safety, I continued to push him around to the front of the building, where I shoved him through the door. A man had to stop me.

"That boy needs to go to the hospital, miss," he said. "Get the police to take him."

Nodding numbly, I went to the officer and said, "We need to go to the hospital."

"All right, Miss," he said. "Who does, you?"

"No, the boy they beat up."

"Where is he?" the officer asked, looking about bewilderedly. I realized that he had not even seen Ronald behind me.

Ronald stumbled down the steps into the police car. I climbed in beside him and he slumped against me on the seat, blood running from his head and down his face. As the car pulled away from the crowd of faces surrounding it, one young boy, who looked to be about ten, turned to another and said in a subdued voice, "He's all messed up."

Ronald went very stoically and quietly with the emergency room personnel. The doctor who stitched him up said that he might not have survived the blows to his head had he been drinking. Miraculously, he had no broken bones.

A medic showed me to a public waiting area where an attendant handed me a rag and said, "You might want to clean up a little." Looking down, I saw, for the first time, the blood that was all over me. It was smeared from my hands up to my elbows, soaked down my brown and white striped shirt where Ronald had leaned against me, and even caked in my hair. I started to weep uncontrollably. In a short time Gracie and Lila came in. Soon other people from the neighborhood and the staff wandered in just to sit with us.

It was after midnight when Ronald was released from the emergency room. From there the police took us to the station so he could make a statement. Bruce was the only one in custody and he looked away sheepishly when he recognized Barb, my co-worker. She had taught him in Bible school many times. The officer assigned to the case was not in, so we returned to the Teen Haven Center. By then it was almost two am. Ronald went immediately upstairs and sat down in front of the television set without saying a word. James, Claire, and Tony tried to kid around with him, but he was too much pain to move or even talk. For some reason the hospital hadn't given him any pain medicine. When the J.A.D. officer finally called at 3:00am to take a statement, Ronald had difficulty making himself understood over the phone. His mouth was cut and swollen. After struggling to repeat something three times, he abruptly handed me the phone, said, "Here, Jeanne," and walked into the bathroom.

Barb followed him and asked, "Ronald, are you all right?"

He broke down sobbing in her arms. I asked the officer to call us back later. When Ronald finished weeping, he returned to the couch, and Barb put ice packs on his arms and wiped his face with a cold rag. He said, "It's funny. I'm really sore. But I'm not mad at anyone. I got two people inside of me. The Devil's telling me to be all hard and get revenge, and the Lord's telling me to forgive."

He was doing better with his Christianity than I was with mine. I felt such hatred toward those boys. Something in me wanted to see them pay for being such animals.

"I didn't really want to fight," he continued. "I wasn't mad during the fight, just embarrassed."

Recalling his dispassionate determination to stick it out, I asked, "Why, Ronald, why?"

He looked at me as if I should have known the answer. "No one likes to lose a fight, Jeanne."

"I don't think anybody's going to look down on you for losing that fight, Ronald," Barb said. "I think everyone will admire you for standing up to them. You wait and see."

Only later did we find out that Claire had taken a knife out of our kitchen drawer to slip to Ronald during the fight. James would not allow her to take it outside.

Like ships passing in the night, we all went on with our lives shortly after the incident. We were young people, all of us. Romance blossomed between Gracie and Ronald, and they commenced to date. I continued to work at Teen Haven for one and a half years, but with a more temperate view on teaching people to unconditionally turn the other cheek. Through the grapevine, we eventually heard that Bruce and his friends had mistaken Ronald for someone else they were looking for.

As far as I know, they never went to court.

It occurs to me, now that you’ve walked into my shoes, perhaps I should step in to yours. People often tell me, "I could never be that brave." Neither could I. I was much more reluctant to intervene in street fights after that. Sometimes we find what we need to get through something only when we really need it. Maybe that’s just how we’re made. I personally think God literally kept my feet planted to the ground that day. He put some very heavy weights on them and anchored them down… "Homie, Homeboy, Got Your Back."

Some of you may be thinking, "What message does this story have for me? I'll never be in a situation where that could happen. I don't work in an inner city." Others of you may be thinking, "I was the one who was beat up in a fight!" To all of you I'd say that this story isn't intended to be a bandaid or a cure all for violence. It's just a sympathetic, dissecting look at my reckless youth and one violent incident from a twenty-five year perspective in search for clues. There are still many unresolved questions in my mind. Why did those boys restrain themselves with me as much as they did, and why, in their manic state, did they back off for a time, when I spoke the name of God out loud? How could the policeman not have noticed Ronald pinned to the wall behind me? Why didn't the hospital personnel give Ronald anything for pain? Why didn't the police answer James' call? Why didn’t the courts ever call us?

But here's what my coworker Luke Knowley has to say about it. "This story has several lessons, the main one being that the power of faith, or at least of a shared belief system can (sometimes) bring order into chaos. It can reach in to someone in the very grips of unfocused violence, someone out of control, someone beyond the reach of any rational appeal, and get them to stop, to think, or at least to pause for a moment."

"Now, that," says Luke, "is power!"

I agree. At the very least, it bought us a little time.

Now that I think about it, Bruce did grow up across the street from Teen Haven. He knew Barb, went to camp, came to the center to play ping pong, probably received some Bible teaching. If that had the power to pause him in his manic state, then to me that’s a greater miracle than if God had actually sent down angels to our rescue. Which, in the form of the community who surrounded us on that street, He did.

The fact has been driven home to us in this electronic age. Anybody, regardless of age, geographic location, or walk of life can find themselves thrust unexpectedly into a violent situation.

As I look back twenty-five years and recognize the irony and the incongruity of a Bible school teacher and an inner city youth teaming up to get through a street fight, it occurs to me...Perhaps this account is my attempt to resolve something we all left unfinished back then.

Perhaps in a small way, I still hope to save the world.