By William C. Shelton

(The opinions and views expressed in the commentaries of The Somerville News belong solely to the authors of those commentaries and do not reflect the views or opinions of The Somerville News, its staff or publishers.)

This past week, Deval Patrick, Paul Celucci, and Tom Menino co-chaired White Ribbon Day. Men across the Commonwealth took this pledge: “From this day forward, I promise never to commit, condone, or remain silent about violence against women, sexual assault, and domestic violence.”

Most who read this will nod and agree that those are words we should all live by. Not all will realize how challenging it is to do this effectively.

One Los Angeles night in late autumn 1969, I was standing on the busy corner of Western Avenue, hitchhiking West on Melrose Boulevard. A drunken couple walked into the corner, arguing loudly. He began punctuating his insults with thrown fists, most of which did not connect. She seemed paralyzed.

I was paralyzed too. I simultaneously felt an obligation to intervene, and an enormous inhibition against doing so. There was no significant physical threat-the man was too drunk to throw a straight punch. Yet I was frightened and confused, my stomach so tense that it was cramping. Part of my inhibition was that the many bystanders all seemed to be pretending that the situation didn’t exist.

Forcing my limbs to move took a supreme act of physical will. When I interposed myself and said to the man, ‚ÄúYou can’t do this,‚Äù the woman ran away. He cursed me for a couple of minutes, and then staggered away as well.

Feeling shaken, I resumed hitchhiking. The man operating the corner newsstand and a woman waiting for a bus approached and angrily told me that I should mind my own business. Now I was deeply confused and distressed. I believed that I had done the right thing, but I felt as if I’d done the wrong thing.

Eventually, I got a ride from a man who was about ten years older than me. He saw the state I was in and asked me about it. I told him what had happened. He was sympathetic. He told me of his own experience when he interrupted a man hitting a woman in a New York bar. When the police came, the victim supported the assailant when he pressed assault charges against my benefactor who had tried to help. 

His kindness and compassion made me feel less crazy, less distraught.  But I also felt more confused. ‚ÄúWhat should I have done,‚Äù I asked him.

“You just have to do the right thing and deal with the consequences,” he answered. I thought that was a good answer, but over time, I wondered, “how do you know exactly what the right thing is?”

Four years later, I lived in Santa Cruz and had gotten to know a French Canadian named Giselle. She had married an American who beat her regularly, gave her nine kids, and then disappeared.

Giselle made extraordinary pizza. She conceived that if she operated a restaurant, she could support her family. Banker after banker told her, ‚ÄúYou have no business experience and no collateral. I’m sorry, but it’s impossible.‚Äù

A number of Giselle’s women friends knew her need, her character, and her pizza. They pooled all the available cash that they had, some of it borrowed, and loaned it to Giselle. She rented a space, they helped her fix it up, and they called it The Impossible Restaurant. It quickly developed a reputation for serving the best pizza in the county.

One night, my girlfriend and I were enjoying a giambotta. At the next table, a drunk man sat with a woman and two boys, about nine and eleven in age. From time to time, he became so loud that we heard the ugly things that he was saying. Again, no one did anything. The more this went on, the more angry I became.

As I passed their table after paying the bill, I heard him say to the eleven year old, ‚ÄúYou’re an asshole.‚Äù I stopped, put my face in front of his, and quietly said, ‚ÄúThe only person acting like an asshole here is you.‚Äù

Suzi and I left, but the drunk came after us in the parking lot. He cursed and said that he was going to teach me to mind my own business. I was physically scared this time, but I just stared at him. I turned and walked away, expecting him to pursue me, but he didn’t.

When we got in the car, I snapped at Suzi that if she claimed to be a feminist and some guy wanted to do me violence, then I expected her to start looking for a stick. We drove home in silence. I was ashamed because of what I had said to Suzi. More deeply, I was ashamed because I realized that my actions at the restaurant had been more motivated by old feelings of bitterness from childhood experiences than by an accurate assessment of the best thing to do.

The next week, I went to the Impossible for lunch. Giselle came over and said, “I heard what you did, and I want to thank you.”

I said, ‚ÄúActually I’m pretty sure that I messed up. I’m guessing that I just pissed the guy off, and when they went home, he took his anger out on her.‚Äù

Giselle said, ‚ÄúShe’s used to getting hit. She’s not used to having someone stand up for her.‚Äù

I would have said, ‚ÄúI’m not so sure,‚Äù but I didn’t say anything. I would have started crying.

To be continued.