Key 2 Violence
Last fall, my husband, David, pulled our car into a lane in front of another car. The driver began tailing us, blowing her horn repeatedly. A glimpse in the side-view mirror revealed a face convulsed in rage and, beside her, a small boy’s fearful expression. She continued tailing us, horn blowing, until we turned into our grocery-story parking lot. Then she circled the lot until she found a space directly across from ours. As we entered the store, we turned to see her exit her car and walk along the driver’s side of our car. When we returned to our car, we found a long gash that traversed the driver’s side from the passenger door to the front of the car. The woman had keyed our car.
I felt sick looking at it. And for months afterward, when my eyes fell on that gash, my gut relived the event again. Why did she do it? Did she think David intentionally cut her off? Did she want something from us that we failed to provide? How was the child who was riding with her?
What to do? How to respond?
Touch-up paint would only cover up the gash and I wanted to transform it. So I bought enamel paint in a range of colors. Starting at the base of the gash, I painted a branch and, sprouting from that branch, leaves. Then I stenciled our mascot, the Spacious Dude, all around the branch like blossoms growing from the tree. Last week, I invited our campers to choose Spacious Dudes and transform them into representations of themselves. Today, the branch sports a host of colorful blossoms. It’s funky and, I think, beautiful.
And I’m not done yet: I’ll add our name, and we’re thinking of going onto the roof with clouds and some flying Dudes. I’d like other A Spacious Place members to be part of our “car art.”
What has the experience taught me? That violence is a reality: we all have the capacity for it. Hiding from that fact merely stunts our growth—to stay with the branch metaphor. But we can allow ourselves to feel the consequences (potential or real) of violence, and then find a way to transform it: be it through a sit-in, a march, a comedy routine, a poem—or a painted car.
