48hrs in Chicago: Red Line

Trigger Warning: Physical assault, violence

(Story involves a man getting jumped on the subway)

The sun had set on our first day in Chicago, and although we were only a 30-minute walk from the hotel, there was a subway nearby. We had three stops to go. It was supposed to be easy. We jumped on the Red Line, ready to get back and rest. As the doors of the train car closed, my full attention was given to Elie, who seized the opportunity to be a trapeze artist on the handstraps overhead. Daniel, meanwhile, was bouncing from seat to seat. I told him to sit still. I shuffled the stroller to the other side of the train to make sure people could get by. 

The doors opened and closed again, and we kept going. That’s when I caught a glimpse of 4 or 5 passengers who got on the car in front of us. They were riled up. Immediately there was yelling. Then screaming. In the blink of an eye, the energy turned violent. Someone had been targeted; I couldn't tell who because they were at the bottom of a dog-pile. The angry mob pummeled the victim relentlessly. A man near the action tried to escape the car and move into ours, but the doors wouldn’t open as the train was moving.

I felt trapped. Like watching a violent film and unable to change the channel. I pulled the kids close.

Was the turmoil going to spill over into this car?

Should I run to the back?

Should Jason try to stop it? But how?

“God, please keep Jason from intervening.”

I wanted him to help, but I couldn’t bear the thought of something happening with our kids in full view. We were trapped as spectators. The innocent young man stuck in the middle came back to the train door several times to attempt to flee the brawl. 

And then as we were approaching the next stop, I heard a woman yell, “gun, gun!”. I braced for the sound of a shot, but instead, the doors opened and the group ran off the train in every direction. The doors shut. And then we could see the damage. The onlooker who had tried to flee was now helping a man to his feet. Blood covered the train car, the seats, the walls, and the floor. Someone’s hoodie became a tourniquet. I was relieved to see the man was conscious, but my mind raced to figure out the next steps.

I pressed Elie and Daniel’s faces into my belly and said, ‘It’s over now. They’re helping him. He's getting help.” I hoped with everything in me that their 4ft bodies didn't allow them to witness the same graphic details I saw. "Thank you, Lord, that you are with us. You are sending this man help and he is not alone. Please help him be okay. Help him get what he needs." I prayed simple prayers as the kids agreed, "Yes Lord. Amen. Amen." I felt their bodies cling to mine in their distress.

The next stop was ours. Although I knew to get off, the adrenaline in my body told me that I was unsure whether it was more dangerous to be in the underground with a violent mob or on the train where the crime had taken place. A woman leaned out from the train car, “Where are the F’ing police! We need help!” The man sat centered now in the car, head wrapped haphazardly, blood-stained. 3 or 4 passengers were tending to him. I even caught a smile flash across his face as relief overcame him. It was clear Jason and I and our 3 kids weren’t going to be able to provide any more assistance. The doors closed automatically. And we watched as it rolled out of sight.

I turned towards my 3 children. Never had they seemed so desperate for reassurance. “We have to help him, Mama”, one cried. “I want to leave. I wanna go home”, said the other. And Noa sat, quietly with her noise-canceling headphones muffling the drama that had unfolded around her. 

“There are people with him now”, I said to my teary-eyed littles. “They’re going to get him the help he needs. There’s nothing more we can do. He’s going to be alright now”, Jason attempted to reassure them. 

We were witnesses. Unable to change the situation, but moved to the core. Our hearts cried, "Injustice!" while tears welled up on the inside.

We walked quietly and quickly out of the station. On our walk to the hotel, we passed a fire station. Daniel immediately relaxed and both older kids felt relieved. These were helpers. In the distance, they heard the sound of a siren and smiles broke out. The kids convinced themselves an ambulance was coming to help the man from the subway. We let them believe it and agreed. He was going to get help. The kids celebrated with such relief and enthusiasm that the firemen, all seated on the stoop eating dinner, stood and invited them into the truck. It was the relief they needed. They smiled and waved and thanked the men profusely. I could almost see the burrs of trauma being released from their hearts. I knew there’d be much more work to do, but this was helpful.

As we walked the final blocks home, we passed the historic Chicago Water Tower. Daniel tugged on my arm and pointed at a fountain as we passed. "Mama, it's working! This morning the man was fixing a broken fountain and he fixed it!"

"He fixed it, he fixed it!" shouted Elie. "Well done! It was broken and now it's fixed!"

My heart tried to rejoice and match their enthusiasm. We did, in fact, need something to celebrate. We were still less than 15 minutes from watching a man be beaten within inches of his life. It was hard to shake off shock and find joy in a fountain being turned back on.

But I could see what was happening. When we came up from the underground, there were helpers. There were fixers. Something that was broken that morning was working now. And that was worth acknowledging. It was worth clapping and shouting over.

"He did it!" I shouted, fist-pumping in the air. "He did it! He fixed the broken things!" We honored the plumber with our words, but my heart was prophesying the Kingdom, the deeply broken things that needed fixing. Oh, Lord, turn on the fountains. Send the helpers. Restore the empty places and fill them with your presence.