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I am 16, and my father and I are driving home when a dented grey car in front of us comes to an abrupt stop. I wonder whether they're having engine trouble. Then a man throws a woman out of the car, pushes her down in the street, and begins beating her head against the curb. Her eyes are expressionless, as if her spirit has left her body rather than feel this pain. Three small children in the back window of the car look at us with terrified faces. The oldest boy yells, "Stop it!" at his father. I want to go gather them into the safety of our truck. My father's handgun is locked in the glove compartment. He wears it for self-defense while crossing the railyard late at night. My brother and I are not allowed to touch the gun, even when it is unloaded. "We have to help them," I plead. I can tell my father is torn between my safety and the desire to help those children. He removes his seat belt. "No matter what happens," he tells me, "do not get out of the truck. If I'm hurt, drive to the police station and get help." The police station is more than three blocks away. I would never make it there in time to help my father. But I nod to indicate that I understand. He takes a fleeting look at the glove compartment, locks his door, and leaves. When the man sees my father, he releases the woman, who immediately frees the children from the car. My father talks to the man in a calm, level voice and offers to help with his car, explaining that he does not want trouble. The man's hand gestures become less animated. My father was a professional boxer in his younger years, but he is vanquishing this man with only his confidence and the sound of his voice. My father continues to talk, allowing the mother and children to enter the nearest restaurant. I can see her using the pay phone to call for help. Eventually the man gets into his oil-burning car and drives away. My father returns to the truck, and we look at one another but say nothing. On our way home, we stop at the police station. My father goes in alone, because he does not want to involve me. Waiting in the truck, I gaze at the cold winter stars, naming the constellations in an effort to stop myself from shaking. I wonder whether I could have done as my father asked and left him there while I went for help. I am thankful that I was not put to the test. Eventually my father returns, and we sit in silence for a time, the space between us thick with emotion. "I didn't take the gun," my father begins, "because bringing more violence into their lives would not have helped them. If he had a gun, too, we could have all been killed." For the second time that day, I nod that I understand, and this time I truly do. Margo Rinehart Seattle, Washington Readers Write on Safety The Sun, November 2002 <<<