When you were young, your parents likely taught you not to touch or take what’s not yours. One of those early teachings most people get.
However, two recent incidents magnified the fact there are people that have forgotten this important early life lesson.
Now, I realize people steal and take things all of the time. I am not naive to the greedy, evil side of human nature. But when a stranger comes into your sandbox and touches or takes your toys, it really hits close to home.
The first incident involves my garden. I’m a bit of a green thumb, and I have perennial and annual gardens all around my front and back yards. The garden in question is one in my front yard, and sits on the edge of the front sidewalk under the balcony of a beautiful, old linden tree. You can see it here.
It’s far from perfect, but still a pop of beauty as you drive or stroll down my street.
For years, people have stopped and admired the blooms as they go by. So I didn’t think much of the lady who stopped in front of my garden a few weeks ago. Just as I noticed her from inside my house, her admiration morphed into green thumb robbery. She bent down, dug a little with her bare hands and pulled out by the roots one of my plants. And then she took off.
I stood there dumbfounded until I realized what she had done. She actually dug out one of my plants, roots and all, and took it home. I considered giving chase, but quickly surmised that a street-side confrontation might not be the smartest thing in a neighborhood that obviously has a few sketchy types. While it was just a plant, it was my plant. I grew it, watered it, fed it. It was my living art, so rudely snatched from its comfortable, soil home.
But here’s the thing about green thumbs. Karma is on our side. The plant she stole? It’s a biennial, which for those who aren’t a garden nerd means it won’t live past the season. Ha! Enjoy that dead plant next spring, lady.
My second incident of touching and taking what’s not yours is much more serious.
It was girls night out on Whyte Avenue and the end of the evening landed us at Cook County for a little dancing. As I was out on the dance floor with some random two-stepper, a different guy grabbed my ass. Not a brush of the hand, or a pinch, or even a gentle slap. This was a full, two-handed grab from behind. Both cheeks. My superpower in the clutches of a seedy male villain.
Long story short, I lost it. As the grabby guy tried to exit the scene, I hauled him back and gave him very clear instructions on what I would do to him if he ever tried that on me or any other woman again. His reaction? There wasn’t one. He just stood there, blank faced, staring at me and consciously oblivious to the social norms and laws surrounding other people’s bodies. He was someone we should all be afraid of.
The experience was disturbing. Had some random guy grabbed my ass while I was out for a run, the police would be involved and you’d be hearing on the news about another incident in south Edmonton that may be connected to the string of assaults on women this past year. But because it happened in a bar, sadly, it’s not viewed the same way.
The moral of the story is obvious. I shouldn’t even have to say it. But clearly I do. Your parents taught you well. And laws exist for a reason. There are boundaries to what’s yours and what’s mine. Don’t touch my garden. Or any girl’s garden. Hands off.