“You’re a narcissistic, arrogant, racist moron,” I said.  Bracing myself against the wall, I placed a 2-inch high heel in his crotch and pushed. I stood there for a moment, observing my accomplishment; my neighbor on the ground, a startled look on his face, the smarm vanished. Then I realized I’d better get moving.

He’d been parading his bigoted opinions in the neighborhood for months. Flying Confederate flags, chewing out people from his front porch. I’d watched from my picture window, observing those who’d endured his abuse cross the street to avoid his house. I’ll never forget the day he came out on the sidewalk and pinned a teenage girl against the telephone pole, loudly informing her of her ancestors’ purported sins. I’d started to open my door to intervene when the 16-year-old skateboarding dude from next door rolled up and rescued her. I didn’t see that young woman on our street again.

Where had this bozo come from? This was California in 2010, enlightened and open minded. Hispanics were no longer a minority, a black man was president. We were neighborly regardless of color, knew each other’s names, left zucchini on each other’s front porches. I’d contemplated bringing him cookies or pie, finding a Buddhist way to soften him. But I am not a person who reaches out, and he scared me.

On this day, I’d returned from a job interview that had gone well.  I felt hopeful and strong and confident. My life was changing, and I wasn’t going to be looking back. I looked up from locking my car to see him standing in the sidewalk in front of his house, hands on his hips, wide shoulders and threatening stance. We stared at each other for a moment, taking each other in from a closer distance than usual. He was younger than I had thought; his hair not really grey but an ashy blond, his body tall and straight. It was the angry lines on his face that gave him age.

“I see you watching me from your window!” he shouted.

I still stared. I had absolutely no idea what to say to this man. I wanted him nowhere near me. But I was a goddess today, feeling good, virtuous, and compassionate. Maybe he could be talked to.

I walked confidently across the street, putting myself closer to his belligerent face. I stuck out my hand; maybe kindness could kill.

“I’m Dana.”

Silence. He didn’t move a muscle.

“Why you watching me?” he bellowed.

“Why do you think?”

Silence.

“Stop.” He said roughly. “This is my house, and I don’t like being watched.”

“You sort of draw attention to yourself,” I said.

He shifted his weight, I took a step back.

“Just stop.” He turned and walked away.

From a man who usually had so much to say, I was surprised by his reticence. I followed, feeling bold.

“I live here too,” I said, “and I don’t like the way you talk to people on the street. I’ve almost called the cops on you, you know. What IS your problem?”

He halted and turned, his breathing heavy. And then he started talking. He’d worked out all his arguments cleverly and logically. The world was his to carve and complete around him, everyone looking and sounding and feeling just like him. I stood and listened for many minutes, astounded. Every few seconds he would take a step toward me, backing me up against the garage wall.

When he stopped, I could hear the chickadees in the trees, and the anticipatory breathing of the kids standing on the sidewalk, catching the conflict walking home from school. We all waited. And then I pushed.

I stood there and looked at him sprawled on his driveway for a few moments, and then I remembered to breathe again before I walked back to my home. I had won this round, and was serenaded by cheers from the kids. But I was crying, my whole body shaking. Who knows if this bully had been defeated?