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A while back the Berkeley police chased someone over the Oakland border and into my neighborhood. I heard the sirens and screeching tires long before they arrived. When I looked out my front window, I could see cop cars on every corner and others cruising up and down Dover and its side streets. I left my 17-month-old nephew and my 13-year-old friend Jernae safely inside and went out to investigate. There was a police car parked in front of my house.  

“What’s up?” I asked.  

“We’re lookin’ for somebody,” the policewoman answered. “African-American, ponytail and no shirt. If you see him, call 911.”  

“What did he do?”  

She didn’t answer.  

I walked up Dover Street, toward the corner of 55th where several cruisers were parked.  

“What happened?” I asked one of the three policemen leaning against a patrol car.  

“We’re lookin’ for somebody,” he said.  

“What’d he do?” I asked.  

“He ran into this neighborhood. He’s somewhere around here, but we’re not sure where.”  

By now, many of my neighbors were on their front porches and steps. It was a hot afternoon and they sat and fanned themselves with magazines and newspapers as a flurry of activity roared up and down our usually quiet streets.  

“What happened?” they asked me as I walked by.  

“I don’t know,” I said, heading east on 56th Street. More police cars were at the intersection and when I turned south on Shattuck, I could see blue lights flashing on the corner a block away.  

By now there were citizens in cars also cruising the streets, looking for action, and guys and women on scooters and bicycles, and on foot in sandals and sneakers. When I got back to my house, the police activity was centered directly across the street from my front door. Officers held their guns ready as others went into my neighbors’ backyards. There were people I didn’t know lounging on my front steps and others standing in my driveway. Some of them had cell phones and cameras. Jernae was on the front porch holding my nephew.  

A guy with a press pass around his neck walked by and I stopped him. “Do you know what’s going on?” I asked.  

“Yeah, there’s been another shooting. They think the guy who did it is behind one of those houses over there.” He pointed to a bungalow across the street.  

“I guess he doesn’t have a weapon on him, does he? I mean, they wouldn’t let this many regular citizens stand around here watching if they thought it was dangerous, would they?”  

“I don’t know,” he answered, surveying the 50 or so people who had gathered on the nearby corners and sidewalks. “How they gonna control this mob?”  

He was right. It looked like the Philadelphia Mummers Day Parade was about to begin.  

“Get back in the house,” I said to Jernae. “And take the baby with you.”  

She disappeared behind the closed door, the reporter kept walking, someone with a ponytail and no shirt rode by on a bicycle and the strangers on my front step got up and left. After an hour the police left too. I went inside the house and thought about how frightening it was to have this happen in our neighborhood, especially when I was taking care of two young children.  

I went upstairs and looked at my computer. Jernae had been searching the internet again for her favorite rap songs. I read the lyrics that covered the screen: 

Get low, Get low  

To the window, to the wall, (to dat wall) 

To the sweat drip down my balls (my balls) 

To all these bitches crawl (crawl) 

To all skit skit motherfucker (motherfucker!) all skit skit got dam (Got dam) 

To all skit skit motherfucker (motherfucker!) all skit skit got dam (Got dam) 

Pa pop yo pussy like this cause yin yang twins in this bitch 

Lil Jon and the East Side boys wit me and we all like to see ass and titties 

Now bring yo ass over here ho and let me see you get low if you want this thug 

Now take it to the floor (to the floor) and if yo ass wanta act you can keep yo ass where you at  

I pushed the delete button and turned off the computer. It wasn’t just scary outside. It was scary inside, too.