A troubling encounter.

by julianna paradisi

Although it happened over two months ago, I’m still haunted by the memory, particularly during this cold, harsh winter following on the heels of a politically tumultuous summer and fall.

I’ve run the same loop along the Willamette River in Portland, Oregon, for years. This particular morning, a young man walked some 20 feet ahead of me on the sidewalk. He carried by its neck a 1/2 gallon jug of apple juice. Unexpectedly, he tossed an opened box of granola bars, with several individually wrapped bars inside, to the ground and kept walking.

He stopped abruptly at the same time I stopped to wait on the curb for traffic to subside so I could cross to the other side of the street, which is what I routinely do on my route.

We were now six to eight feet apart. From my peripheral vision I noticed him turn and face me. Because we’re in the middle of a pandemic, I was wearing a mask; this and my proximity seemed to disturb him. I stepped away a few paces, giving him more space.

Over my shoulder he said, “You’re a bitch.” I ignored him. He stepped closer, and repeated more loudly, “You’re a bitch!”

There was too much traffic to cross the street. I was stuck. I assessed my safety risk.

He was clean-shaven, his hair recently cut. His clothes were rumpled, but clean. He looked like he could be the son of one of my friends. His face was young with wide, round, gray eyes.

Those eyes stared at me, but whatever they saw, I was sure it wasn’t me. I wondered: Is he having a mental breakdown, perhaps his first? Is there a family somewhere searching for him after he didn’t come home last night?

Again, he called me a bitch. Then he picked up a handful of gravel from the sidewalk and began throwing pieces at me. Not a rock came close; he missed every time, despite close range. Even I could have hit me from that distance.

While I am not a mental health nurse, I have been a pediatric nurse; his behavior wasn’t menacing so much as like that of a young child protecting himself from a bully, or someone he feared. Psychotic episodes often bring exactly such fear.

Who to call to help a mentally ill stranger in crisis?

I knew to disengage for both of our safety. This young man happened to be Black, and I understood, from recent events, that if I used my phone and called for help, there was a strong possibility the situation would escalate.

My impulse was to get this young man appropriate help, but most likely my phone call would be dispatched to the police. How would he react to uniformed police officers if he was afraid of me, a white woman out for a run? What if this young man, seemingly not in his right mind, started throwing rocks at the police? What if the situation escalated? What if he were shot?

The headline, “Police Shoot Black Youth for Throwing Pebbles at White Woman,” flashed before my eyes.

For young men with mental illness who are exhibiting any degree of disturbed or threatening behavior—and particularly if they are Black men—it’s not always helpful to call the police, and can sometimes be fatal.

A growing need on city streets.

Previously, also while running, I’d tried calling the nonemergency number to alert someone about a woman who appeared to be tripping out, and possibly in danger. My cellphone battery was nearly depleted trying to get through the automated menu; I was unable to get help for her either.

Traffic cleared, and I crossed the street safely. The young man didn’t follow. He stopped shouting and throwing rocks.

Reluctantly, I decided the best I could do was continue on my run. I looped back to where I’d left him on my return home, but he was gone.

Did his family find him? Did he make it home?

CAHOOTS: A new street response pilot program.

As I write this, there is hope for the future. In the aftermath of Portland’s protests, city hall announced the launch of a Street Response pilot program. Long called for by mental health and homeless advocates, a mobile team consisting of mental health workers, a social worker, and a paramedic was created to respond to nonviolent encounters such as this with the purpose of providing services instead of making arrests. The program is similar to the successful CAHOOTS* (Crisis Assistance Helping Out On The Streets) program in Eugene, Oregon, which has serving their citizens for the past 30 years.

For now, Portland’s Street Response team is only available to a single neighborhood, chosen for its large population of displaced people and lack of resources. It’s not the neighborhood where I encountered the troubled young man. However, I can hope the program proves useful and is expanded so that in the future, when this happens again, there is someone safe to call for help.

(Editor’s note: there will be an AJN Reports article on the CAHOOTS program in our April issue.)