by Assunta Ng
Northwest Asia Weekly
Nursing staff caring for my husband (Photo by Assunta Ng)
I am a beneficiary of good cops and a victim of bad cop racism.
First, disturbing events. In 2001, a police officer stopped a group of students, lined them up, filmed them, and then searched them at 4th Avenue South and Main Street South (now Pinglin Plaza) and charged them with jaywalking. More than 20 high school students are enrolling in a summer youth leadership program organized by the Northwest Asia Weekly Foundation.
Some of the students who were terrified were crying. While lining up, the police asked the students, “Are you Japanese?” “Do you speak English?” A brave soul, David Ka, a student photographer, sneaked across the road and photographed the police and the students Photo of lining up against the wall. Ka now works for Vulcan in the International District of Chinatown.
Most of these teens were American-born. So does Andrew Cho, chair and coordinator of the Tacoma Community College sociology program.
One side of the road is blocked so there is no traffic. The incident took place before the construction of the railway and houses. Apart from our students, there are hardly any pedestrians. Unable to find the error, the police gave the student a citation for allegedly jaywalking. When you have a group of people who belong to the same organization with more than 20 members crossing the street together, they don’t go as fast as they usually do, closely behind each other.
The police couldn’t find the students’ fault, so he had to punish them with something. Hence the jaywalking tickets. I’m not going to budge. I want to compete for this ticket. One of the speakers for the program is Yvonne Konoshita Ward. I didn’t know students could be treated so unfairly. They contacted attorney Ward, who had spoken to the class about social injustice.
The incident got so big that the Japanese American Citizens Union and Chinese American organizations stepped in to help. Stories from students and two organizations produced online news and mainstream newspapers. Represented pro bono by Ward and public defender Leo Hamaji, we ended up going to city court to contest the ticket. The judge threw away the ticket because it was racially charged.
That is the past. A racist police officer does not represent the entire police force.
This is an isolated incident.
Recently, a terrible thing happened to me. It would have been a disaster for my husband and I had it not been for that cop who stopped the car and ran out to help me.
It was January 27th, a cold night. I had a meeting at Joyale restaurant. To make sure I was safe, my husband and I walked to the restaurant on South Jackson Street with a homeless camp nearby. After crossing Seventh Avenue South, he didn’t feel well.
“My feet are soft,” he said. He took some new medicines and had some side effects.
“Go back to your office,” I said. “I can go by myself.”
At the intersection at 8th Avenue South, I’m waiting for the red light to turn green so I can follow the curb towards Joyale. Before the light turned green, I looked back and saw someone lying on the floor. If I don’t look back, I may regret it for the rest of my life. I saw two people passing by, staring intently at the person lying on the ground, and then proceeding at the fastest speed.
This reminds me of Princess Diana’s car accident. As she was dying, a member of the paparazzi stroked her hand and photographed her instead of saving her. Another story illustrates the same point. In 2018, Hollywood star George Clooney was injured in a motorcycle accident in Italy. He said in a British newspaper that bystanders just filmed the incident, rather than rushing to help. Although Clooney recovered, he thought at that moment that he would never see his family again.
I ran back to see the man. I was shocked to find that it was my husband, his face streaming in the twilight, right where the Seventh Avenue auto shop used to be. In fear and despair, I looked up and saw a police car waiting at a red light on 7th Avenue South.
“Help, help, help,” I shouted with all my might several times.
I felt less frightened when the policeman approached us from his car. The truth is, I don’t know what to do. This is exactly what the Chinese proverb says, “What is involved is invisible, and the beholder sees it”.
I couldn’t calm down because my husband had a lot of blood on his face. Of course, I can call 911 myself. Often, responders ask so many questions that it takes longer to get help.
The police asked a few questions about what happened, where we lived, and what we wanted to do about my husband’s situation. But first, he looked at my husband’s wound.
“Do you want me to put a bandage on his eyebrows?” he asked, blood gushing from where. A chunk of flesh disappeared from above his lips.
“Yes,” I replied. He told me my husband had a cut above his eye. He called paramedics and they arrived within minutes.
The police and doctors determined that my husband needed stitches.
“Do you want me to take you home or call an ambulance?” he asked.
When he said my husband needed stitches, I said, “Ambulance.”
“Which hospital do you want to go to?” the doctor asked.
“Swedish food,” I replied, as it was the closest to Chinatown.
A few minutes later, the ambulance came. I was not allowed to go with my husband.
“During Covid, no visitors are allowed to enter the hospital,” the paramedics said.
The whole incident, from when I found my husband on the floor to when he was in the ambulance, took over ten minutes. If I had called 911 and explained the whole situation, it would have probably doubled the time until my husband got help. My past experiences of calling 911 for bloody employees and other incidents for safety have often taken longer. “It’s a mess, it’s a mess,” said a friend who recently called 911.
Later, my husband told me he was dizzy and unconscious. He didn’t know that he fell heavily on the ground and hurt himself. Fortunately, hospital scans showed he had no broken bones or concussions. In addition to all the scrapes, bruises and injuries on his face, feet and nose, he had eight stitches – four above his eyes and four on his knees. His trousers and coat were torn and he fell badly. He is now healed.
I wish I was calmer in the chaos. Although I remembered to thank the officer, I didn’t ask his name. I never knew who he was, although I asked Seattle Police Chief Adrian Diaz to identify him. I want to say “thank you” for his service and being a good cop.
But my inner reporter, let me snap a quick picture of my husband before the ambulance took him away. A photo showed his face covered in blood. He knew exactly what was going on. He told me to go home and he would call me.
My best friend in California said, “Do you know how lucky you are to have a cop by your side when you need help?” Not everyone in the International District of Chinatown is so lucky when they need help.
A reader also told me that he only speaks Chinese and called 911 and didn’t get a call. (Diaz has previously said that if victims and witnesses don’t speak English, the city’s 911 operators can connect to certified interpreters in more than 200 languages and dialects.)
“I know,” I said. “I just looked up and felt helpless in that moment, wondering who could help me. The police were right in front of me. It was like God sent an angel.”
Assunta can reach assunta@nwasianweekly.com.
