When I was 15 it seemed like all I wanted to do was walk around outside. Especially in winter, when the streets were less crowded, especially at night when the scene was more inspiring.

My parents objected. It wasn’t about appropriateness for them; it was about my safety.

But I was safe. I knew I was safe. An experienced walker notes her environment and tends to move as unobtrusively as a fly on a wall. Drivers don’t notice her. She can avoid other walkers if she wishes.

So one of my first objects when I left home was to be able to walk without parental impedance. I did it a lot.

I’d say I became a professional pedestrian except that no one’s ever paid me to do it. I learned how to walk well and wherever I wished.

Sometimes I ventured into neighborhoods with unsavory reputations. It wasn’t that I sought them out; I just didn’t always avoid them. Invariably I’d get into a “take back the streets” posture then, walking with a little more force and direction, stride-challenging someone to dare to challenge me. I never experienced a mishap and I was often surprised at the smiles or words I exchanged with other folks.

So I was flabbergasted when I read several months ago about trouble in a San Francisco park. The news reported that a litter of hooligans, unemployed scruffy-looking men some of whom had pit bulls, were taking over benches in Washington Square Park, letting their dogs behave rudely and otherwise rendering others uncomfortable about their presence. Demands were made that the police step up and do their jobs: enforce rules so others could enjoy the park.

My surprise was not about the dozen rude rowdies. It was about the assumption that this was a police problem. People! It’s only a clump of losers! You don’t need the police! Just gather a group of good guys and confront the assholes. What are there: a dozen of them, max? So you get three dozen and go have a talk. 

Nobody’s listening.