I recently read in the newspaper about a Tuskegee veteran whose medal was stolen when someone broke into his house. There has been a little hue and cry regarding this crime-especially since the victim is a WW2 veteran, but reading the article brought back my own memories of when our house was burglarized. Keep in mind, each person's story, each person's reaction is different, and regardless of what was stolen, there is a sense of violation after one's house has been burgled.
December 6, 2007, I thought I had an afterschool meeting, so my son was with my mom, and this ultimately meant we were late getting home. That evening, I parked in front of our house because we had so much to carry in and I wasn't in the mood to try to get past our two dogs with all our stuff. I was helping my son out of the car when our two dogs ran up to us. I was mystified; the dogs were supposed to be in the backyard, how did they get out? As I walked up to our gate, I realized that it looked like it had been kicked in. I also briefly noticed the claw marks on the wooden fence. Ultimately, I believe the dogs had been teased into jumping at the fence, leaving long claw marks. Our back gate faced an alley, and it too had been kicked in. My heart dropped. I knew we had been buglarized; one of my greatest fears was coming true.
The burglars used a crowbar to break the glass on the back door, and our house was thoroughly searched. It was a mess! They also used a crowbar on our garage door, and our truck was gone as were most of the keys we had hanging in the hallway. Our mattress was partially on the floor, underwear was all over the room, drawers were broken, and they even searched my wedding dress box. The crime scene tech asked if we'd made someone mad or if we were trying to jump into a gang. He said the mess that was made was usually done by someone pissed and looking for drugs or as someone was jumping into a gang. The only traceable evidence was a bloodstain left on our bedspread.
I was in shock. As I put my house back together, I couldn't believe someone would feel the right to break into my house, touch my stuff, steal my memories, and make me feel unsafe. I felt violated. The only two stolen items that eventually were found were our truck and my husband's antique hatchet. And the damage to our truck! We couldn't stand the sight or the stench of our beloved truck.
While the goods that were stolen were (mostly) replaceable, what wasn't replaceable was peace of mind. I couldn't go home for weeks without circling the block and the alley to make sure it was safe for us to go in. I hated being home alone. I locked everything. Worst of all, I couldn't be in the backyard anymore. Our poor dogs were freaked out for weeks, so I have no idea what the burglars did to them. My 'final straw' came after our burlgary, after our garage and fence were tagged again, when my husband's work truck mirror was smashed by a bottle one night. I was done with that house and that neighborhood. Within three months of the mirror incident, we sold our house and left the neighborhood.
My sense of violation has slowly dissipated over the past three years. I still lock everything, and it's a habit to slowly approach the house, making sure all windows are intact and no one has gained entry. However, I am finally able to enjoy our backyard. I'm beginning to feel safer. I know I'll never be able to fully prevent another break-in, but I do my best to make it more difficult. I feel for the veteran whose memories were stolen when his house was violated, and I hope his stolen medal is returned.
The question that remains, however, is why? Why feel such a sense of entitlement to break into someone's personal space? Why is burglary okay? I found that even the police were slow to respond to us and they chalked it up to 'another' burglary in the city. Although our burglary was caught-in our pickup with stolen goods that weren't ours-arrested, tried, and convicted, I won't ask him these questions. He's pretty scary looking. I wish I understood better why theft is acceptable in our society.
