I drive a couple of blocks and the streets get darker. As I near my Powderhorn home, domestic boulevards overtake the lights of the small commercial center in my rearview. It’s just past 11:30 p.m.

Outside of downtown, it’s hard to escape the modesty of urban life in Minneapolis. This is no concrete jungle, more like an overgrown prairie with lakes and sidewalks. But all that is frozen over now — winter holds its grudges.

I am trailing two cars, homeward bound, with no real sense of urgency. Before long, about a half-block in front of me, two objects appear in the street. These are not cars, but something smaller. I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It’s snowing again, and the flurry blurs focus like a pixelated television. Foot hovering over the brakes, I keep driving, prepared for any sudden stops.

As I get closer, I discern two figures. They walk urgently, weaving back and forth through the passing vehicles. I inch closer to the pedestrians, careful not to make the wrong move, especially on these Minneapolis streets where cars glide for yards on carpets of black ice.

The vehicles ahead of me swerve slightly and honk, avoid the first person, and drive away. As I get closer, I see that it’s a woman. She rushes toward my car, waving her left hand in the air. Her gaze meets mine as I pass. I see her eyes, wide and dark — they scream with fright, like prey.

I swerve out of the way, too, her body glancing past my driver’s side window. Despite the cold, she’s only wearing a tank top and jeans. She’s also holding the right side of her head, as if in pain. Her mouth is open, her face stretched sideways in what looks like exhaustion.

She’s tall, maybe five feet, 10 inches. Her skin is light brown, and she has messy, dark hair and deep-set eyes. My guess is she’s Native American, given her presence in this part of South Minneapolis. Most of our streets and lakes — hell, even the state — are named after Native peoples. Most now live in homes scattered around these blocks, but some are in the nearby projects off Cedar Avenue.

Then I pass the second figure, a man, looking possessed. He’s short, with piercing eyes, gritted teeth, and persistence in every step. His energy is almost otherworldly, like the rabid dog I once saw in Sierra Leone. Unlike his companion, he does not glance my way or notice cars on the road. He’s fixed on the woman, walking rapidly in her direction with what appears to be a thick wool sweater in his right hand.

I drive past him, struggling to sync this information in my mind. I remind myself to look forward to avoid a crash. Mere seconds ago, I assumed these were drunken college kids playing in the streets. Now I understand otherwise.

The drivers in front of me continue on as if they’ve seen nothing. Selfishly, I want to do the same. I want to go home, to sleep. And I try. But after another half block, I pull over and take a heavy breath. I’m conflicted. Do you want to do this? Favoring instinct over reason, I turn the corner and circle the block.

When I approach again, the woman is crossing the four-way intersection, heading north down Bloomington Avenue. The man is still following her from the other side, some 20 yards behind. I speed up, cut between them, and turn right to follow the woman. With the man in my rearview, I drive up several yards to where the woman continues her seemingly desperate escape.

I watch for cars coming from the other direction, drive up the middle of the street, and pull up next to the woman. She darts away from the car at first, likely assuming I’m trying to pass her. Instead, I roll down the window to ask if she’s alright.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” Of course she’s not.

She jumps, startled by the voice. Though the night is quiet, my mind is loud. I question my decision to intercede. Is this wise? I’m a man, too, after all. A Black man at that.

“Ma’am! Are you alright?”

The woman comes to her senses and yells through tears and melted snow, “No, no! Please help! Can I have a ride?”

“Of course.”

I’m startled by my confidence, and suddenly wary of a potential trap or ploy. Yet I lean over and try to open the passenger door. It’s frozen shut.

I glance in the rearview mirror, anxious that our brief moments of stillness have let the man draw close. And they have. His steps quicken as he sees the woman prepare to enter the car. Looking toward him, her hands fumble the handle a couple more times.

“Pull hard!” I yell, my heart beating in my ears.

After two or three seconds that feel like minutes, she gives a final tug that cracks the seal of ice. She opens the door and the car is instantly overcome by frigid air, its warmth suctioned away. The woman slams the door and I drive. The man, about to reach the car, begins to run. Each footstep is a stammer, hands flailing in the air as he fades from view.

The initial silence is accompanied by the woman’s heavy, unsteady breathing. The passenger side window fogs up as she catches her breath. From the corner of my eye, I see her many colorful tattoos. Her facial features are pronounced, her cheekbones high and wide, chin low, almost triangular.

Goosebumps climb her bare arms as if the cold air is catching up to her shock. Shaking, she leans forward for a few moments, her face in her hands. Her right hand combs through her hair but quickly pulls away as she curses under her breath. A large wound irritates the side of her scalp.

I again ask my senseless question. “Are you alright?” I feel at a loss.

She says nothing at first, tries only to steady her breath. Then, tucking her head into her lap, she starts repeating to herself, “No, no, no, no…”

I heed her energy. I say nothing, sensing she’s not ready for conversation. Instead, I blast the heat and keep driving past the turnoff for my home.

Not knowing where I’m going, I ask her again, timidly. “Ma’am, are you alright?” She instantly bursts into tears. I add “I’m so sorry. Is there somewhere I can take you?”

Slow to comfort, she begins to open up. She tells me more than I asked for, as if processing it for herself. She tells me the man, a friend, was on a drunken binge at a local bar. Then he got loud and handsy with her. When she tried to get him to stop, he became violent, pushing and hitting her in front of the other patrons. When staff tried to interfere, she ran out the front door into the cold air. He began chasing her, and he didn’t stop until the moment we drove away.

In the scramble, she tells me, he stripped her of her sweater and shirt, where she’d pocketed her wallet and phone. She was down to her white tank top and ripped jeans.

“No one would stop and help.” Her voice is deep. “It felt like I was running for 30 minutes.”

The thought of the man trailing her sickens me. She complains about her aching head, a small patch of hair pulled from her scalp in the scuffle. We’re seeing each other now, eye to eye. I empathize as best I can, knowing I’ve never been in her position.

“God bless you,” she says, but I call my worth into question. Her words are genuine and grateful, but I receive them with shame. There were so many times I never stopped.

“Is there somewhere I can take you? I’ll drive you wherever.”

She’s uncertain of where to go. While she thinks about my question, I ask her if it’s alright to stop at my house, now two miles behind us.

“Maybe I have an old sweater or something I can give you.”

She agrees and I circle back. When I arrive home it’s nearing midnight. I park the car and hesitate for a moment with my hands on the keys. I want to keep the car warm for her, but the cynic in me wonders if it’s smart to leave her alone in my car and with my keys. Again trusting instinct over reason, I detach my house key from the chain and rush inside, the car still on.

“I’ll be right back.”

My mutt of a dog, Franklin, jumps to his feet as I enter and follows me to my bedroom on the opposite side of the house. He trots behind me, long nails clacking on wooden floorboards like a miniature horse. I don’t entertain him like I normally would. Instead, I burrow through my closet to secure the thickest, warmest sweatshirt I can find. It’s the one my grandfather — Opa, my family calls him — gave me when I turned 18. It’s too big for me, but that’s why I like it. It makes me feel protected, hidden. It’s the same reason I always wear a hat. I hesitate again but swallow my creeping regrets. Before heading back out, I grab the $25 that rests in the top drawer of my dresser.

As I walk out of the bedroom, I pass myself in the mirror hanging from the closet door. I look tired. My withered brown boots, khaki pants, leather coat, and baseball cap only seem to mask what rests beneath. The growing beard on my face makes me look like my father, with whom I’ve just reconnected. My eyes are dark and cumbersome, and the endless white of winter has turned my brown skin pale.

I peer down at Franklin in the mirror, who sits at my feet and cocks his head, silken eyes amused by the look of me. I chuckle and return to the car.

When I see the vehicle still parked outside my house, I silently reprimand myself for doubting her. I hand her the sweatshirt and the money and she timidly accepts both, putting on the sweatshirt right away. It fits her better than it fit me.

“Have you thought about where you’d like to go?” The energy in the car has steadied. It’s calm, collected. “Seriously,” I add, “You name it.”

She directs me to a house a couple of miles away, where a girlfriend lives. She calls her friend on my phone, confirming they’re there, and we drive off once again. On the way, she asks me my name. I’m reminded that we’ve shared this entire experience without knowing each other’s names.

“Matthew.”

“Oh, I love that name. That’s one of my favorite names.”

I smile and I accept it. I don’t care if she’s being sincere or not. “Thanks. And you?”

“My name is Mary.”

I pause, shocked by her response.

“That’s my mom’s name,” I tell her. She can hear the excitement in my voice.

“No way,” she says through a smile. I picture my mom, likely asleep on her bed or the couch with the TV on and a blanket half draped over her body, aging gracefully in her quaint uptown apartment.

I learn a lot about Mary in those two miles to her friend’s house. She was released from jail two weeks prior, some days before Thanksgiving. She was caught selling weed two years ago, and they locked her up. She talks about the difficulty of putting all the pieces back into place — calls it “a puzzle.”

“It’s really hard when you get out,” she says. “Everything feels like a trap. It feels like everyone I know has turned their backs on me.”

I can feel her weight, and I try to lighten the mood. “How was your Thanksgiving?”

Mary’s face lights up. She tells me about her “tiny” new apartment in the Phillips neighborhood, and how she hosted seven members of her large family. Her energy has completely changed. Her voice is higher now, and she’s sitting almost straight up, her hands animating every word. I’m touched by her warm spirit, as if she’s transferring it to me.

She talks about the difficulty of putting all the pieces back into place — calls it “a puzzle.”

“Do you have any children?” I ask.

“Eight,” she says proudly.

Eight? My surprise is honest. That’s a hell of a lot of children. I’m reminded of my own five siblings — three of whom I don’t know.

“Were they around for Thanksgiving?” I ask, digging deeper.

She begins to break down again, finds it difficult to muster words. I don’t know her, but I feel like I do. I feel like I’m conversing with a different iteration of my spiritual and emotional self — one less privileged, but similarly broken and dejected.

That hour with Mary shaped me (and continues to shape me) in a way no other has.

She tells me she lost all eight children to the foster care system, and that this most recent arrest was not her first time in trouble with the law. There was no father around to support the kids, so the state took them away. I think of my father and his children, each shaped in some way by his absence, though to a lesser extreme. Mary brought the case to court and fought for custody, but ultimately lost.

“I tried so hard… I did everything I could,” she says. I believe her.

Her friend is waiting behind the front door screen when we arrive, the light behind her casting a large shadow on her front lawn. I slow the car to a halt, uncertain about how to end what feels like a scripted drama. But Mary turns to me, leans in for a half-hug in Opa’s oversized sweatshirt, gently grabs my hand, and looks me in the eyes.

“Miigwech.” She pronounces it “meeg-way-ch.”

I must look puzzled. She laughs a warm laugh and says it again, “Miigwech. It means ‘thank you’ in my language. I’m Ojibwe.”

“Wow…” All I can muster before she leaves is, “Thank you.”

I think about Mary often. I wonder where she is, what she’s doing, and if she ever got her kids back. It took me months to begin chronicling this experience, and six years to publish it. There was too much to process, too much to learn and grow from. That hour with Mary shaped me (and continues to shape me) in a way no other has. The experience reflected all I’d buried deep in my own life. It laid bare the pains of childhood and trials of adulthood, the fragmentation of family, the patient mending of my spirit.

For one, she reminded me of my mom, who was also a survivor of senseless violence and abuse at the hands of a man — my father, in particular. My mother suffered her own wounds, her own bruises. It took me years to look at her without invoking her pain. Growing up as her son and her support system, I was overcome with guilt. I was away, struggling through my first couple months at DePaul University, while the abuse happened. As a result, I processed her experience selfishly, focusing on my own guilt over not being more present for her. It took time to see past the traumas she endured, and to see her not as a victim but as everything she deemed more important: a mother, sister, partner, friend, and entrepreneur.

It took time for me to understand that just because my mother doesn’t talk about her pain anymore doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel it and think about it, or that she’s not fundamentally changed by it. Seeing my father, however cordial they might be now, is a bitter reminder of the ways male fragility tore down trust and a familial bedrock three decades in the making.

Second, my experience that winter night forced me to confront my male fragility. In the man who chased Mary, I saw the same wild and turbulent eyes I’d often seen in my father. And I recognized in them both something all too familiar: a man so afraid of his own shadow that he takes his pain out on others. A man so incapable of processing emotions that he either implodes or explodes. And this scared the hell out of me, knowing with all my sensitivities and emotions and expressiveness, I still felt caged by the toxic ways boys are conditioned to subdue hurt.

I feared the power in my hands. That a man as meek and jovial as my father could turn so calloused. That in time, one could become so repressed that their very temperament changes. I hated admitting that the discontent and anger I felt toward my father was not much unlike the anger that changed him. That our two-year severance was not dissimilar from the one between him and his stepfather, who’d abused his mother. How cyclical and generational our pain.

Do I engage in justice as much as I speak about it?

My encounter with Mary also forced me to reckon with my complicity as a leader and philanthropist. I thought of when I stayed home instead of participating in the local protest. When I denied the gaze of someone less privileged peddling for food on the street. Comfort was a reliable and convenient choice, not a moral one. I engaged in coddling behaviors, like seeking a male friend’s atonement before protecting the peace and well-being of the harmed. I wasn’t nobler than the average person. I was merely thrust, uncomfortably, past the passive role of bystander into the active role of resister. I was embarrassed by this, knowing that at a different time or place or state of mind, I would have been one of the many people to drive on by. So many of us are distracted, busy waiting for joy and contentment in our own lives that we forget about the sacredness of everyone else’s, like Mary.

Without trying, Mary sobered me, helped me see my shortcomings as an ally to those in need. I did something humane that night to be sure, but in return, I was confronted with the limits of my compassion. How conditional is my consciousness? How do all my good intentions perform in the face of tribulation? Do I engage in justice as much as I speak about it? Allyship is about action and impact because intention alone is both partial and vain. Well-intentioned people sometimes cause the greatest harm.

I do wish I could see Mary again, to return her “God bless you” and tell her about all the ways her resilience inspired me. That though I wish we met under different circumstances and though these meditations do not rectify what she went through, the warmth of her heart and the honesty of her voice reminded me of the power of human connection. That she presented something raw and real of herself to a stranger in a world that had (at least recently) been nothing but cruel to her.

I do not define Mary by her pain but see her instead for all she aspired to be for herself and her family. She remains my reminder of the depths that exist in us all, the trials that inevitably shake us, and the possibilities that keep us moving.