By Edna Garcia
On a dark night, a young Latino woman hurriedly stumbled down the ghetto street. She wore dark sunglasses and covered one side of her terrified face with her long black hair.
Watching her, from the safety of my window, ignited flashbacks of a time I too ran from the brutality of a man’s fist. I wanted to help, but I did not for fear of being told to mind my business.
Sunday’s morning paper headline read: “Woman beaten to death by boyfriend in front of her apartment.”
I hung my head despairingly. In shame. My grief was absolute; I did nothing!
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