The Punishment Of Crime

A year ago, I was recovering from the trauma of having my car stolen. Upon reflection, living here in Oakland for twenty years, the fact that it took nineteen of those years for me to become a victim of any sort of serious crime should be looked upon as some sort of minor miracle. And the anniversary of the purchase of our new car coincided with a visit from my wife's brother who had his car stolen. This is the same brother who, on another visit from Utah, was held up just a few blocks from our house. I would guess that his vision of Oakland as a high-crime area is, as a result of his per-visit experience with high-crime, different from mine.
At the same time, I do wonder how I have navigated through these streets for two decades with merely a few tales of terror and intrigue to tell. If I were to add in all those brushes with guns and drugs and violence offered to me via my job as a public school teacher, then I suppose my own ratio would become a little more top-heavy. I suppose that I don't think about it unless I'm actually staring down the end of the barrel of a gun, or frantically scanning a parking lot for a car that I am certain was there just a couple of hours ago. The sight of three or four police cars converging at the end of my block doesn't pique my curiosity the way it used to. It's part of the package. I assume, with some presumed naivete, that this is perfectly natural for an urban setting. Because that's where I live.
Meanwhile, my brother-in-law and his wife prepare to end their visit by purchasing a new car and driving it back to Utah, where it will be safe. With our apologies.