A few years ago, when we were driving through a local mall, my wife Rachel saw a man beating his girlfriend right in front of what was then the Nike Store in Westlake Village, California. It was broad daylight, about 6 p.m. in the summer. Before I could say anything, she ordered me to stop the car, and she was out of the car like a flash, dressing down the assailant and pulling his girlfriend away. I barely had time to park the car and rush over, but it was not even like I was needed at that point, other than to advise calling the police. I did this over the protests of the woman’s companion, and within moments they arrived. There was a female cop and a male cop, with the female officer taking the lead. It was soon discovered that this was not any kind of longtime “boyfriend” but a date gone horribly wrong. When she had asked to go home, the “gentleman” became physical and started to hit her. This sleazeball began apologizing and wanted to take her home, but it was no longer his call. She had to get home somehow—she lived all the way in East LA—but we gladly paid for the Uber to send her home. The cops took this guy away for questioning.
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This was not a cinematic rescue as we see on Netflix these days, with no swelling music and no female superheroes. Just a concerned woman citizen getting involved. There were no medals and no press releases. Just another woman who refused to drive past her and “mind her own business,” and then dealt with the modest practical question of how she would get home.
These days, Rachel would probably be called a Karen. She is not what I would call an extrovert. If anything, her instincts are more like an introvert’s. But when something like that happens, she refuses to mind her own business. The word “Karen” began as a joke about an officious, entitled woman who demands to see the manager over some microscopic inconvenience. It is now applied to almost any woman—especially one who is middle-aged—who notices something, objects to something, reports on something, or refuses to remain politely silent. It’s another way of saying, “mind your own business.” Lately, for me, this has been an invitation to cowardice.
Every small town has its busybody. That is, if it is a functioning small town. Sometimes there is more than one. Rachel’s granny from Archbold, Ohio, had the instinct. She knew absolutely everything about everyone in the town and would go into minute detail as we sat together at breakfast at the Home Restaurant. Those are some of my fondest memories. She would point to some farmer wearing shitkicker boots who looked like a bum and say, “You see that guy over there?” We would nod. “Rich as Rockefeller. Multi-millionaire.” And we would lean in.
But the busybody has always played an important, eternal function. She notices when the elderly man who lives across the street has not opened his curtains for a week. She recognizes when a car has circled the block more than an acceptable number of times. She might notice when a child comes home from school looking dilapidated or poorly dressed.
Living in Connecticut for as long as we did, we saw the opposite culture in action. Neighbors who didn’t know each other. People you would see on the train every day and not say a word to. People who would walk past you on Main Street and not make eye contact. Since a lot of bad culture starts in the East and moves west, I would expect that this whole Karen thing started there. Modern culture has made a moral achievement out of non-interference. We congratulate ourselves for “valuing privacy” and not interfering when it is largely just self-absorption and cowardice. The legitimate concerns of being a citizen have been overridden by the lack of moral courage. The fear of being embarrassed now competes with the possibility that a child is being beaten, a woman is being terrorized, or a confused elderly man is dying in pain and alone. The possibility of these horrors should not be sacrificed on the altar of “tolerance” the way so many other things are today. Bruises, starvation, and credible threats are not merely “lifestyle choices” that we need to tolerate.
And here are some stories of people who refused to look away. In Cleveland in 2013, Charles Ramsey heard Amanda Berry screaming from a neighborhood house. He did not know that Berry, Gina DeJesus, and Michelle Knight had been held captive there for nearly a decade. He thought that he might be interfering in a domestic dispute, which was risky enough. But fighting through fear, he went toward the scream. He helped Berry break through the storm door and called 911. The police came, and after 10 long years, the women were rescued.
In Orlando on New Year’s Day 2021, a restaurant worker named Flavaine Carvalho noticed that an 11-year-old boy sat at a table, and it seemed he was not being allowed to eat. She noticed bruises on his face and arms. She found a creative way to stand behind his parents and hold up a handwritten message where only the boy could see it, which read, “Do you need help?” He didn’t notice it right away, but she didn’t give up. Finally, he noticed it and nodded yes. She instantly called the police, and investigators discovered severe abuse that had lasted years. Her intervention had possibly saved the life of that boy, who was removed from danger, while his parents were prosecuted. Another quiet hero.
Later that same year, a motorist on Interstate 75 in Kentucky noticed a 16-year-old passenger repeatedly making a hand signal associated with distress and violence. Instead of dismissing it and driving on, the easy thing to do, the motorist called 911 and followed the vehicle, relaying information to the police along the way. Deputies stopped the car and recovered a North Carolina teenager who had been reported missing.
I believe there are hundreds of such stories, but there should be more. We do not need Batman; we are our own superheroes. Ramsey fought past the fear and potential embarrassment. Carvalho could have just gone about her business, and that child would probably be dead. The missing North Carolina teenager would still be missing.
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Our culture has moved beyond non-intervention as a moral act to the perverse alternative of recording everything on your smartphone. This may be good when intervention is not possible. But there are instances when situations have required intervention while people just sit there and record nonsense so they can get Instagram views. That is not citizenship.
Citizenship requires one to be a responsible witness. In healthier days, the neighbor was not just a person next door; they were your friend, colleague, and resource. The teacher was not just a nutcase who indoctrinated children; they were a responsible steward of your children. The passerby was not merely traffic. Membership in a community must require a return to the real duty of noticing when you should act, when there is a threat to the community, and when your friends and neighbors are being harmed. We talk a lot of bullshit about community, but we sure don’t act like citizens.
So the caricature of Karen—and worse still the broadening of the definition of Karen—is dangerous as hell. Ridicule is a powerful device, and people are more terrified of becoming a meme than they reasonably should be. Put your phone down and act like a human being. Call a man a vigilante or “toxic,” and he will keep driving when a woman is struck. Call a woman hysterical, and she will avoid noticing when a neighbor is being abusive—or just fucking nuts. Predators benefit from privacy, and our culture now—from our politicians to Wall Street, from our predatory teachers who prey on students to our neighborhoods—is filled with them. And it’s our own damn fault because we let it happen. Don’t let it happen.
So make your neighborhood, and more importantly, your neighbor, your business. Knock on the door and bring over a Bundt cake. Get to know the names of their children. Volunteer to get their mail and walk their dogs while they are away. Notice when there is a strange car in the driveway. If a mother is acting like she might hurt her child, pick up the phone and call the police. If a stupid neighbor wants to have a bonfire in a forested area near your house, call the police before he burns the whole damn place down. If two creepy guys are hanging around your neighborhood and offer to take your kids “fishing,” don’t only tell them to stay the hell away from your kids, but warn the neighbors. (Both of the latter are true, by the way).
My earlier post, “Better an Angry Parent than a Dead Child,” extends beyond the border of the family. In a democracy, we should all act like family. Better an offended diner than an abused boy. Better an irritated driver than a missing girl. Better a furious neighbor than three women being held hostage.
We will not always know with precision what to do or how to act. We may need to ask for advice from other friends and neighbors. But your community is your community, so act like it. Uncertainty is not an argument for silence or ignoring the matter. Rachel did not know what would happen when she ran out of the car to help a strange woman. She only knew what would happen if she didn’t. That man was counting on the usual circumstance that no one would interfere. He guessed wrong.
By the way, my neighbor is called Karen. She is a lovely woman. We love her. She checks our mail when we are gone; she notices when we return from a trip, and she knows the names of my children. During the Palisades Fire, we knocked on each other’s doors to see how we could help each other. She is a great lady and a great neighbor.
So here is my defense of Karen and Karens everywhere. Keep watching, keep asking, and when the stakes are high, keep making a scene. Don’t mind your own business. Keep showing your courage and your concern. Sometimes minding your business is prudence; sometimes it is cowardice. We admire your courage, and we trust you to know the difference.
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This content originally appeared on the AbstractTruth Substack.
