It was a beautiful concert on a balmy summer night at the Hollywood, Florida amphitheater. I lived only about six blocks away and so rode my bike. After the concert ended I started to walk my bike down the path leading out of the park.

Nearby, the harsh sound of a male voice suddenly shattered my peaceful mood. I turned and saw a middle-aged man in a wrinkled khaki green shirt, hovering over a child. Curled up and rolling around on the grass, the thin, small boy’s frizzy hair covered his head like a cap. The man shouted orders. The boy seemed to comply with break-dance moves, popular at the time.

I could see his anguished scowl as he glared up at the man. Wet streaks glistened on his young bony cheeks in the artificial light of the night. The concert-goers filed out of the park. A 20-something tee-shirt clad guy in shorts stopped next to me. His eyes, like mine, were transfixed on the scene unfolding before us. A few seconds passed. I remarked, “Something seems wrong.” The guy nodded and replied, “Yeah.”

Suddenly, the middle-aged man started to savagely kick and punch the boy in his ribs. Instinctively, without hesitation, I dashed over and placed my body between the man and the boy. Horrified, I sputtered out a demand for an explanation, “What are you doing?!!”

The man answered, “He’s got to learn not to be a girl! He’s a girl! He’s got to learn!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the young man who had been watching the scene with me, turn away and walk down the path, following the other concert guests. I called out to him – and anyone else within hearing distance, “Help me! Somebody help me!” but my calls for assistance echoed in the night as the crowd quickly dispersed.

The boy stood up, slightly behind me, as I stood facing the brute who had been beating him just moments before. I realized that the boy and man were part of a family. Two women, another child, and another man stood in a small loose crowd watching us from near the Amphitheater entrance. Somehow I knew one of the women was the boy’s mother. I looked her in the eye and implored, “Are you his mother?” By this time, the park was empty, except for me and the boy and his family. The woman didn’t answer, but her stony expression and silence told me what I needed to know. A tirade burst from my lips, “How can you let this happen?!! You’re his mother! You have to stop this!” The woman answered, “I can’t do nothin’!”

The bully started edging towards me. I tried to continue to put myself between him and the boy. The man said, “We’re going now.” and ordered the boy to come to him. The boy made a wide circle around me and went towards his father.

I called out to the woman again, “You are his mother. You have to stop this! It’s wrong!” They all had their backs to me now, and walked away through the shadows, out of the park.

I was alone. There was no one in sight to help. No public phones nearby, I hopped on my bike and pedaled as fast as I could to my apartment. I dashed in the door and called 911. The police said the family was likely gone by now, but they would drive by to see if anyone was left.

I wonder about that boy’s life, how things went for him. I remember his tear streaked face, his angry grimace, and the utter helplessness I felt. I wonder if he remembers that, one day, someone stood up for him and tried to stop what was happening to him, to stop what was wrong. I think about how brutal scenes, like the one I witnessed with the boy in the park, play out in the shadows every day, in my community, in our country, and across the world. I continue to pedal, as fast as I can, driven by the anguish in my heart for those children and families. Today I take comfort. We are not alone. Many people stop, listen, look, and act on behalf of a child and children. When we know children are safe, we will hear the music again.