The 1964 death of Kitty Genovese profoundly affected my life. I never met the young woman, but her name has lived in my heart for 60 years.

So, when CBS Sunday Morning mentioned her name last weekend, it got my attention. Big time. I sat straight up in my recliner.

The show airs a short history piece each week. This past Sunday, the segment highlighted the February 16th anniversary of 911, our emergency number. Much of the urgency toward creating a centralized crisis line was fueled by the high-profile rape and murder of Genovese in New York City. In March of 1964, the New York Times reported that 38 witnesses heard Genovese’s nighttime screams for help, but they were reluctant to call the police or be involved. That news report was splashed everywhere. Kitty lived two blocks from me in Kew Gardens, Queens.

The horrific news hit our neighborhood like an A-bomb. Ours was a safe old-fashioned neighborhood, filled with established small businesses and individual family homes. Between the homes, most blocks held a 3 or 4-story brick apartment building housing a large population of airline people, mostly singles. Kew Gardens was affordable, and it was halfway between LaGuardia and Kennedy airports. How could this happen here? Who would come among us and do something so awful?

Up until then, I had felt comfortable there. The people I met on the street, in the shops, and in church were neighborly and helpful. They were not the usual “no eye contact” anonymous New Yorkers I had heard about. That March, I had been there almost a year. It never occurred to me to be afraid of coming home after dark or waiting for the Q10 bus to Kennedy in the pre-dawn hours. But that changed instantly. In one day. With one news report. And the reports continued to get worse.

Had 38 of her building neighbors really ignored her cries for help? Word got around that they watched Kitty’s rape and murder from the safety of their windows. And did nothing. It was many years before the cruelty of those sensational early reports was debunked. But in those first days and weeks following the terrifying attack, I never felt safe. Were the neighbors I felt so comfortable among really uncaring, cold New Yorkers after all? I was shaken. I never went out after dark without at least one other person. And in the first week, I naively decided to take action.

I was flying a San Diego trip. The crew layover there was 33 hours – two nights. The day between our flights gave us time to explore the area, the zoo, and yes, Tijuana, Mexico. The border was a short ride from our downtown hotel. Once I knew a few people, it was easy to tag along to the bullfights, or just some of the intriguing shopping. But I knew better than to be in Tijuana after dark, a reputedly dangerous city. And a city where I knew I could buy just about anything. I had decided on a switchblade.

I took extra cash with me, mostly singles, because I had no idea what it would cost or how much haggling I would have to do. One of the guys in our group found a shop with knives of every size, shape, and description. He tried to talk me out of the purchase, but I was determined.

The Mexican knife salesman, who knew his stuff, had a large variety for me to choose from. I described the knife I wanted. It needed to fit in my closed hand and have a quick switch action.

I pictured myself walking to that 5 a.m. Kennedy bus, my knife-in-hand concealed in my raincoat pocket. Despite my plain navy coat, I still wore the telltale airline hat, 3-inch heels, and carried luggage. I taught myself to carry the heavy suitcase in my left hand, leaving my right hand free, prepared for trouble.

I didn’t leave the knife store until the salesman showed me how to use it. Looking back, of course, it was a stupid idea. But if my neighbors were truly indifferent in times of crisis, I was going to be prepared. I had convinced myself I wasn’t going down easily.

Thankfully, I never needed the weapon. After a few years, I stopped carrying it to work. I learned it was lousy for slicing limes at a party, but eventually I lost it in a cross-country move.

Kitty Genovese’s murderer was apprehended quickly and died in prison at age 81. And today? Imagine TSA’s reaction to a switchblade in my raincoat pocket.

The heartfelt story of Kitty’s loss helped propel America to create the 911 life-saving system. For millions. For 57 years now. But I still think personally, achingly, of Kitty Genovese. The name of a stranger – that somehow never goes away.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at MOBY,32@hotmail.com.