I Was Branded the 'Central Park Karen'. I Still Live in Hiding

"Slit your wrists," strangers texted me.

"If anyone deserves prison rape, it's you," people I had never met called me to say.

"The noble thing to do is to remove yourself from society...so please kill yourself."

I'm Amy Cooper, but you probably know me as "Central Park Karen." You may not know my name, but you probably know my story—or at least the two-minute version of the story that was broadcast all over the world without key facts or context.

Everyone believed and amplified one story: That a white "Central Park Karen" called the police on an innocent Black man, a bird watcher, because of the color of his skin.

Today, I want you to read and understand the whole story. Not just what the media told you. And after you assess both sides—please tell me—was my never-ending cancel-culture sentence a just verdict?

On May 25, 2020, in the early days of the coronavirus pandemic, when anxieties ran high, I took my dog—whom my life revolved around—for a walk.

I visited Central Park in the morning, during the hours when dogs were allowed off-leash. On my way home, I chose to take an unfamiliar path, landing in "the Ramble," a secluded area of Central Park.

Seconds later, I heard a voice boom: "Get out of here. You shouldn't be here." I saw a man who began yelling at me that my dog should be on his leash.

Before recording me, Christian Cooper yelled out: "If you're going to do what you want, I'm going to do what I want, but you're not going to like it."

Those were his exact words. Words Christian admitted to saying, on Facebook, the very day of the incident.

And yes, I was scared.

I was a female, alone in a secluded area of Central Park, with a man yelling at me and threatening me. As a victim of a sexual assault in my late teens, I was completely panicked for my safety and wellbeing.

Then Christian, who did not own a dog, bizarrely tried to lure my dog to him with treats, immediately raising a red flag. News stories of poisoned dogs quickly came to mind.

My mama-bear instincts kicked in. I immediately pulled my dog tight by his collar, fearing that something would happen to him.

Acting from a place of panic and vulnerability, I told Christian that I was going to call the police and what I planned to say, hoping that would be enough to dissuade him from his earlier threat.

Instead, Christian taunted me to call the police. Seeing no other choice, I called 911 and described the man who was threatening me. But due to very spotty service in the park, I had to repeat my description of Christian multiple times.

The 911 tape makes it very clear that the dispatcher couldn't hear me due to the poor connection—yet this fact went unreported, skewing perceptions of my actions.

There were never any racial implications to my words. I just felt raw fear, and desperately wanted help.

Later that day, Christian took to Facebook to proudly describe to his followers that he instigated the encounter and boasted that he keeps a bag of dog treats to lure in off-leash dogs.

Consider that for a moment. He admitted to instigating the incident.

I was not the first or only person Christian Cooper had threatened in Central Park.

Jerome Lockett has stated that Christian also aggressively threatened him, luring in his dog. Jerome said he knows of two fellow dog owners who experienced the same behavior from Christian, but they don't want to come forward because they are white, and Christian is Black. They fear being canceled—as I have been.

None of this was reported. Stark omissions in coverage completely altered my life. And there is no correcting after the fact. I, and others affected by this incident, could only live in the false, hateful narrative.

As Christian's video went viral, my life, as I knew it, was over. All my personal information was released online. I received many hundreds of threatening graphic images, death threats, and hate mail, which continues to this day.

My employer fired me the day after the incident without ever taking the time to learn the facts. Clearly in survival mode, my company released a strong statement distancing itself from me, effectively blacklisting my career.

In a frantic and desperate attempt to stop the avalanche of hate and death threats, I issued a public apology at the recommendation of a PR company. But it did nothing. I was forced into hiding.

Over three years later, I am still in hiding. I am scared to be in public. I still can't get a job that meets my qualifications. And there have been long stretches of unemployment. All leading to thoughts of self-harm.

Was my fear that day in the park irrational? Was it based on racial perceptions? Most people leapt to that assumption. Especially considering the encounter occurred on the same day a police officer murdered George Floyd.

My stressful encounter was woven together with this horrific and preventable tragedy. "What happened to George Floyd is what Amy Cooper would have wanted to happen to Christian Cooper," claimed one YouTuber.

This could not be further from the truth—and an incredibly damaging assertion that lives with me and haunts my family. My family has suffered enormously. I care for one of my parents, who has a terminal illness.

I want them to know I'll be OK, but I do not know if I will ever be.

There are many others who have suffered as well. Over the years, my New York City apartment was a safe haven to numerous women who had endured abusive relationships.  When I had to flee, they lost their safe place too.

I don't know if I did everything right in that park, but I know I didn't do everything wrong. I've tried to connect directly with Christian, but I've never heard back from him. Despite what I've endured, I would always be open to an honest, productive conversation.

I want to clarify that I never filed a false police report. That charge, which resulted from the onslaught of media and political pressure on the prosecutor's office, was quickly dismissed because it had no basis in fact.

For context, where I grew up, which was outside of the United States, uttering threats is considered assault and does not have to include physical force, just a lack of consent.

I only reported exactly what happened to me that day when I was threatened by a man with a history of aggressive behavior towards other dog owners in a remote, isolated area of Central Park. I was terrified and traumatized.

Even now, when I think about it three years later, the fear quickly wells up in me again.

I also don't know why the whole truth was never printed or reported. I can only assume that no one—not even the top-tier media outlets—felt safe from the unrelenting, unforgiving weight of cancel culture. I know that's why I feared telling my own story for so many years.

So, the next time you feel like telling someone to kill themselves after watching a two-minute video, know there is likely far more to the story—no matter what the claims.

There is no such thing as a "Karen." We are all just people. Each of us deserving grace and forgiveness. In the end, silencing the truth, the full story, hurts all of us.

Amy Cooper, a loving daughter, friend, dog mom, and volunteer for women of abuse, currently resides in an undisclosed location after being at the center of a media firestorm after being dubbed the "Central Park Karen".

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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