I was painting my house on Martha’s side when she came out her door.
“You’re selling.” Her hard side was outside, on her face.
“Yeah.” I carefully stepped down from the ladder. “I’m going to China.” I put the paintbrush in the can. Martha laughed but not because she thought I was funny.
“Last year you been to Africa, this year you’re going to China, where you goin’ nest year, Alabama?”
I didn’t know what to answer. Was her geography really so bad? Or was Alabama as hard to get to as Africa for her? Or was she making fun of me?
The back door of her house banged and her son, Prince, bounced out. He ran towards us, stopped even with his mother. He did not go beyond her which would have brought him closer to me. “Hi! Where you been?”
“Where have you been!” corrected his mother. “You are going to school to learn grammar! You will speak proper English! None of this street talk!” Her six year old daughter came out carrying a child’s purse. She stood next to her mother and raised the purse toward me.
“It’s my birthday and this is my present.” She opened it and brought out a lipstick. “And this is my lipstick. It’s brown because I am brown and brown is beautiful.” She smiled coquettishly. I nodded and smiled back at her. I missed these kids and their childish ways.
“One got a birthday, another one dyin’. My aunt in Alabama is dyin’,” said Martha. “She was as close to a mother I had, though I hardly lived with her. I’m trying to go there, my kids never met her. If I had a car we’d just go, we’d be outa here.”
There was a pulse in the ground, a tremble, a heavy, dominating throb: a car stereo playing rap. A rhythmic bass announced an approaching snake. It was an anaconda. It was a blood sucker, a monster, it was a man. It was Darius Jefferson in his wannabe O.J. Simpson white Ford Bronco, Darius Jefferson, the maybe descendent of Thomas and Sally, Darius Jefferson the drug dealer who had won the turf battle for Thomas avenue.
He crawled down the street real slow, savoring his power; no, he glided, he oozed, he rode high in his chariot like a god.
He stopped in front of Martha’s house, a window descended silently, his voice, low and confident said, “You ‘member what I said, now.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes hit mine, he sat back, the window ascended, the car moved on slowly. I watched him reach up, touch the rear view mirror, adjust the angle to catch us in it, a finger jab against the mirror, a warning. He crawled away, a wraith watching us, watching Martha and her children until he turned the corner.
I turned back to them. They were no longer brown and beautiful; they were gray and ashen.
“Darius, he got a good car,” said Prince.
“You go to school, you’ll have a better car!” shouted Martha. “Now, get in the house! You have got homework to do!” The three of them disappeared into their house.
I held onto middle class by my fingernails, but with the grace of god and my parents and my white skin and my college education, I held on. Martha had never been there, was trying to get there, would never make it.
Everyone has a fate that is hard to accept. I had mine, she had hers. Hers scared the wits out of me.
Friday, September 7, 2007
The final gunshots
Nearly every day of my life, I drove through the Penn and Dowling avenues intersection. It was the route to the freeway and I often stopped for the cheap gas that was sold at the station there. At 2 o’clock one morning, a man waiting in his car for the light to change was shot to death.
I did not hear that shot as it was four blocks from my house. I heard about the shooting the next day after work when Dave, from the neighborhood patrol, called me. Dave hadn’t been able to pick up much information from the police scanner that he listened to constantly, just that someone had died.
Two days later we read in the newspaper it had been a random shooting of a man named Donald Ross who’d been coming home from work. He was almost home when he’d been shot dead. It was weeks before two men were picked up and charged with the shooting. They really hadn’t had any reason for the murder except that Donald Ross had been there and they’d been there, too, with a rifle.
It was time to leave. Not because there’d been another shooting, but because the balance had shifted on my block. People who were willing to take a stand against crime were outnumbered by the criminals and the people who wouldn’t take a stand against crime.
We’d lost Martha. With her recruitment to the dark side – no, we didn’t believe she was selling drugs, we believed she’d fallen to drugs – we had lost the critical balance. She’d been a lynchpin for stability, this woman who wanted to raise her kids in a quiet place. She was soft on the outside, hard on the inside, but not strong enough to stand alone in life. A smart woman who’d tried to straddle the social classes and the race classes but that hard inner core wasn’t quite enough. I was alone, too, but I’d had my education and I’d had my parents and I had my color. I could afford to sell my house and lose money. I would get another chance. I put up a ‘for sale’ sign.
I did not hear that shot as it was four blocks from my house. I heard about the shooting the next day after work when Dave, from the neighborhood patrol, called me. Dave hadn’t been able to pick up much information from the police scanner that he listened to constantly, just that someone had died.
Two days later we read in the newspaper it had been a random shooting of a man named Donald Ross who’d been coming home from work. He was almost home when he’d been shot dead. It was weeks before two men were picked up and charged with the shooting. They really hadn’t had any reason for the murder except that Donald Ross had been there and they’d been there, too, with a rifle.
It was time to leave. Not because there’d been another shooting, but because the balance had shifted on my block. People who were willing to take a stand against crime were outnumbered by the criminals and the people who wouldn’t take a stand against crime.
We’d lost Martha. With her recruitment to the dark side – no, we didn’t believe she was selling drugs, we believed she’d fallen to drugs – we had lost the critical balance. She’d been a lynchpin for stability, this woman who wanted to raise her kids in a quiet place. She was soft on the outside, hard on the inside, but not strong enough to stand alone in life. A smart woman who’d tried to straddle the social classes and the race classes but that hard inner core wasn’t quite enough. I was alone, too, but I’d had my education and I’d had my parents and I had my color. I could afford to sell my house and lose money. I would get another chance. I put up a ‘for sale’ sign.
Gunshots bring us together again
The next day after work, I got a call from Ron. “We need a block club meeting. I’ll call the houses with even addresses, you call the houses with odd addresses.”
The next evening, block club members gathered at my house. On the short notice, we had a good turn out: gunshots on the block are compelling. Twelve neighbors, ten white and two black, showed up.
As riveting as gunshots are, we were used to them and they were over, so we talked about Martha, who hadn’t come. Ron complained he’d seen her leaving the home of Darius Jefferson staggering so badly, he’d wondered if she would make it across the street.
The black couple who worked in the insurance industry reported they’d seen the same thing. “Yeah, I can see what that Jefferson is doing,” said the husband. “He’s hooked her. You know they’re doing more than drink over there.” His wife complained they hadn’t realized the neighborhood was so bad and they’d paid too much for the house and would lose too much if they sold. “We’re going to put a six foot high fence around the back of the house,” she explained.
Then we got to the point of our meeting. The gunshots took place at the house across the street from me, the home of white Terry and her biracial son, Jared. Maggie and Mike, a young white couple with two small children lived next to the house, and knew the most. Maggie had dark, curly hair and a troubled face.
“They were having a birthday party for Jared, he turned 19 and it really wasn’t noisy. I can always hear their music in my house and it wasn’t any louder than usual and it was a small party.”
Maggie was interrupted by a din of complaints about noise. Car stereos, house stereos, boom boxes in front and back yards. People could hear cars approaching from a block away. They could hear stereos in houses across the street when they were inside with all their windows closed.
When the clamor died, Maggie continued. “About 1:30 a.m., some people came to the door and wanted to come to the party. Jared didn’t know them, nobody at the party knew them, so they didn’t let them in. They turned to leave but then came back and fired into the front door.”
There were exclamations of fright and anger. I asked if anyone was hurt. “No one was hit, just property damage. I talked to his mom, Terry, today. She was pretty shook up. I tried to talk to Jared, but he said it wasn’t anyone else’s business.”
“He needs to understand that when there’s gunfire, it’s everybody’s business!” I said hotly. Several people hollered agreement.
“The police were out but no arrests were made.”
Jared was not liked. We had called 911 often to complain of his parties. He needed constant reminders. Sometimes after someone called 911 for his parties, car tires were slashed. We wanted Terry to take her parenting more seriously.
Ron mentioned day care licensing. Terry babysat several children and they were there when the house was shot. Was she licensed for day care? Maybe we should report her.
Maggie protested. “That’s her livelihood now and her house is probably safer than where the kids live. I’ve talked to the kids and they tell me stories I don’t want to believe. Besides, I’ve worked hard to build a relationship with Terry and I want to preserve it. And she is not the problem. And you know, Jared, the one who had the party, is not a bad person either. He hasn't decided if he’s going to be wild or straight, I think. We’ve got to remember, those people are victims, too.” Heads nodded in agreement, some hesitantly, others energetically.
“To be honest,” said Ron, “I don’t want Jared to get shot. I just want him to grow up and move out. Let his friends crash his parties somewhere else.”
The next evening, block club members gathered at my house. On the short notice, we had a good turn out: gunshots on the block are compelling. Twelve neighbors, ten white and two black, showed up.
As riveting as gunshots are, we were used to them and they were over, so we talked about Martha, who hadn’t come. Ron complained he’d seen her leaving the home of Darius Jefferson staggering so badly, he’d wondered if she would make it across the street.
The black couple who worked in the insurance industry reported they’d seen the same thing. “Yeah, I can see what that Jefferson is doing,” said the husband. “He’s hooked her. You know they’re doing more than drink over there.” His wife complained they hadn’t realized the neighborhood was so bad and they’d paid too much for the house and would lose too much if they sold. “We’re going to put a six foot high fence around the back of the house,” she explained.
Then we got to the point of our meeting. The gunshots took place at the house across the street from me, the home of white Terry and her biracial son, Jared. Maggie and Mike, a young white couple with two small children lived next to the house, and knew the most. Maggie had dark, curly hair and a troubled face.
“They were having a birthday party for Jared, he turned 19 and it really wasn’t noisy. I can always hear their music in my house and it wasn’t any louder than usual and it was a small party.”
Maggie was interrupted by a din of complaints about noise. Car stereos, house stereos, boom boxes in front and back yards. People could hear cars approaching from a block away. They could hear stereos in houses across the street when they were inside with all their windows closed.
When the clamor died, Maggie continued. “About 1:30 a.m., some people came to the door and wanted to come to the party. Jared didn’t know them, nobody at the party knew them, so they didn’t let them in. They turned to leave but then came back and fired into the front door.”
There were exclamations of fright and anger. I asked if anyone was hurt. “No one was hit, just property damage. I talked to his mom, Terry, today. She was pretty shook up. I tried to talk to Jared, but he said it wasn’t anyone else’s business.”
“He needs to understand that when there’s gunfire, it’s everybody’s business!” I said hotly. Several people hollered agreement.
“The police were out but no arrests were made.”
Jared was not liked. We had called 911 often to complain of his parties. He needed constant reminders. Sometimes after someone called 911 for his parties, car tires were slashed. We wanted Terry to take her parenting more seriously.
Ron mentioned day care licensing. Terry babysat several children and they were there when the house was shot. Was she licensed for day care? Maybe we should report her.
Maggie protested. “That’s her livelihood now and her house is probably safer than where the kids live. I’ve talked to the kids and they tell me stories I don’t want to believe. Besides, I’ve worked hard to build a relationship with Terry and I want to preserve it. And she is not the problem. And you know, Jared, the one who had the party, is not a bad person either. He hasn't decided if he’s going to be wild or straight, I think. We’ve got to remember, those people are victims, too.” Heads nodded in agreement, some hesitantly, others energetically.
“To be honest,” said Ron, “I don’t want Jared to get shot. I just want him to grow up and move out. Let his friends crash his parties somewhere else.”
Gunshots again
Two months passed. I was awakened at 1:30 a.m. by the sound of four shots. They were near and of small caliber. I was too frightened to move for a moment, then I bolted out of bed, went into the hallway and looked out the upstairs window that gave me a view of the back yard and alley. All was quiet. Holding onto the handrail, I went downstairs and looked out the dining room window to the street in front. There were lights on in the house across from me. I saw no one in the street. I gingerly opened my front door and looked out. I saw no one.
I called 911. I gave my address. “I just heard four gunshots. I looked outside but I don’t see anyone.”
“What direction did they come from?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Okay, there’s a squad up in your area. I’ll tell them to keep a look out. We had a couple other calls reporting gunshots.” I went back to bed.
I called 911. I gave my address. “I just heard four gunshots. I looked outside but I don’t see anyone.”
“What direction did they come from?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Okay, there’s a squad up in your area. I’ll tell them to keep a look out. We had a couple other calls reporting gunshots.” I went back to bed.
Martha explains her problem
Late winter I saw her stagger back from Darius Jefferson’s house. I stood at my window looking out at her. She must be tired, I thought. We’re all tired.
Early spring, I met her kids in my backyard. We pored over the garden, looking for the first signs of flowers. When we found a tulip spearing up through the damp earth, we all gasped with delight. I watched their dark, radiant faces. We had this in common, we understood this beauty, we loved the earth and what it provided. We would cross the color line: we were neighbors.
Late spring. I was puttering about in the kitchen when I saw Martha come out her back door with a cut glass decanter of golden liquid in her hand. I heard a knock on my back door. It was Martha. “I just want to talk to you, woman to woman. Neighbor to neighbor.” I opened the door. Inside my kitchen she held out the decanter to me and looked about. “I’m just being neighborly,” she said. Glasses, I thought, she must want a glass. I opened the cupboard, brought out two Japanese tea cups, tiny with a translucent rice pattern. I loved these. I put them on the counter.
“Shit!” said Martha. She yanked open the cupboard, pushed aside bowls, slammed it shut and yanked open another, pushed aside cups and glasses and took out a large, hardy glass that could put a person into a coma if it hit the head just right. She poured herself a drink, opened my freezer. “Shit! No ice!” She closed it and turned and looked at me.
“I drink tea,” I said.
“You drink tea,” she said. She walked into the dining room and sat down. “Sit down!” She ordered. I sat down.
She stood up and yanked at the legs of the too-small jumpsuit she was wearing. “Damn,” she said. This fit last summer.” She remained standing. “I just want us to understand each other, we’s neighbors.”
“Yeah. And I’m glad to have you as a neighbor.”
She looked down at me. “You are glad to have me as a neighbor.”
“Yes.” She continued to look at me as though she needed convincing. Because I couldn’t say I’d been worried when she’d moved in because we’d have to try harder to talk and I didn’t mind trying harder, I said, “I’ve learned a lot from you.”
“You’ve learned a lot!” She rolled her eyes, drank, refilled the glass and drank again. “I am going to live in that house a long, long time and I am raising my kids and I want you to understand some things. I just want you to understand.” She looked around the dining room.
My mother’s Royal Copenhagen china set, a service for twelve, was in a cabinet across from her.
“I am raising those kids alone and they mean everything to me.” Tears came to her eyes. “I didn’t know my own mother. My aunt raised me and I don’t always know what a mother should do.” She took another drink, her hand trembled. “My kids love you.”
Tears came to my eyes. “They’re beautiful kids. I love it when they visit.”
“Yes! And they love you. And you are white and I am black and that’s why I have to tell you, stop talking to my kids. You can tell them all kinds of things I don’t know, you know what’s growing out there and you got things in here, you know all about. I’m sorry but you are white and me and my kids is black and I can’t trust you.
I can’t tell you what I’ve been through, stuff no one should have happen and you don’t even know about it, but I’m sorry but I have got to tell you to stop talking to my kids. I’ve told them they are not to come into your yard no more. They can say ‘hello’ to you and nothing more.”
Martha was still standing and she put the decanter on the table and opened her arms. I was too shocked to say anything. What she was saying was too stupid and too real, and too easy to believe. I loved her kids and all I wanted was to be friends, to not have color matter, to understand each other, to get past color, to be best friends and to be neighbors. I sat there, out of control, rejected, speechless, shit on.
“We’re neighbors,” she said. “I hope you understand.”
I did not understand, but I understood the talk was over. I rose and she hugged me. I felt Martha in my embrace, soft skin, soft fat underneath and beneath that, hard as a rock. She let me go, she took her decanter and she went back to her house, her side of the property line, her world. Her kids stopped talking to me.
Early spring, I met her kids in my backyard. We pored over the garden, looking for the first signs of flowers. When we found a tulip spearing up through the damp earth, we all gasped with delight. I watched their dark, radiant faces. We had this in common, we understood this beauty, we loved the earth and what it provided. We would cross the color line: we were neighbors.
Late spring. I was puttering about in the kitchen when I saw Martha come out her back door with a cut glass decanter of golden liquid in her hand. I heard a knock on my back door. It was Martha. “I just want to talk to you, woman to woman. Neighbor to neighbor.” I opened the door. Inside my kitchen she held out the decanter to me and looked about. “I’m just being neighborly,” she said. Glasses, I thought, she must want a glass. I opened the cupboard, brought out two Japanese tea cups, tiny with a translucent rice pattern. I loved these. I put them on the counter.
“Shit!” said Martha. She yanked open the cupboard, pushed aside bowls, slammed it shut and yanked open another, pushed aside cups and glasses and took out a large, hardy glass that could put a person into a coma if it hit the head just right. She poured herself a drink, opened my freezer. “Shit! No ice!” She closed it and turned and looked at me.
“I drink tea,” I said.
“You drink tea,” she said. She walked into the dining room and sat down. “Sit down!” She ordered. I sat down.
She stood up and yanked at the legs of the too-small jumpsuit she was wearing. “Damn,” she said. This fit last summer.” She remained standing. “I just want us to understand each other, we’s neighbors.”
“Yeah. And I’m glad to have you as a neighbor.”
She looked down at me. “You are glad to have me as a neighbor.”
“Yes.” She continued to look at me as though she needed convincing. Because I couldn’t say I’d been worried when she’d moved in because we’d have to try harder to talk and I didn’t mind trying harder, I said, “I’ve learned a lot from you.”
“You’ve learned a lot!” She rolled her eyes, drank, refilled the glass and drank again. “I am going to live in that house a long, long time and I am raising my kids and I want you to understand some things. I just want you to understand.” She looked around the dining room.
My mother’s Royal Copenhagen china set, a service for twelve, was in a cabinet across from her.
“I am raising those kids alone and they mean everything to me.” Tears came to her eyes. “I didn’t know my own mother. My aunt raised me and I don’t always know what a mother should do.” She took another drink, her hand trembled. “My kids love you.”
Tears came to my eyes. “They’re beautiful kids. I love it when they visit.”
“Yes! And they love you. And you are white and I am black and that’s why I have to tell you, stop talking to my kids. You can tell them all kinds of things I don’t know, you know what’s growing out there and you got things in here, you know all about. I’m sorry but you are white and me and my kids is black and I can’t trust you.
I can’t tell you what I’ve been through, stuff no one should have happen and you don’t even know about it, but I’m sorry but I have got to tell you to stop talking to my kids. I’ve told them they are not to come into your yard no more. They can say ‘hello’ to you and nothing more.”
Martha was still standing and she put the decanter on the table and opened her arms. I was too shocked to say anything. What she was saying was too stupid and too real, and too easy to believe. I loved her kids and all I wanted was to be friends, to not have color matter, to understand each other, to get past color, to be best friends and to be neighbors. I sat there, out of control, rejected, speechless, shit on.
“We’re neighbors,” she said. “I hope you understand.”
I did not understand, but I understood the talk was over. I rose and she hugged me. I felt Martha in my embrace, soft skin, soft fat underneath and beneath that, hard as a rock. She let me go, she took her decanter and she went back to her house, her side of the property line, her world. Her kids stopped talking to me.
Marth tries
Months went by and a couple times when the music at Darius Jefferson’s house shook the walls of my house, I noticed Martha storm over. Wow! I thought, she’s going alone, she’s tough. Good! I thought, a black person telling another black person, they’re out of line.
Martha never stayed long and when she crossed the street back to her own house, the music was always lower.
One evening, I saw the woman in the insurance industry raking leaves in her front yard. I went over to talk to her and recounted Martha’s bravery and civic responsibility. The woman stared at me when I finished, as though she was waiting for some sort of insight to hit me. When I didn’t say anymore, she said, “That woman has a lot of problems. My husband and I are keeping our distance.”
Martha never stayed long and when she crossed the street back to her own house, the music was always lower.
One evening, I saw the woman in the insurance industry raking leaves in her front yard. I went over to talk to her and recounted Martha’s bravery and civic responsibility. The woman stared at me when I finished, as though she was waiting for some sort of insight to hit me. When I didn’t say anymore, she said, “That woman has a lot of problems. My husband and I are keeping our distance.”
New people at the block club meeting
Martha came to the block club meetings, as did the young black couple from the corner. They had jobs in the insurance industry and the white neighbors counted them as a real boon to the neighborhood. The new retired couple on the corner came too, eager to tell how they’d moved in from the suburbs because they preferred city life. But the second meeting the man, Mac, said the people in the suburbs were snobs because they had too many rules about the weeds and dogs and they didn’t know how to have fun and didn’t like his disabled son’s beer parties.
Martha stood up and shouted, “We got those rules here, too!” Mac stopped speaking abruptly and scowled at her. She went on. “I got kids going to school and I am a homeowner! It’s a miracle I even got this house and I am going to be here a long, long time and I am going to live in a quiet neighborhood!”
Mac took offense at this, somehow, although the rest of us supported Martha. The meeting disbanded awkwardly. Martha walked out with the black couple. They talked animatedly on the sidewalk, then she turned and went to her own house, they went in the other direction to theirs.
Over the summer, Mac stopped talking to his neighbors, fenced in his yard and got two Dobermans who barked a lot. His son had beer parties, but as they were on weekends and we were used to drug parties on weeknights, no one much minded the beer parties.
However, Ron complained Mac didn’t clean up the dog shit and Mac said he’d read the regulations and the city said he didn’t have to hose it down anymore than once a week and that was what he was doing.
“Call the police on me,” he dared Ron. “They can’t do a thing, I’m obeying the law.”
“But what about the neighbors,” Ron said to me after he’d told me this story.
“Yeah, what about the neighbors.” The real problem in the neighborhood, I realized, wasn’t poverty or joblessness or lower income or race but too many people who only respected the authority of a gun.
Martha stood up and shouted, “We got those rules here, too!” Mac stopped speaking abruptly and scowled at her. She went on. “I got kids going to school and I am a homeowner! It’s a miracle I even got this house and I am going to be here a long, long time and I am going to live in a quiet neighborhood!”
Mac took offense at this, somehow, although the rest of us supported Martha. The meeting disbanded awkwardly. Martha walked out with the black couple. They talked animatedly on the sidewalk, then she turned and went to her own house, they went in the other direction to theirs.
Over the summer, Mac stopped talking to his neighbors, fenced in his yard and got two Dobermans who barked a lot. His son had beer parties, but as they were on weekends and we were used to drug parties on weeknights, no one much minded the beer parties.
However, Ron complained Mac didn’t clean up the dog shit and Mac said he’d read the regulations and the city said he didn’t have to hose it down anymore than once a week and that was what he was doing.
“Call the police on me,” he dared Ron. “They can’t do a thing, I’m obeying the law.”
“But what about the neighbors,” Ron said to me after he’d told me this story.
“Yeah, what about the neighbors.” The real problem in the neighborhood, I realized, wasn’t poverty or joblessness or lower income or race but too many people who only respected the authority of a gun.
Who's to blame?
Two weeks later, I attended another neighborhood meeting with a police officer. I told her about Darius Jefferson’s accusation of harassment.
“He’s saying that to intimidate you,” she replied. “You’re not harassing him; you’re collecting evidence.”
“So why isn’t he in jail? He was arrested and just moved to a new neighborhood and started dealing again.”
“It’s the lawyers. They prosecute the cases they’re sure they can win.”
No lawyers were present to explain why they were not to blame. It didn’t matter. My neighbors and I were stuck living next to Darius Jefferson.
“He’s saying that to intimidate you,” she replied. “You’re not harassing him; you’re collecting evidence.”
“So why isn’t he in jail? He was arrested and just moved to a new neighborhood and started dealing again.”
“It’s the lawyers. They prosecute the cases they’re sure they can win.”
No lawyers were present to explain why they were not to blame. It didn’t matter. My neighbors and I were stuck living next to Darius Jefferson.
I watch a cop watch Darius watch the cop
One day when I came home from work and looked out the front window, I saw a cop in a squad car in front of Terry’s house, watching Darius Jefferson. Darius was standing in his front yard talking into a cell phone. He moved freely, his back to the cop in the squad car.
Earlier in the month, I had attended a community meeting with an officer of the Minneapolis crack team to try to gain more understanding about how to deal with Darius Jefferson. Unlike the plump, slow-moving, affable police officers who told us stupid jokes, this guy was made of steel. He poised on the balls of his feet, ready to spring in any direction at any moment. He looked like he was fighting a war on drugs.
“Drug dealing used to be in pockets of the city,” he said. “Now it’s spread out. They deliver in very small amounts. If it’s crack, anything less than one-eighth of an ounce is a fifth-degree offense, and if it is a first arrest they do not do jail time because of overcrowding in the jails. We fingerprint and photograph them when they’re arrested and then we let them go. They’re out the door before the report is filed. At least we know who they are.”
He emphasized that it’s difficult to arrest dealers with large amounts. “The only time when they have a large amount is when they come into town for a major delivery and we only have about an hour.” He encouraged us to be active at reporting suspicious activity. Neighborhood watches take away opportunities for crime because criminals don’t like visibility. Criminals depend on indifference.
I asked, “What constitutes harassment?”
He looked at me, wordless for a moment. “Has a crime been committed?” If a crime has been committed, you’re reporting a crime. If you see someone standing outside holding a gun, call 911.”
“But we don’t know if we’re seeing a crime. We see cars stopping, the drivers running into a house for 10 minutes at 3 in the morning. Someone else stops at 3:30. We think it’s drugs, but we don’t know.”
“For that kind of activity, keep a log of the times when cars stop. See if there’s a pattern. Call the crack team. We’ll send someone out to try and make a buy.”
That was what we were doing. But as I watched the cop watch Darius Jefferson, Darius Jefferson turned and saw the squad car. Darius Jefferson’s posture changed from relaxed to defiant. He talked on his phone, he stared at the cop. The squad slowly pulled away from the curb, slowly cruised past Darius, slowly left the neighborhood. Darius watched the cop car leave, still talking on his phone.
Darius Jefferson was not easily intimidated. Why should he be? He had been arrested eight times and had never been in jail. I retreated from my window, drew myself farther into my house where I hoped I’d be safe.
Earlier in the month, I had attended a community meeting with an officer of the Minneapolis crack team to try to gain more understanding about how to deal with Darius Jefferson. Unlike the plump, slow-moving, affable police officers who told us stupid jokes, this guy was made of steel. He poised on the balls of his feet, ready to spring in any direction at any moment. He looked like he was fighting a war on drugs.
“Drug dealing used to be in pockets of the city,” he said. “Now it’s spread out. They deliver in very small amounts. If it’s crack, anything less than one-eighth of an ounce is a fifth-degree offense, and if it is a first arrest they do not do jail time because of overcrowding in the jails. We fingerprint and photograph them when they’re arrested and then we let them go. They’re out the door before the report is filed. At least we know who they are.”
He emphasized that it’s difficult to arrest dealers with large amounts. “The only time when they have a large amount is when they come into town for a major delivery and we only have about an hour.” He encouraged us to be active at reporting suspicious activity. Neighborhood watches take away opportunities for crime because criminals don’t like visibility. Criminals depend on indifference.
I asked, “What constitutes harassment?”
He looked at me, wordless for a moment. “Has a crime been committed?” If a crime has been committed, you’re reporting a crime. If you see someone standing outside holding a gun, call 911.”
“But we don’t know if we’re seeing a crime. We see cars stopping, the drivers running into a house for 10 minutes at 3 in the morning. Someone else stops at 3:30. We think it’s drugs, but we don’t know.”
“For that kind of activity, keep a log of the times when cars stop. See if there’s a pattern. Call the crack team. We’ll send someone out to try and make a buy.”
That was what we were doing. But as I watched the cop watch Darius Jefferson, Darius Jefferson turned and saw the squad car. Darius Jefferson’s posture changed from relaxed to defiant. He talked on his phone, he stared at the cop. The squad slowly pulled away from the curb, slowly cruised past Darius, slowly left the neighborhood. Darius watched the cop car leave, still talking on his phone.
Darius Jefferson was not easily intimidated. Why should he be? He had been arrested eight times and had never been in jail. I retreated from my window, drew myself farther into my house where I hoped I’d be safe.
How we fought the war against drugs
The house on the corner sold to a young black couple. The house opposite sold to a retired white couple. The suspected drug dealer moved out of the lonely house and another family-type moved in. The man had a beautiful name: Darius Jefferson. Martha went with Ronald and I to meet him and invite him to a block club meeting.
“We’ve got a block club going,” said Ron.
“We’ve had some problems with kids and guns,” said I.
“I moved here from the projects so my kids can climb trees,” said Martha. “I want a real safe block for my kids.”
The man looked at Martha, he looked at me and Ronald, he looked back at Martha. He didn’t smile. He had a shaved head like a rock. His girlfriend was named Bonnie and stood behind him. I felt like I was in Pulp Fiction without the jokes. We forgot to give him our phone numbers or addresses before we beat ass out of there.
“I don’t want that man talking to my kids, I don’t want him even looking at my kids, I want nothing to do with him,” said Martha when we were safely in the street. “I knows a drug dealer when I see them. Seen enough already.”
A call to the Community Crime Prevention program reporting Darius Jefferson’s name and address supported our suspicion: Darius Jefferson had eight prior arrests related to selling narcotics at his last address. Darius Jefferson moved into our neighborhood one month after his eighth narcotic-related arrest at his former address. If eight prior arrest had not resulted in any jail time, it was easy to understand why Darius Jefferson felt safe enough to begin selling drugs as soon as he relocated.
We did everything we’d been told to do in our block club training. We kept a log of what cars stopped at his house, for how long, and at what time of day and night. When the music he played could be heard across the street, we called 911. When he did not pick up trash in his yard and when his lawn wasn’t mowed, we called the city inspector. We’d had to resort to these measures because the police said they couldn’t arrest him without more evidence and we wanted him to get the message that we were watching him. He accused us of harassment. I agreed with him. I felt silly calling the city inspector for three foot high weeds on the alley side of his garage when I was really thinking he was selling drugs and packing guns. If this was the war against drugs, no wonder we were losing.
“We’ve got a block club going,” said Ron.
“We’ve had some problems with kids and guns,” said I.
“I moved here from the projects so my kids can climb trees,” said Martha. “I want a real safe block for my kids.”
The man looked at Martha, he looked at me and Ronald, he looked back at Martha. He didn’t smile. He had a shaved head like a rock. His girlfriend was named Bonnie and stood behind him. I felt like I was in Pulp Fiction without the jokes. We forgot to give him our phone numbers or addresses before we beat ass out of there.
“I don’t want that man talking to my kids, I don’t want him even looking at my kids, I want nothing to do with him,” said Martha when we were safely in the street. “I knows a drug dealer when I see them. Seen enough already.”
A call to the Community Crime Prevention program reporting Darius Jefferson’s name and address supported our suspicion: Darius Jefferson had eight prior arrests related to selling narcotics at his last address. Darius Jefferson moved into our neighborhood one month after his eighth narcotic-related arrest at his former address. If eight prior arrest had not resulted in any jail time, it was easy to understand why Darius Jefferson felt safe enough to begin selling drugs as soon as he relocated.
We did everything we’d been told to do in our block club training. We kept a log of what cars stopped at his house, for how long, and at what time of day and night. When the music he played could be heard across the street, we called 911. When he did not pick up trash in his yard and when his lawn wasn’t mowed, we called the city inspector. We’d had to resort to these measures because the police said they couldn’t arrest him without more evidence and we wanted him to get the message that we were watching him. He accused us of harassment. I agreed with him. I felt silly calling the city inspector for three foot high weeds on the alley side of his garage when I was really thinking he was selling drugs and packing guns. If this was the war against drugs, no wonder we were losing.
When you're black, you're always black
I went back a week later for my edging. It wasn't in and I waited at the register while the white clerk paged through a book trying to figure out why. Three black boys, two in football gear, approached the register to pay for an electrical cord. The clerk looked up at them.
"Roy, haven't seen you around for a while. You been too busy dealing drugs?" I spun around to look at the boys. Two were looking at one who was looking back at the clerk. The boy looked frightened.
"No, I don't deal drugs." A joke between the two of them, perhaps? I looked back at the clerk. His expression was cool, satisfied, there was a shadow of hostility.
A week later I returned to the hardware store. The same white guy was behind the counter. The edging was in, he totaled the bill and as I wrote my check I heard a man behind me call out, "I made it back here."
"Is that good or bad," said the white guy behind the counter. I turned to look at the man he was talking to. There was no one around except a black man in his thirties wearing a jean jacket very similar to the one I was wearing. The black man was not looking at the counter man, but had his face averted. He was intensely examining a display of paint. Another joke and no one was laughing. It was not funny what was going on in there and it was the only hardware store in that neighborhood.
"Roy, haven't seen you around for a while. You been too busy dealing drugs?" I spun around to look at the boys. Two were looking at one who was looking back at the clerk. The boy looked frightened.
"No, I don't deal drugs." A joke between the two of them, perhaps? I looked back at the clerk. His expression was cool, satisfied, there was a shadow of hostility.
A week later I returned to the hardware store. The same white guy was behind the counter. The edging was in, he totaled the bill and as I wrote my check I heard a man behind me call out, "I made it back here."
"Is that good or bad," said the white guy behind the counter. I turned to look at the man he was talking to. There was no one around except a black man in his thirties wearing a jean jacket very similar to the one I was wearing. The black man was not looking at the counter man, but had his face averted. He was intensely examining a display of paint. Another joke and no one was laughing. It was not funny what was going on in there and it was the only hardware store in that neighborhood.
Neighborhood hardware store
Not wanting to contribute to the problem of deteriorating housing stock, I fixed things in my house as money allowed. Because I was in graduate school and worked part time, money didn’t allow much. But some landscape edging in the yard would help and I could afford that.
One weekday on my day off, I stopped by the local hardware store to look at lawn edging. I was the only customer and the white woman who owned the store with her husband was behind the counter. They were always chatty and helpful when I went in for my small purchases and I liked this store. She showed me lawn edging, but the stuff I needed was not in stock. Not a problem, she would order it for me. As was the habit of everyone in the neighborhood, we immediately fell into a conversation about the neighborhood as she wrote out an order form.
“The blacks come in here and I can’t read them. The police patrol this intersection more now. They stop in here and tell us to assume that every young black man who comes in here has a gun.” She looked disgusted. “Every young black man who comes in here is packing a gun.”
“I don’t think so,” I protested.
“It’s what the police say, they should know,” she retorted.
One weekday on my day off, I stopped by the local hardware store to look at lawn edging. I was the only customer and the white woman who owned the store with her husband was behind the counter. They were always chatty and helpful when I went in for my small purchases and I liked this store. She showed me lawn edging, but the stuff I needed was not in stock. Not a problem, she would order it for me. As was the habit of everyone in the neighborhood, we immediately fell into a conversation about the neighborhood as she wrote out an order form.
“The blacks come in here and I can’t read them. The police patrol this intersection more now. They stop in here and tell us to assume that every young black man who comes in here has a gun.” She looked disgusted. “Every young black man who comes in here is packing a gun.”
“I don’t think so,” I protested.
“It’s what the police say, they should know,” she retorted.
Neighborhood patrol
A neighborhood patrol had been organized for some time. I went occasionally. Three, four, sometimes five neighbors got together to walk at dusk twice a week. Only white neighbors showed up on patrol, a fact I was beginning to understand. A young white man named Dave lead patrol. I felt foolish and vulnerable on patrol, I felt weird, but I went anyway because I didn’t know what else to do and someone had to do something. The police were not going to save the neighborhood.
Also, it was a way to show a presence, as Dave explained, meaning the criminals and sluggards in the neighborhood saw that we were keeping an eye on them. Dave always carried a paper and pencil and wrote down the addresses of houses that looked abandoned or like gang hangouts or were in violation of city codes. The next day, Dave called them in to the Neighborhood Crime Prevention program or the city inspector.
By the first of July, when it was hotter than hell, and patrol members were dwindling, Dave arranged for our patrol to meet with the patrols of adjoining neighborhoods, Folwell and Jordan. I walked from my house to Dave’s. It was the first Saturday evening I'd walked in the neighborhood alone for years and I was nervous. Earlier in the day when I had driven down my block, a group of white teenagers had stood in the street talking to someone in a car; leaving only a narrow space between the group and the curb. As I drew closer, two of the boys had walked further into the street making the passageway even more narrow. Since I had become used to turf challenges from kids, I had reduced my speed only slightly before I squeezed past the kids.
This evening, after I walked two blocks from my house, I saw a black boy about eleven years old with a smaller black boy. I did not want to deal with any more kids; I crossed the street and continued walking. When I was directly across from the boys, I glanced in their direction.
"EXCU-U-U-SE ME ," the older boy said in a loud voice looking at me. He pushed the smaller boy. "I am somebody. I am somebody very important." Still looking at me, he pushed the smaller boy again. I looked away and continued to Dave's house.
He was waiting in front. The yard of the house next to his had been transformed since I had last met him at his house three weeks earlier. Under the evergreens, were sculpted beds of decorative rocks. I could see dark plastic peeking out from under the rocks at the edges. The rock mulch extended to the foundation of the house in front and to the side. The little remaining grass in the small yard was cut close.
"Transformed!" I said to Dave waving at his neighbor's yard.
"Yeah, she's been working real hard. Backyard too. It's mainly to cut down on the mowing." We stood with our hands on our hips, looking.
"I understand completely."
"Some to bank up the house, too."
"Everyone in north Minneapolis has water in their basement."
"She's had it real bad. So I told her to dig a ditch and line it with rock and run it far out into the back yard. She's working on it."
"Good for her. That's hard work."
Dave guffawed and began walking toward Penn. I fell in next to him. "I don't know if it's on account of her, but I've had more water in my basement this year than any other year I've been in my house."
"I've had more than usual in my basement too. It's been real wet this year."
"You hear a cop died this week?"
"No. How?"
"There was a scuffle up 43rd street and 6th avenue north. He was involved in it and died of cardiac arrest. They thought he was shot and arrested everyone at the site, but it was cardiac arrest."
"Gee. How’d you here about it?"
“I’ve got a scanner at my house. It’s on all the time. I just listen so I know what’s going on.”
“Yeah, we never get much information otherwise.”
“Yeah. Then a break-in, 36th and Thomas. Woman had a fan in a first floor window at night. Guy pulled out the fan, came in with a baseball bat. He knocked out the woman's husband, accosted her, burglarized the place. She recognized his voice and identified him as being from the house in the middle of the block of 35th and Thomas. The problem house we keep an eye on."
"That one. The white guy with the pitbulls and the flower truck."
"They picked up the guy and searched the house."
"They find her stuff?"
"I don't know.” He leaned over and picked up a broken bottle. He threw it in a garbage can we passed. “That's enough bad news for now. How about some good news? I heard a barbeque was moving in at Penn and Lowry where the plumbing business used to be. Let's check it out tonight."
When we arrived, ten people had congregated in front of the former plumbing business. Dave and I were the only Cleveland neighborhood people to show up. Folwell neighborhood was well-represented by six men and women, all wearing name tags. Char, the patrol leader, wore a clear plastic water bottle on a string around her neck. The other four people were from the Jordan neighborhood. The group ranged in age from thirties up to sixties, with an equal mix of men and women. All white, except for a black boy about ten years old. I introduced myself to him and asked which neighborhood he was from.
"He's from Jordan where I'm from," a man with a long thin beard and a cowboy hat answered.
"I heard a barbeque take-out was going in here," said Dave. I read the lettering on the store. ‘EMPLOYMENT ACTION CENTER.’ Underneath was written ‘WINGS.’ "So it's a restaurant and employment center together?"
"No! Just employment,” said Char. “That stands for ‘women in’ something." We crowded around the window .
"You mean there's no food at all?" Dave and I looked at each other in deep disappointment.
"Wings don't mean chicken!" said the man in the cowboy hat, laughing.
“All social services going in here,” said a woman. “What we need is businesses generating money.”
We began walking east on Lowry avenue. When a police car was spotted moving towards us, Char yelled out "Let's all wave at the cop car." Several of us did. The officer driving waved back. The other man in the front seat looked at us with a bored expression. We continued and passed a two story brick apartment building. The paint around the windows was peeling and there was litter in the small yard. A black man, about age forty, neatly dressed, stood in the doorway. Parked in front was a black car, the motor running, a booming bass coming from it, no one in it. The man in the doorway looked at us with a worried expression. We continued walking.
"Let's all wave at the fire truck," Char called out. A red fire truck, loaded with people wearing street clothes, passed us. Several of us waved at it. It was not using the siren and did not seem to be in a hurry. Some of the people on it waved back.
"So what kind of work do you do?" I asked Dave. We’d been walking together on patrol for months but I knew little about his private life.
"Right now I'm working at a foundry. Been there three months. All kinds of metal. It's a job, not a career, just a job."
"It pays the bills," I suggested.
"They laid off a bunch of guys, but I didn't hear anything, so I guess I still have a job. I'm a temporary; usually after three months they make you permanent, but I haven't heard anything."
"I work in healthcare. We had two lay-offs this year. Luckily, my division has been adding people, so I guess I've got about as much job security as a person can have these days."
"There isn't much security anywhere. At the foundry, you start at six-fifty an hour. I've got a friend who's been there a year and he's making seven an hour now. When I graduated high school I was making seven an hour." Dave looked to be in his mid-thirties, a long time past graduation.
"I thought a foundry would pay better. It's hard work."
"Any idiot can do what I do. It's setting up wax forms, then molds are made. A monkey can do the job, but most of the guys been there don't do it right. It's got to be done right. I'm waiting to see if I can get on permanent."
At Emerson avenue, Char waved across the street at a group of white people. I had been watching a black man dressed in a matching shorts and shirt across the street from us. He was talking to two younger black men. He gestured broadly, tipped to one side as though slightly off balance, righted himself.
"Every time we walk up to this corner, those guys are there," Dave said to me. "Wonder what kind of business they're doing. One night on patrol, I said hello to them. One said to me, 'When you guys come through here, everybody scatters.'"
A group of four white people was crossing the street. One of them, a man, wore a red tee-shirt. Char introduced him as Gary, the Hawthorne neighborhood patrol leader. Gary grinned at everyone, shook hands with people standing near him. We crossed Lowry and walked south on Emerson.
We passed a newly paved parking lot in front of an auto parts store. A sign advertising a GRAND OPENING was in the front windows.
"How do you like that?" shouted the man in the cowboy hat, pointing at the store.
"Better than a used furniture store!" answered Gary.
"The neighborhood was real involved in deciding what would go in on this corner," Dave explained to me. "Someone wanted to put in a second-hand shop; they said there's enough of them around. They wanted something new." He raised his voice to the group. "Look at that. Every window has steel bars across it."
We passed a couple of dark old houses, then a large empty lot.
"Hawthorne's really got problems," Dave informed me. "Lot of rundown property, abandoned houses. Some houses had fires last winter, been condemned, still got families living in them."
Across the street, several small black children played quietly on the sidewalk in front of a two-story wood-frame house badly in need of paint. Most of the yards on this block were littered with paper; the sidewalk was full of shattered glass. On our side of the street, we passed a stucco house with dark green trim nearly hidden by overgrown shrubbery. A dog barked ferociously at us. I looked closely before I located an overweight, dark brown dog with a snub nose jumping against a chain-link wire fence.
"What kind of dog is that?"
"Pitbull," said the man in the cowboy hat. I looked at the dog more closely. Heard about them, never seen one before.
We continued to walk past houses with peeling paint, ripped window screens, crumbling cement. Every once in a while I saw a house and yard that was clean and in good repair.
"Dick's son is the one that got beat up so bad five years ago, if you remember that," said Dave nodding to the man in the cowboy hat. I caught my breath; I remembered vaguely a boy being beaten on a Sunday morning when he stepped out of the car his father was driving. It had been random and brutal; the father had been unable to defend his son.
"He's doing real good now," said Dick, looking over at us. "He's graduating high school."
"Was that him on patrol with us last week, Dick?"
Dick nodded. "He's doin' real good."
At the next street corner, a car stopped for the sign and we crossed in front of it. Gary went to the rider's side, said a few words to a young white woman in the car and handed her a flyer. She smiled and took it.
"Every time I see Gary, he's full of energy, running around introducing himself to people," commented Dave, smiling.
We turned east on 28th street. The sidewalk had a hopscotch drawn in colored chalk on it. Across the street, an elderly white woman walked a tall, muscular, black brindled dog.
"Everyone's got a rottweiler or a pitbull nowdays," commented a man in our group, shaking his head. “Even the little old ladies.”
After a few blocks, Gary and his contingency separated from our larger group. They called out goodbyes and Gary yelled to us, "There was a shooting down at 23rd and Emerson earlier in the week. We've got to go down there tonight and show them normal people live here too!" He waved gaily.
Dave laughed. "He's always like that--upbeat and full of energy. You here there's some new mortgage financing out? To qualify, your income has to be between eighteen thousand and forty thousand per year. That's too high. I couldn't even qualify and I already own a house; I don't make eighteen thousand. And anyone making over twenty-five goes out to the suburbs."
"Gee, I don't think so," I disagreed. "The low end of houses in the suburbs is one hundred thousand."
"A friend of mine just bought a house in Robbinsdale for fifty thousand. There's lots of houses in that range in Robbinsdale, Crystal, Brooklyn Park. 'Course those suburbs aren't in the best of shape either, but it's better than here," he countered.
We were on a corner again and other members of the group were debating whether to turn north or continue east. Someone suggested we walk east to Jordan Park. When we reached Jordan Park, it was luscious, green and clean. A sidewalk curved into it between two low hills. I felt like I was entering a private garden.
"Hills! Not good for crime control!" commented Char emphatically. "Didn't they think about that when they were landscaping this?" I looked about. The ground dipped and rose; there were many bushes.
“There's a lot of places to hide, isn't there?"
A woman from Folwell said wistfully, "But it is pretty."
The sidewalk wound past small trees and high bushes until we were suddenly in an open expanse that was laid out in several play areas: a set of low swings and slides where two Asian women played with toddlers, a wading pool filled with pale aquamarine water, a jungle gym where three black girls sat at the highest point.
"Hi," I said and waved at them. They looked back at me without saying anything. Several other patrol members called out greetings. The biggest girl shyly waved back.
"Everything here's so clean. This is a beautiful park," I said to Dave.
"Jordan neighborhood's been organized a long time and they were the first to get Neighborhood Revitalization Project money. I wish we'd put in a pool when we updated Cleveland Park. It's been a while since I smelled that disinfectant they use in pools," replied Dave.
"Chlorine has a nice clean smell out in the open air, doesn't it?" We passed long, neatly raked beds of sand with stakes set for throwing horseshoes. At the edge of the park were basketball courts. Three black adolescent boys stood under a hoop talking. We continued up Queen avenue to Lowry.
At Penn and Lowry we paused. The Folwell group decided to walk the east side of Penn going north, the Jordan group joined Dave and I on the west side. When Char was in front of Barbara's beauty shop, she yelled at us.
"That's your SAFE officer on duty!"
"What's a SAFE officer?" asked someone in my group.
"That's the crime prevention division of the police department," answered Dick. "Hey, that's Officer Day. He must be picking up some extra duty, doing security at the liquor store."
We congregated around Officer Day, some people introduced themselves, others reminded him of when they last met. Officer Day was affable.
"Neighborhood patrol, huh. Good, good. There's safety in numbers. Keep it up."
At the corner of 34th and Penn, Dave and a man from Folwell offered to walk me to my house. When we arrived, we stood awkwardly on the front walk. I noticed that my hedge was badly in need of a trim, a crushed beer can lay on the boulevard, and some papers had blown up against the hedge.
"It’s good to have Officer Day up here; he lives in the neighborhood, he really cares.”
“Yeah, and he’s native American, that’s good, too. Sounds like the new police chief bought a house up on 43rd and Queen," said the man from Folwell.
"I've noticed more patrol cars around already," added Dave. "That neighborhood's nicer than here, but they could go bad."
"So many city officials, they don't want to live in the city," said the Folwell man. "They take all that big money out of here. The new chief's going to keep it in the city and he'll know what's going on better than them others. And he’ll care."
"Thanks for walking me home," I said. I picked up the can and pulled the papers out of the hedge. “And for getting out on patrol. I'll talk to some of my neighbors about coming on patrol."
"Word of mouth works the best," said Dave.
“Yeah.” I looked hard at my house. It needed a few things.
Also, it was a way to show a presence, as Dave explained, meaning the criminals and sluggards in the neighborhood saw that we were keeping an eye on them. Dave always carried a paper and pencil and wrote down the addresses of houses that looked abandoned or like gang hangouts or were in violation of city codes. The next day, Dave called them in to the Neighborhood Crime Prevention program or the city inspector.
By the first of July, when it was hotter than hell, and patrol members were dwindling, Dave arranged for our patrol to meet with the patrols of adjoining neighborhoods, Folwell and Jordan. I walked from my house to Dave’s. It was the first Saturday evening I'd walked in the neighborhood alone for years and I was nervous. Earlier in the day when I had driven down my block, a group of white teenagers had stood in the street talking to someone in a car; leaving only a narrow space between the group and the curb. As I drew closer, two of the boys had walked further into the street making the passageway even more narrow. Since I had become used to turf challenges from kids, I had reduced my speed only slightly before I squeezed past the kids.
This evening, after I walked two blocks from my house, I saw a black boy about eleven years old with a smaller black boy. I did not want to deal with any more kids; I crossed the street and continued walking. When I was directly across from the boys, I glanced in their direction.
"EXCU-U-U-SE ME ," the older boy said in a loud voice looking at me. He pushed the smaller boy. "I am somebody. I am somebody very important." Still looking at me, he pushed the smaller boy again. I looked away and continued to Dave's house.
He was waiting in front. The yard of the house next to his had been transformed since I had last met him at his house three weeks earlier. Under the evergreens, were sculpted beds of decorative rocks. I could see dark plastic peeking out from under the rocks at the edges. The rock mulch extended to the foundation of the house in front and to the side. The little remaining grass in the small yard was cut close.
"Transformed!" I said to Dave waving at his neighbor's yard.
"Yeah, she's been working real hard. Backyard too. It's mainly to cut down on the mowing." We stood with our hands on our hips, looking.
"I understand completely."
"Some to bank up the house, too."
"Everyone in north Minneapolis has water in their basement."
"She's had it real bad. So I told her to dig a ditch and line it with rock and run it far out into the back yard. She's working on it."
"Good for her. That's hard work."
Dave guffawed and began walking toward Penn. I fell in next to him. "I don't know if it's on account of her, but I've had more water in my basement this year than any other year I've been in my house."
"I've had more than usual in my basement too. It's been real wet this year."
"You hear a cop died this week?"
"No. How?"
"There was a scuffle up 43rd street and 6th avenue north. He was involved in it and died of cardiac arrest. They thought he was shot and arrested everyone at the site, but it was cardiac arrest."
"Gee. How’d you here about it?"
“I’ve got a scanner at my house. It’s on all the time. I just listen so I know what’s going on.”
“Yeah, we never get much information otherwise.”
“Yeah. Then a break-in, 36th and Thomas. Woman had a fan in a first floor window at night. Guy pulled out the fan, came in with a baseball bat. He knocked out the woman's husband, accosted her, burglarized the place. She recognized his voice and identified him as being from the house in the middle of the block of 35th and Thomas. The problem house we keep an eye on."
"That one. The white guy with the pitbulls and the flower truck."
"They picked up the guy and searched the house."
"They find her stuff?"
"I don't know.” He leaned over and picked up a broken bottle. He threw it in a garbage can we passed. “That's enough bad news for now. How about some good news? I heard a barbeque was moving in at Penn and Lowry where the plumbing business used to be. Let's check it out tonight."
When we arrived, ten people had congregated in front of the former plumbing business. Dave and I were the only Cleveland neighborhood people to show up. Folwell neighborhood was well-represented by six men and women, all wearing name tags. Char, the patrol leader, wore a clear plastic water bottle on a string around her neck. The other four people were from the Jordan neighborhood. The group ranged in age from thirties up to sixties, with an equal mix of men and women. All white, except for a black boy about ten years old. I introduced myself to him and asked which neighborhood he was from.
"He's from Jordan where I'm from," a man with a long thin beard and a cowboy hat answered.
"I heard a barbeque take-out was going in here," said Dave. I read the lettering on the store. ‘EMPLOYMENT ACTION CENTER.’ Underneath was written ‘WINGS.’ "So it's a restaurant and employment center together?"
"No! Just employment,” said Char. “That stands for ‘women in’ something." We crowded around the window .
"You mean there's no food at all?" Dave and I looked at each other in deep disappointment.
"Wings don't mean chicken!" said the man in the cowboy hat, laughing.
“All social services going in here,” said a woman. “What we need is businesses generating money.”
We began walking east on Lowry avenue. When a police car was spotted moving towards us, Char yelled out "Let's all wave at the cop car." Several of us did. The officer driving waved back. The other man in the front seat looked at us with a bored expression. We continued and passed a two story brick apartment building. The paint around the windows was peeling and there was litter in the small yard. A black man, about age forty, neatly dressed, stood in the doorway. Parked in front was a black car, the motor running, a booming bass coming from it, no one in it. The man in the doorway looked at us with a worried expression. We continued walking.
"Let's all wave at the fire truck," Char called out. A red fire truck, loaded with people wearing street clothes, passed us. Several of us waved at it. It was not using the siren and did not seem to be in a hurry. Some of the people on it waved back.
"So what kind of work do you do?" I asked Dave. We’d been walking together on patrol for months but I knew little about his private life.
"Right now I'm working at a foundry. Been there three months. All kinds of metal. It's a job, not a career, just a job."
"It pays the bills," I suggested.
"They laid off a bunch of guys, but I didn't hear anything, so I guess I still have a job. I'm a temporary; usually after three months they make you permanent, but I haven't heard anything."
"I work in healthcare. We had two lay-offs this year. Luckily, my division has been adding people, so I guess I've got about as much job security as a person can have these days."
"There isn't much security anywhere. At the foundry, you start at six-fifty an hour. I've got a friend who's been there a year and he's making seven an hour now. When I graduated high school I was making seven an hour." Dave looked to be in his mid-thirties, a long time past graduation.
"I thought a foundry would pay better. It's hard work."
"Any idiot can do what I do. It's setting up wax forms, then molds are made. A monkey can do the job, but most of the guys been there don't do it right. It's got to be done right. I'm waiting to see if I can get on permanent."
At Emerson avenue, Char waved across the street at a group of white people. I had been watching a black man dressed in a matching shorts and shirt across the street from us. He was talking to two younger black men. He gestured broadly, tipped to one side as though slightly off balance, righted himself.
"Every time we walk up to this corner, those guys are there," Dave said to me. "Wonder what kind of business they're doing. One night on patrol, I said hello to them. One said to me, 'When you guys come through here, everybody scatters.'"
A group of four white people was crossing the street. One of them, a man, wore a red tee-shirt. Char introduced him as Gary, the Hawthorne neighborhood patrol leader. Gary grinned at everyone, shook hands with people standing near him. We crossed Lowry and walked south on Emerson.
We passed a newly paved parking lot in front of an auto parts store. A sign advertising a GRAND OPENING was in the front windows.
"How do you like that?" shouted the man in the cowboy hat, pointing at the store.
"Better than a used furniture store!" answered Gary.
"The neighborhood was real involved in deciding what would go in on this corner," Dave explained to me. "Someone wanted to put in a second-hand shop; they said there's enough of them around. They wanted something new." He raised his voice to the group. "Look at that. Every window has steel bars across it."
We passed a couple of dark old houses, then a large empty lot.
"Hawthorne's really got problems," Dave informed me. "Lot of rundown property, abandoned houses. Some houses had fires last winter, been condemned, still got families living in them."
Across the street, several small black children played quietly on the sidewalk in front of a two-story wood-frame house badly in need of paint. Most of the yards on this block were littered with paper; the sidewalk was full of shattered glass. On our side of the street, we passed a stucco house with dark green trim nearly hidden by overgrown shrubbery. A dog barked ferociously at us. I looked closely before I located an overweight, dark brown dog with a snub nose jumping against a chain-link wire fence.
"What kind of dog is that?"
"Pitbull," said the man in the cowboy hat. I looked at the dog more closely. Heard about them, never seen one before.
We continued to walk past houses with peeling paint, ripped window screens, crumbling cement. Every once in a while I saw a house and yard that was clean and in good repair.
"Dick's son is the one that got beat up so bad five years ago, if you remember that," said Dave nodding to the man in the cowboy hat. I caught my breath; I remembered vaguely a boy being beaten on a Sunday morning when he stepped out of the car his father was driving. It had been random and brutal; the father had been unable to defend his son.
"He's doing real good now," said Dick, looking over at us. "He's graduating high school."
"Was that him on patrol with us last week, Dick?"
Dick nodded. "He's doin' real good."
At the next street corner, a car stopped for the sign and we crossed in front of it. Gary went to the rider's side, said a few words to a young white woman in the car and handed her a flyer. She smiled and took it.
"Every time I see Gary, he's full of energy, running around introducing himself to people," commented Dave, smiling.
We turned east on 28th street. The sidewalk had a hopscotch drawn in colored chalk on it. Across the street, an elderly white woman walked a tall, muscular, black brindled dog.
"Everyone's got a rottweiler or a pitbull nowdays," commented a man in our group, shaking his head. “Even the little old ladies.”
After a few blocks, Gary and his contingency separated from our larger group. They called out goodbyes and Gary yelled to us, "There was a shooting down at 23rd and Emerson earlier in the week. We've got to go down there tonight and show them normal people live here too!" He waved gaily.
Dave laughed. "He's always like that--upbeat and full of energy. You here there's some new mortgage financing out? To qualify, your income has to be between eighteen thousand and forty thousand per year. That's too high. I couldn't even qualify and I already own a house; I don't make eighteen thousand. And anyone making over twenty-five goes out to the suburbs."
"Gee, I don't think so," I disagreed. "The low end of houses in the suburbs is one hundred thousand."
"A friend of mine just bought a house in Robbinsdale for fifty thousand. There's lots of houses in that range in Robbinsdale, Crystal, Brooklyn Park. 'Course those suburbs aren't in the best of shape either, but it's better than here," he countered.
We were on a corner again and other members of the group were debating whether to turn north or continue east. Someone suggested we walk east to Jordan Park. When we reached Jordan Park, it was luscious, green and clean. A sidewalk curved into it between two low hills. I felt like I was entering a private garden.
"Hills! Not good for crime control!" commented Char emphatically. "Didn't they think about that when they were landscaping this?" I looked about. The ground dipped and rose; there were many bushes.
“There's a lot of places to hide, isn't there?"
A woman from Folwell said wistfully, "But it is pretty."
The sidewalk wound past small trees and high bushes until we were suddenly in an open expanse that was laid out in several play areas: a set of low swings and slides where two Asian women played with toddlers, a wading pool filled with pale aquamarine water, a jungle gym where three black girls sat at the highest point.
"Hi," I said and waved at them. They looked back at me without saying anything. Several other patrol members called out greetings. The biggest girl shyly waved back.
"Everything here's so clean. This is a beautiful park," I said to Dave.
"Jordan neighborhood's been organized a long time and they were the first to get Neighborhood Revitalization Project money. I wish we'd put in a pool when we updated Cleveland Park. It's been a while since I smelled that disinfectant they use in pools," replied Dave.
"Chlorine has a nice clean smell out in the open air, doesn't it?" We passed long, neatly raked beds of sand with stakes set for throwing horseshoes. At the edge of the park were basketball courts. Three black adolescent boys stood under a hoop talking. We continued up Queen avenue to Lowry.
At Penn and Lowry we paused. The Folwell group decided to walk the east side of Penn going north, the Jordan group joined Dave and I on the west side. When Char was in front of Barbara's beauty shop, she yelled at us.
"That's your SAFE officer on duty!"
"What's a SAFE officer?" asked someone in my group.
"That's the crime prevention division of the police department," answered Dick. "Hey, that's Officer Day. He must be picking up some extra duty, doing security at the liquor store."
We congregated around Officer Day, some people introduced themselves, others reminded him of when they last met. Officer Day was affable.
"Neighborhood patrol, huh. Good, good. There's safety in numbers. Keep it up."
At the corner of 34th and Penn, Dave and a man from Folwell offered to walk me to my house. When we arrived, we stood awkwardly on the front walk. I noticed that my hedge was badly in need of a trim, a crushed beer can lay on the boulevard, and some papers had blown up against the hedge.
"It’s good to have Officer Day up here; he lives in the neighborhood, he really cares.”
“Yeah, and he’s native American, that’s good, too. Sounds like the new police chief bought a house up on 43rd and Queen," said the man from Folwell.
"I've noticed more patrol cars around already," added Dave. "That neighborhood's nicer than here, but they could go bad."
"So many city officials, they don't want to live in the city," said the Folwell man. "They take all that big money out of here. The new chief's going to keep it in the city and he'll know what's going on better than them others. And he’ll care."
"Thanks for walking me home," I said. I picked up the can and pulled the papers out of the hedge. “And for getting out on patrol. I'll talk to some of my neighbors about coming on patrol."
"Word of mouth works the best," said Dave.
“Yeah.” I looked hard at my house. It needed a few things.
Block club leader training
I signed up for block club leader training. The day of the training, I came home from work tired and irritable. I hadn’t heard any gunshots for a while and I considered not going, I wanted to eat and sack out. I wanted to drink tea and watch TV. I was sick and tired of problems. I went to the training anyway.
Block club leader training was held in the basement of a church my parents had attended before they had moved into a nursing home a year earlier. At least sixty people turned up for it, about half were white; the others were black and Asian, two dark-haired women I guessed to be native American because I overheard them discussing a powwow, and a young man who I knew to be gay. This was the population of north Minneapolis and this was why I loved the place.
After an introduction by a woman from the Community Crime Prevention Program there was a pep talk from a beat officer, a young, congenial, plump fellow who looked like he could shoot a gun more easily than run ten feet. He told several stupid jokes that made everyone laugh, then we broke up into groups of eight to discuss problems particular to our blocks.
Next to me was a young black man who lived south of me about ten blocks. “There’s no block club where I am,” he said, “and the kids just hang out. They don’t have anything to do. Got some old folks livin’ on the block and a whole lotta single ladies with kids. I am the only black man on the whole block. I see the kids hangin’ out a lot doing things.” He grimaced. “Maybe it’s not illegal what they’re doing but it’s close and if it ain’t close, it’s headed in that direction. Cars pulling up next to each other and they’s giving each other stuff. I go out and tell ‘em, ‘can’t have all this traffic. This is a street that little kids play on.’ A black man can tell that to another black man. The ladies and the old people, they can’t do that.”
We were a group of whites and blacks, we all nodded. He went on.
“The younger kids, they run all over any yard they’re near. They don’t think about who owns that property. Their mothers don’t notice. They’re either working or looking after the younger kids. So, I tell the kids, ‘you keep off yards ain’t yours.’ They’re not bad kids; they need something to do and someone to see they do it. I keep thinkin’ them old folks need help with their yards. I don’t mean to criticize, but when you get old you oughta get some help with those jobs. We got kids who need something to do, folks who need something done . . .” his voice trailed off.
A black woman introduced herself. “On my block I am known as ‘that black bitch.’ We have a gang and everyone is afraid of them. We don’t have a block club, but I’ve been meeting with the closest club, two blocks from where I am. I been knocking door to door on my block and everyone agrees we have a problem and someone should do something about it, but no one will come to a meeting. They’re all afraid. I tell them if we don’t do something, it’ll get worse, but they don’t do anything.
There is a house at the end of the block, no one lives in it, I don’t know who owns it, and believe me, I have tried to find out. It is the gathering place for a gang. There are sometimes sixty, seventy young men at the house! We watch them go in and we count them. Sixty, seventy of them!”
The people listening gasped.
“If I’m going to park in my own garage, I have to drive past them and they know I’m the black bitch trying to get rid of them. They know my car and when the guy on watch sees it, they all come piling out of the little house into the alley. I don’t slow down. I will not let them intimidate me! I drive right through. I want them to know, they better get out of my way!
I was born and grew up in St. Paul and I got married on the north side of Minneapolis and been here ever since. It was never like this before! Our biggest problem is all those people moved in from Detroit and Chicago. They’re hoodlums come in here thinking it’s easy territory. . .”
“Hey, wait a minute!” The black man who spoke first snapped out of his relaxed slouch. “I’m from Chicago!” The woman raised her voice and continued.
“Those people came up here from Chicago and Detroit to sell drugs and now we got drugs all over Minneapolis and St. Paul.”
“I’m from Chicago!” The young man protested. His eyes were wide, he was upset. “I came here to get away from the drugs and drugs was already here when I got here! I came up from Chicago to work!”
“You’re not the one I’m talking about,” the woman said fiercely. “It’s those gang members poison the neighborhoods!”
“Thank you!” the young black man said, half shouting. “Thank you! I’m trying to make a safe place to live same as everyone else.”
“I hear you,” she answered and she stood up, looked down at him for a moment, then sat down again. “I hear you. We are here to work together!”
On my other side, sat a bearded black man about forty years old. He introduced himself as William. When he identified where he lived, I realized he was one block away from me. William had a quiet, hesitant voice. “It’s not too bad where I am, but it’s getting there. We have a house that’s been abandoned two years. No one mows the grass, kids hang out there, break things. It’s an eyesore. One of the neighbors has talked to the owner. He’s a nice guy, but going through a divorce, can’t get it together to take care of his property. I’ve been there, I can understand, but two years is too long for a house to be just sittin’ there.”
“So are you on the block where that guy always parks a flower truck?” I asked.
“Right next to the guy! I bought just this spring, nice house, didn’t pay enough attention to who was in the house next door.”
“They’re bad news in there,” I agreed. “That guy was shot at by some little kids on bikes in front of my house last spring.”
William grimaced and lowered his voice. I had to lean toward him to hear him say, “I don’t mean to call names, but that guy in that house, him and his girlfriend, my mother would have called them hillbillies.” A white man sitting across from me nodded in agreement. I didn’t add that my white middle class neighbors had referred to this household as white trash.
William continued, “If he’s got kids shooting at him with guns, it ain’t right what those kids is doing, but he did something to them, too. His kids run all over the neighbors’ yards. They got two pitbulls in their own yard, so the kids can’t play in the back at all. They’re in my yard all the time. I don’t want them there, but I feel sorry for them. It’s so bad, I told my own daughter she’s better off living with her mother than me.”
“That isn’t right,” the man from Chicago said, “you can’t have your daughter there.”
“No, it’s not.” William’s voice was sad, perhaps embarrassed. “I went next door to talk to the guy. He said he was sorry his kids were so wild, he said they’re bad kids. Then he offered me beer and weed to apologize.” There was restrained laughter in the group. For a moment, William looked like he might cry. “They’re not bad kids, just kids that no one’s taking care of.” People nodded in agreement. We’d all seen the neglected children in our neighborhoods. There was a momentary silence like a prayer.
We were called out of our small groups. We reported our concerns to the larger group. The discussion was followed by an information session: who to call in the city government for which problems, how to organize neighbors.
Block club leader training was held in the basement of a church my parents had attended before they had moved into a nursing home a year earlier. At least sixty people turned up for it, about half were white; the others were black and Asian, two dark-haired women I guessed to be native American because I overheard them discussing a powwow, and a young man who I knew to be gay. This was the population of north Minneapolis and this was why I loved the place.
After an introduction by a woman from the Community Crime Prevention Program there was a pep talk from a beat officer, a young, congenial, plump fellow who looked like he could shoot a gun more easily than run ten feet. He told several stupid jokes that made everyone laugh, then we broke up into groups of eight to discuss problems particular to our blocks.
Next to me was a young black man who lived south of me about ten blocks. “There’s no block club where I am,” he said, “and the kids just hang out. They don’t have anything to do. Got some old folks livin’ on the block and a whole lotta single ladies with kids. I am the only black man on the whole block. I see the kids hangin’ out a lot doing things.” He grimaced. “Maybe it’s not illegal what they’re doing but it’s close and if it ain’t close, it’s headed in that direction. Cars pulling up next to each other and they’s giving each other stuff. I go out and tell ‘em, ‘can’t have all this traffic. This is a street that little kids play on.’ A black man can tell that to another black man. The ladies and the old people, they can’t do that.”
We were a group of whites and blacks, we all nodded. He went on.
“The younger kids, they run all over any yard they’re near. They don’t think about who owns that property. Their mothers don’t notice. They’re either working or looking after the younger kids. So, I tell the kids, ‘you keep off yards ain’t yours.’ They’re not bad kids; they need something to do and someone to see they do it. I keep thinkin’ them old folks need help with their yards. I don’t mean to criticize, but when you get old you oughta get some help with those jobs. We got kids who need something to do, folks who need something done . . .” his voice trailed off.
A black woman introduced herself. “On my block I am known as ‘that black bitch.’ We have a gang and everyone is afraid of them. We don’t have a block club, but I’ve been meeting with the closest club, two blocks from where I am. I been knocking door to door on my block and everyone agrees we have a problem and someone should do something about it, but no one will come to a meeting. They’re all afraid. I tell them if we don’t do something, it’ll get worse, but they don’t do anything.
There is a house at the end of the block, no one lives in it, I don’t know who owns it, and believe me, I have tried to find out. It is the gathering place for a gang. There are sometimes sixty, seventy young men at the house! We watch them go in and we count them. Sixty, seventy of them!”
The people listening gasped.
“If I’m going to park in my own garage, I have to drive past them and they know I’m the black bitch trying to get rid of them. They know my car and when the guy on watch sees it, they all come piling out of the little house into the alley. I don’t slow down. I will not let them intimidate me! I drive right through. I want them to know, they better get out of my way!
I was born and grew up in St. Paul and I got married on the north side of Minneapolis and been here ever since. It was never like this before! Our biggest problem is all those people moved in from Detroit and Chicago. They’re hoodlums come in here thinking it’s easy territory. . .”
“Hey, wait a minute!” The black man who spoke first snapped out of his relaxed slouch. “I’m from Chicago!” The woman raised her voice and continued.
“Those people came up here from Chicago and Detroit to sell drugs and now we got drugs all over Minneapolis and St. Paul.”
“I’m from Chicago!” The young man protested. His eyes were wide, he was upset. “I came here to get away from the drugs and drugs was already here when I got here! I came up from Chicago to work!”
“You’re not the one I’m talking about,” the woman said fiercely. “It’s those gang members poison the neighborhoods!”
“Thank you!” the young black man said, half shouting. “Thank you! I’m trying to make a safe place to live same as everyone else.”
“I hear you,” she answered and she stood up, looked down at him for a moment, then sat down again. “I hear you. We are here to work together!”
On my other side, sat a bearded black man about forty years old. He introduced himself as William. When he identified where he lived, I realized he was one block away from me. William had a quiet, hesitant voice. “It’s not too bad where I am, but it’s getting there. We have a house that’s been abandoned two years. No one mows the grass, kids hang out there, break things. It’s an eyesore. One of the neighbors has talked to the owner. He’s a nice guy, but going through a divorce, can’t get it together to take care of his property. I’ve been there, I can understand, but two years is too long for a house to be just sittin’ there.”
“So are you on the block where that guy always parks a flower truck?” I asked.
“Right next to the guy! I bought just this spring, nice house, didn’t pay enough attention to who was in the house next door.”
“They’re bad news in there,” I agreed. “That guy was shot at by some little kids on bikes in front of my house last spring.”
William grimaced and lowered his voice. I had to lean toward him to hear him say, “I don’t mean to call names, but that guy in that house, him and his girlfriend, my mother would have called them hillbillies.” A white man sitting across from me nodded in agreement. I didn’t add that my white middle class neighbors had referred to this household as white trash.
William continued, “If he’s got kids shooting at him with guns, it ain’t right what those kids is doing, but he did something to them, too. His kids run all over the neighbors’ yards. They got two pitbulls in their own yard, so the kids can’t play in the back at all. They’re in my yard all the time. I don’t want them there, but I feel sorry for them. It’s so bad, I told my own daughter she’s better off living with her mother than me.”
“That isn’t right,” the man from Chicago said, “you can’t have your daughter there.”
“No, it’s not.” William’s voice was sad, perhaps embarrassed. “I went next door to talk to the guy. He said he was sorry his kids were so wild, he said they’re bad kids. Then he offered me beer and weed to apologize.” There was restrained laughter in the group. For a moment, William looked like he might cry. “They’re not bad kids, just kids that no one’s taking care of.” People nodded in agreement. We’d all seen the neglected children in our neighborhoods. There was a momentary silence like a prayer.
We were called out of our small groups. We reported our concerns to the larger group. The discussion was followed by an information session: who to call in the city government for which problems, how to organize neighbors.
It's a beautiful fall
When Martha moved in late summer, we talked carefully when we were out in our back yards; I was white and I knew I had to work harder if we were going to be friends. And I courted her children. It was easy, they were young and open to the world; they accepted me with enthusiasm. I found them delightful.
When I came home from work and walked from the garage on the alley up to my backdoor, I always lingered at the garden and breathed it in. I was there one day when I noticed Martha’s son, Prince, in the back yard of their house.
“I have something to show you!” I called out. He crossed shyly into my yard. I held out a bouquet of dry poppy seed pods, still on their long stems. I shook them and we heard the soft sound of tiny seeds shifting in the pods. Some of the fine black seeds sprayed out, dusting my pastel dress. He gasped and eagerly reached for the pods.
“Mom! Mom!” he shouted as he dashed back to his own yard, his treasures softly rattling in his hand. The back door to their house slammed behind him. Soon, he returned to my yard exclaiming, “The sound they make is wonderful!” I helped him gather more of the wondrous pods.
Later in the week, the fall rains began. I took a walk during a light drizzle. As I crossed the street, six girls on roller blades rumbled gracefully toward me over the glistening pavement. Brown girls, tan girls, beaded braids flying out, they parted to go around me like a bubbling brook that had been split by a boulder. They shrieked and competed for positions behind the leading girl.
Farther on, I passed a black woman and a toddler huddled under the awning over the front steps of their house. A car pulled over to the curb and parked. A white woman got out and called, “Hi Jesse! I brought your cousin to see you.” The woman on the steps greeted her and waved, the little boy next to her stamped his feet. The driver walked around the car, opened a door, and brought out a tiny, dark girl. She set her on unsteady legs and said, “That’s your cousin Jesse, Merissa. Say hello to your cousin.” Merissa swayed, stabilized, and looked across the lawn to Jesse. She gurgled and bounced excitedly.
The next day was dry, burnished autumn. I was writing in the upstairs bedroom of my house when something small and white danced across the porch roof of Martha’s house next door. Birds? Butterflies? I looked more closely. Prince, crouched on the roof, was releasing pieces of paper into the wind. He watched intently as the air currents carried them. I was as captivated by his experiment in aerodynamics as he.
I didn’t want to leave my neighborhood. I didn’t want to leave all the beauty.
When I came home from work and walked from the garage on the alley up to my backdoor, I always lingered at the garden and breathed it in. I was there one day when I noticed Martha’s son, Prince, in the back yard of their house.
“I have something to show you!” I called out. He crossed shyly into my yard. I held out a bouquet of dry poppy seed pods, still on their long stems. I shook them and we heard the soft sound of tiny seeds shifting in the pods. Some of the fine black seeds sprayed out, dusting my pastel dress. He gasped and eagerly reached for the pods.
“Mom! Mom!” he shouted as he dashed back to his own yard, his treasures softly rattling in his hand. The back door to their house slammed behind him. Soon, he returned to my yard exclaiming, “The sound they make is wonderful!” I helped him gather more of the wondrous pods.
Later in the week, the fall rains began. I took a walk during a light drizzle. As I crossed the street, six girls on roller blades rumbled gracefully toward me over the glistening pavement. Brown girls, tan girls, beaded braids flying out, they parted to go around me like a bubbling brook that had been split by a boulder. They shrieked and competed for positions behind the leading girl.
Farther on, I passed a black woman and a toddler huddled under the awning over the front steps of their house. A car pulled over to the curb and parked. A white woman got out and called, “Hi Jesse! I brought your cousin to see you.” The woman on the steps greeted her and waved, the little boy next to her stamped his feet. The driver walked around the car, opened a door, and brought out a tiny, dark girl. She set her on unsteady legs and said, “That’s your cousin Jesse, Merissa. Say hello to your cousin.” Merissa swayed, stabilized, and looked across the lawn to Jesse. She gurgled and bounced excitedly.
The next day was dry, burnished autumn. I was writing in the upstairs bedroom of my house when something small and white danced across the porch roof of Martha’s house next door. Birds? Butterflies? I looked more closely. Prince, crouched on the roof, was releasing pieces of paper into the wind. He watched intently as the air currents carried them. I was as captivated by his experiment in aerodynamics as he.
I didn’t want to leave my neighborhood. I didn’t want to leave all the beauty.
More flight
Kathleen moved to the suburbs. She protested the move energetically, stating she didn’t want to leave the neighborhood, but she and her new boyfriend wanted to live together and they needed a bigger house that had a dry basement.
“He has a lot of hobbies,” she explained. “Otherwise, he’d move in here.” Various neighbors tried to convince her to stay; she was popular, but her house went up for sale anyway.
With Mary and Donald gone and now Kathleen leaving, I considered selling my house as well. The common wisdom was as long as you had good neighbors next door, you were okay. If a house two doors down played loud music or sold drugs, you had a safety zone, but if it was the house next door, you were in trouble. I’d had Ronald on one side, Kathleen on the other and things and what if Kathleen’s house sold to a party animal? I should move, too, but I didn’t want to move and why should I move when I loved my house and I was not the problem? The problem people should move. We would make them; I would stay and we would save the neighborhood.
Kathleen’s house sold to Martha, a single black woman raising two kids on some kind of disability income. “I told her about the block club,” said Kathleen over the fence. “She’s excited about it, she said she wanted to come.”
“Great! It’ll be good to have another black neighbor coming. It’s so weird, a bunch of white people meeting to talk about the problems on a mixed race block.”
“She’s living now in those low-rent highrises on the near north. She’s excited about having a yard and garden.”
“Yeah, I moved in from an apartment,” I said. “First thing I did was plant flowers.” The flowers I had planted had not done well, nonetheless, my yard was loaded with Johnny jump-ups, phlox and poppies. They blew from yard to yard, seeding themselves and greeting the neighbors gaily and indiscriminantly. Kathleen looked about at the houses and the street wistfully. “I feel unfinished. It’s so beautiful here. Real salt of the earth people. I told Martha about the compost I started in back and she was excited about that, too.”
“He has a lot of hobbies,” she explained. “Otherwise, he’d move in here.” Various neighbors tried to convince her to stay; she was popular, but her house went up for sale anyway.
With Mary and Donald gone and now Kathleen leaving, I considered selling my house as well. The common wisdom was as long as you had good neighbors next door, you were okay. If a house two doors down played loud music or sold drugs, you had a safety zone, but if it was the house next door, you were in trouble. I’d had Ronald on one side, Kathleen on the other and things and what if Kathleen’s house sold to a party animal? I should move, too, but I didn’t want to move and why should I move when I loved my house and I was not the problem? The problem people should move. We would make them; I would stay and we would save the neighborhood.
Kathleen’s house sold to Martha, a single black woman raising two kids on some kind of disability income. “I told her about the block club,” said Kathleen over the fence. “She’s excited about it, she said she wanted to come.”
“Great! It’ll be good to have another black neighbor coming. It’s so weird, a bunch of white people meeting to talk about the problems on a mixed race block.”
“She’s living now in those low-rent highrises on the near north. She’s excited about having a yard and garden.”
“Yeah, I moved in from an apartment,” I said. “First thing I did was plant flowers.” The flowers I had planted had not done well, nonetheless, my yard was loaded with Johnny jump-ups, phlox and poppies. They blew from yard to yard, seeding themselves and greeting the neighbors gaily and indiscriminantly. Kathleen looked about at the houses and the street wistfully. “I feel unfinished. It’s so beautiful here. Real salt of the earth people. I told Martha about the compost I started in back and she was excited about that, too.”
More flight
A couple months later Donald’s girlfriend demanded they move to the suburbs. He did not want to go.
“She’s white,” he complained. “She’s the mother of my kids, but she don’t understand about me being with my people. She wants to live in the suburbs where she thinks we’ll be safe. Like the white neighbors aren’t going to look at me like I’m a drug dealer or something. But Shelly says we got a drug dealer down the block here, and there’s gangs, and already people be movin’ out. I keep telling her, we’re gonna make him move, but she can’t wait and I really can’t argue with her.”
Donald sold his house to a Hmong family. Ronald and I made a visit to invite them to the block club, but we couldn’t find anyone who spoke enough English for a conversation. We stumbled back across the street to our houses.
“Just imagine how happy they’d be if they could speak English,” I said to Ronald. “Hi, we’re your new neighbors and we came to warn you about the drug dealer down the block but don’t you worry, we are organized. You hear gunshot, you call this number. Welcome to America.”
“She’s white,” he complained. “She’s the mother of my kids, but she don’t understand about me being with my people. She wants to live in the suburbs where she thinks we’ll be safe. Like the white neighbors aren’t going to look at me like I’m a drug dealer or something. But Shelly says we got a drug dealer down the block here, and there’s gangs, and already people be movin’ out. I keep telling her, we’re gonna make him move, but she can’t wait and I really can’t argue with her.”
Donald sold his house to a Hmong family. Ronald and I made a visit to invite them to the block club, but we couldn’t find anyone who spoke enough English for a conversation. We stumbled back across the street to our houses.
“Just imagine how happy they’d be if they could speak English,” I said to Ronald. “Hi, we’re your new neighbors and we came to warn you about the drug dealer down the block but don’t you worry, we are organized. You hear gunshot, you call this number. Welcome to America.”
The new people in Sid Cutney's house
We kept up our block club meetings through the summer. Someone from the city was assigned to our neighborhood and met with us to talk about what we could do.
Sid didn’t come. He didn’t shoot at his wife or anyone else again, but kept busy keeping up his property and running down the neighborhood to everyone who’d listen. One gorgeous autumn day when I was out for a walk and passed Sid’s house, I saw him in his yard, leaning against a rake, talking to a white neighbor. He was telling him things were so bad a white woman couldn’t walk down the street alone. When he saw me come down the walk, he stopped midconversation and gave me a dirty look.
“Hi, Sid,” I called out. I waved my hands about me, so he could see how very alone I was. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Midwinter, he died in his sleep of a heart attack. His wife sold the house and moved to Arizona to be with their kids. The house was bought by a young white man who then rented it to a black family.
Donald and Ronald and I trooped over to welcome them to the neighborhood. The woman was friendly. The man stood silently behind her staring at us. There wasn’t much conversation and we didn’t stay long.
“I know what’s going on there,” said Donald after we left. “We’re gonna watch that house.”
So we did over the next couple weeks. We watched the cars that stopped at that house. The drivers could be any color, but they only stayed ten minutes. “Yeah, he’s dealing,” said Donald.
I called the police and they said there was nothing they could do about a house that had a lot of cars stopping for ten minutes, although, yes, that was the pattern of a drug dealer. Donald called the landlord and he said there was nothing he could do, the guy paid his rent on time, he should call the police if there was a problem. Donald and Ronald and I trooped over to the house again.
“Let me do the talking here,” said Donald as we approached the house. “A black man can talk to a black man like you white folk can’t. I’ll go ahead.”
The couple was home, Donald told them again about our block club and invited them again to a block club meeting. “We’s keeping the block safe,” he said. “I got kids, you got kids, we all want them to be safe.”
The woman looked behind her at the man. Her face was plaintive, she wanted to come.
I looked past them into the house. Bare hardwood floors, scratched and starved for oil. Canvas duffel bags and paper shopping bags sitting on the floor, a couple of straight back chairs, and a short couch that I thought I’d seen discarded in the alley most of the summer. The room reeked of loneliness.
I looked back at the man. He remained behind the woman, silent, not moving, like he was made out of poured cement. He was dressed entirely in black leather and he had a look on his face that I didn’t expect or understand. He said nothing, not even when the woman asked him again if it wasn’t a good idea to meet the neighbors. After we left, Donald and Ronald blasted the guy.
“That guy is selling, you can smell the weed in there!”
“More’n weed in that place, heavier stuff coming outa there and he just thinks he can squat in this neighborhood and do what he likes!”
“Maybe he’s not selling drugs,” I interjected.
“What do you think he’s selling?” asked Ron. “Newspapers?”
“They don’t have furniture.”
“Maybe he just run outa a place,” answered Donald.
They were right, of course, but he and the woman in that house haunted me.
“It must be hard to be a black man,” I said. Donald stopped walking. Ronald and I went a step farther, realized he wasn’t with us, stopped and looked back at him.
“You think it’s hard to be a black man?” asked Donald, staring at me.
“Yeah, everything in there, the whole feeling in that house. The woman, the man, too. Did you see how hard his body is, how he didn’t even move, how he stood behind his girlfriend. Like he couldn’t even speak, like he was scared.”
Donald’s mouth worked silently before he answered me.
“Yeah, it’s hard to be a black man. It is hard. And he’s making it harder for me and my kids. He’s making it real hard. Don’t be so sorry for him. He’s scared cause he’s got someone besides us lookin’ for him and that person got a gun. He don’t need your sympathy. If he’s not selling drugs now, he was before and I don’t want him in the same city as my kids.” Donald continued to stare at me, his eyes angry and frightened. Mine were the same.
Sid didn’t come. He didn’t shoot at his wife or anyone else again, but kept busy keeping up his property and running down the neighborhood to everyone who’d listen. One gorgeous autumn day when I was out for a walk and passed Sid’s house, I saw him in his yard, leaning against a rake, talking to a white neighbor. He was telling him things were so bad a white woman couldn’t walk down the street alone. When he saw me come down the walk, he stopped midconversation and gave me a dirty look.
“Hi, Sid,” I called out. I waved my hands about me, so he could see how very alone I was. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Midwinter, he died in his sleep of a heart attack. His wife sold the house and moved to Arizona to be with their kids. The house was bought by a young white man who then rented it to a black family.
Donald and Ronald and I trooped over to welcome them to the neighborhood. The woman was friendly. The man stood silently behind her staring at us. There wasn’t much conversation and we didn’t stay long.
“I know what’s going on there,” said Donald after we left. “We’re gonna watch that house.”
So we did over the next couple weeks. We watched the cars that stopped at that house. The drivers could be any color, but they only stayed ten minutes. “Yeah, he’s dealing,” said Donald.
I called the police and they said there was nothing they could do about a house that had a lot of cars stopping for ten minutes, although, yes, that was the pattern of a drug dealer. Donald called the landlord and he said there was nothing he could do, the guy paid his rent on time, he should call the police if there was a problem. Donald and Ronald and I trooped over to the house again.
“Let me do the talking here,” said Donald as we approached the house. “A black man can talk to a black man like you white folk can’t. I’ll go ahead.”
The couple was home, Donald told them again about our block club and invited them again to a block club meeting. “We’s keeping the block safe,” he said. “I got kids, you got kids, we all want them to be safe.”
The woman looked behind her at the man. Her face was plaintive, she wanted to come.
I looked past them into the house. Bare hardwood floors, scratched and starved for oil. Canvas duffel bags and paper shopping bags sitting on the floor, a couple of straight back chairs, and a short couch that I thought I’d seen discarded in the alley most of the summer. The room reeked of loneliness.
I looked back at the man. He remained behind the woman, silent, not moving, like he was made out of poured cement. He was dressed entirely in black leather and he had a look on his face that I didn’t expect or understand. He said nothing, not even when the woman asked him again if it wasn’t a good idea to meet the neighbors. After we left, Donald and Ronald blasted the guy.
“That guy is selling, you can smell the weed in there!”
“More’n weed in that place, heavier stuff coming outa there and he just thinks he can squat in this neighborhood and do what he likes!”
“Maybe he’s not selling drugs,” I interjected.
“What do you think he’s selling?” asked Ron. “Newspapers?”
“They don’t have furniture.”
“Maybe he just run outa a place,” answered Donald.
They were right, of course, but he and the woman in that house haunted me.
“It must be hard to be a black man,” I said. Donald stopped walking. Ronald and I went a step farther, realized he wasn’t with us, stopped and looked back at him.
“You think it’s hard to be a black man?” asked Donald, staring at me.
“Yeah, everything in there, the whole feeling in that house. The woman, the man, too. Did you see how hard his body is, how he didn’t even move, how he stood behind his girlfriend. Like he couldn’t even speak, like he was scared.”
Donald’s mouth worked silently before he answered me.
“Yeah, it’s hard to be a black man. It is hard. And he’s making it harder for me and my kids. He’s making it real hard. Don’t be so sorry for him. He’s scared cause he’s got someone besides us lookin’ for him and that person got a gun. He don’t need your sympathy. If he’s not selling drugs now, he was before and I don’t want him in the same city as my kids.” Donald continued to stare at me, his eyes angry and frightened. Mine were the same.
First block club meeting
We had a good turn out for our first block club meeting at the home of Kathleen, who lived next to me. Fourteen people crowded into her living room and Ronald and I had to go back to our houses to get chairs so everyone could sit.
It was a good turn out except that Donald was the only black neighbor and Sid Cutney came and ranted that he couldn’t afford to move because his property value had dropped on account of the coloreds moving in and what were we going to do about it?
Ronald argued with him until they both stood up with fists clenched and Donald had to get between them and talk until they calmed down and sat down.
Then Kathleen started talking. She had called the Neighborhood Crime Prevention Program and got some information. The kid who’d shot at the car had been identified and talked to by the police and the gun had been taken away from him. He had gotten the gun from his older brother and this was the third time the police had taken a gun from this particular kid. The gun was not registered, none of the guns he’d taken from his older brother were registered, and the older brother was known to the police.
We were appalled by the news. We pressed for details, we wanted to know where were all these guns coming from, what was being done with the older brother, who were the parents, and what more were the police going to do?
Kathleen didn’t know. The boy and his brother were both minors, so nothing more could be told us, she’d been told.
What about our rights? asked a neighbor. We fussed for a long time, rocking in our chairs. A couple people needed to smoke and Kathleen directed them outside. The people who remained inside complained about the police, the justice system, the system in general.
When the smokers came in, Kathleen said she’d call the Neighborhood Crime Prevention Program again. She thought the program had people who would help us organize and work with the city departments and police. We all agreed, we needed help.
It was a good turn out except that Donald was the only black neighbor and Sid Cutney came and ranted that he couldn’t afford to move because his property value had dropped on account of the coloreds moving in and what were we going to do about it?
Ronald argued with him until they both stood up with fists clenched and Donald had to get between them and talk until they calmed down and sat down.
Then Kathleen started talking. She had called the Neighborhood Crime Prevention Program and got some information. The kid who’d shot at the car had been identified and talked to by the police and the gun had been taken away from him. He had gotten the gun from his older brother and this was the third time the police had taken a gun from this particular kid. The gun was not registered, none of the guns he’d taken from his older brother were registered, and the older brother was known to the police.
We were appalled by the news. We pressed for details, we wanted to know where were all these guns coming from, what was being done with the older brother, who were the parents, and what more were the police going to do?
Kathleen didn’t know. The boy and his brother were both minors, so nothing more could be told us, she’d been told.
What about our rights? asked a neighbor. We fussed for a long time, rocking in our chairs. A couple people needed to smoke and Kathleen directed them outside. The people who remained inside complained about the police, the justice system, the system in general.
When the smokers came in, Kathleen said she’d call the Neighborhood Crime Prevention Program again. She thought the program had people who would help us organize and work with the city departments and police. We all agreed, we needed help.
Organizing, one door at a time
The neighbors who stayed, got organized. Donald, a young black man who lived next to Terry, and Ronald, my white, next door neighbor and I went door to door inviting neighbors to meet and talk about the problems on the block.
Donald was the extrovert, so he went up the steps ahead of us and knocked on the doors. After watching the hostile response Donald received when he knocked on the door of a house with a white guy in it, I pushed up the steps ahead of Donald at the white-occupied houses and Ronald and I hung back and let Donald go first at the black-occupied houses. We didn’t talk about it, it just worked out that way.
At least we pretended that. It was about race and we all knew it but we didn’t want it to be about race; we were neighbors who were friends with a common problem. Race was too big and too painful and too shameful to talk about. Besides, we had an immediate problem to deal with. We didn't have time to open a wound made generations earlier. We heard gunshots every week.
Donald was the extrovert, so he went up the steps ahead of us and knocked on the doors. After watching the hostile response Donald received when he knocked on the door of a house with a white guy in it, I pushed up the steps ahead of Donald at the white-occupied houses and Ronald and I hung back and let Donald go first at the black-occupied houses. We didn’t talk about it, it just worked out that way.
At least we pretended that. It was about race and we all knew it but we didn’t want it to be about race; we were neighbors who were friends with a common problem. Race was too big and too painful and too shameful to talk about. Besides, we had an immediate problem to deal with. We didn't have time to open a wound made generations earlier. We heard gunshots every week.
Neighborhood Flight
My friend, Mary Thompson, was one of the first to leave. I’d met Mary at the precinct caucus shortly before her first child had arrived from Korea. Mary loved to cook and when her husband worked late, she invited me to dinner at her house. She lived two blocks away and when her son was an enfant, I walked to her house for dinner. Five years had passed, another child had arrived from Korea and I drove to Mary’s house because I didn’t want to walk home alone, not even two blocks, after dark.
“I don’t want to move,” she complained to me over a supper of lemongrass chicken with coconut rice. “I want my kids to grow up with diversity. I don’t want us to be the family integrating the neighborhood. I want my kids to see that families are made up of people of different colors.”
Like me, she and her husband were Scandinavian Americans in their late thirties.
“But when Sid Cutney shot at his wife and the bullet went through the wall of their house and lodged in the tree in front of my house, and then he bragged nothing would happen because he knew the police chief and nothing happened,” she paused, took a breath, closed her eyes momentarily, “and then when the gang members shot all the garages in the alley,” this had happened mid summer, “that’s twice my kids coulda been shot. It’s not about race. It’s about dysfunction. It’s not about poverty. It’s about men and their guns.”
Sid Cutney was white. A retired city worker with a good pension.
“I don’t want you to move but I’d move if I had kids,” I told her.
“You need to replace those lace curtains,” she advised. “A person outside can see right into your house.”
White flight began. One household at a time, families flew out from the center of the city, out to the suburbs, out to safety. They hoped so. A few, like me, chose to stay. I was single, a nurse who had a knack for finding interesting, low-paid jobs. My house was lovely and suited my needs and I had a low mortgage. I did not and had never made much money. I was a bit of a caretaker and I saw a population that needed to be taken care of. I loved a good story and this was a block with a million good stories.
But more than any of these things, I would not bend to the injustice of having to move. Why should I move? I was not committing crimes. The criminals should move. I would make them.
Houses went up for sale and sold to people with less money than the sellers. They sold to young families and to retiring people and to small time investors. The investors were people who had little money and wanted to make more, so they bought small fixer-uppers and rented them with or without having fixed them up.
“I don’t want to move,” she complained to me over a supper of lemongrass chicken with coconut rice. “I want my kids to grow up with diversity. I don’t want us to be the family integrating the neighborhood. I want my kids to see that families are made up of people of different colors.”
Like me, she and her husband were Scandinavian Americans in their late thirties.
“But when Sid Cutney shot at his wife and the bullet went through the wall of their house and lodged in the tree in front of my house, and then he bragged nothing would happen because he knew the police chief and nothing happened,” she paused, took a breath, closed her eyes momentarily, “and then when the gang members shot all the garages in the alley,” this had happened mid summer, “that’s twice my kids coulda been shot. It’s not about race. It’s about dysfunction. It’s not about poverty. It’s about men and their guns.”
Sid Cutney was white. A retired city worker with a good pension.
“I don’t want you to move but I’d move if I had kids,” I told her.
“You need to replace those lace curtains,” she advised. “A person outside can see right into your house.”
White flight began. One household at a time, families flew out from the center of the city, out to the suburbs, out to safety. They hoped so. A few, like me, chose to stay. I was single, a nurse who had a knack for finding interesting, low-paid jobs. My house was lovely and suited my needs and I had a low mortgage. I did not and had never made much money. I was a bit of a caretaker and I saw a population that needed to be taken care of. I loved a good story and this was a block with a million good stories.
But more than any of these things, I would not bend to the injustice of having to move. Why should I move? I was not committing crimes. The criminals should move. I would make them.
Houses went up for sale and sold to people with less money than the sellers. They sold to young families and to retiring people and to small time investors. The investors were people who had little money and wanted to make more, so they bought small fixer-uppers and rented them with or without having fixed them up.
The beginning of the end of my neighborhood
The firecrackers were the beginning of the end. I was standing in my seventy year old house with the hardwood floors and fireplace, going through the mail on the dining room table when I heard them. It was spring, about supper time, not when you expect to hear firecrackers, so I looked out my lace curtained window. I saw five little black kids on bicycles crowding around a car driven by a white man. Momentarily. Then the car with the white man burst out from the knot and tore down the street with the boys on bikes in pursuit. Wrongo, I thought. Something up. I ran outside and met Terry, my white neighbor with the black son, in the middle of the street.
“Did you see them kids?” asked Terry. She was pale and sweaty and carried a child from her daycare. “One of them kids fired a gun at the guy in the car.”
“Those weren’t firecrackers?” I asked.
"Them little guns sound like firecrackers,” answered Terry. She would know, I thought. Her son and his friends worried us. Ron, the white guy who lived next to me, arrived. He had called the police. Then four white boys arrived on foot. Yeah, they knew those kids, they said. Those kids stole a bike from that guy so he’d been going after them to get it back. A car turned from 34th street onto Thomas avenue. Terry and Ron and I moved onto the sidewalk; the kids stared at the car without moving.
“Get out of the street!” shouted Ron. A white woman drove the car slowly toward the kids.
“Get you outa the street!” shouted Terry. Two of the kids ambled over to the curb, making room for the car to squeeze between the other kids.
“I ain’t afraid of those kids on the bikes,” bragged one of the kids who had remained in the street. “I’ve got a gun too.” I looked at him. Skinny kid wearing baggy shorts and a tee shirt. Not likely to have a gun. But I would have said the same about the kids on the bicycles.
“Did you see them kids?” asked Terry. She was pale and sweaty and carried a child from her daycare. “One of them kids fired a gun at the guy in the car.”
“Those weren’t firecrackers?” I asked.
"Them little guns sound like firecrackers,” answered Terry. She would know, I thought. Her son and his friends worried us. Ron, the white guy who lived next to me, arrived. He had called the police. Then four white boys arrived on foot. Yeah, they knew those kids, they said. Those kids stole a bike from that guy so he’d been going after them to get it back. A car turned from 34th street onto Thomas avenue. Terry and Ron and I moved onto the sidewalk; the kids stared at the car without moving.
“Get out of the street!” shouted Ron. A white woman drove the car slowly toward the kids.
“Get you outa the street!” shouted Terry. Two of the kids ambled over to the curb, making room for the car to squeeze between the other kids.
“I ain’t afraid of those kids on the bikes,” bragged one of the kids who had remained in the street. “I’ve got a gun too.” I looked at him. Skinny kid wearing baggy shorts and a tee shirt. Not likely to have a gun. But I would have said the same about the kids on the bicycles.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
My Favorite Muslim Grocery Store
I was shocked to read in Doug Grow’s column on February 19, 2006 that my favorite grocery store, Holy Land, was boycotting Danish products.
I started going to Holy Land several years ago to be with Muslims. We hear a lot about Muslims in the news and it is mostly bad. Since Christianity is misrepresented in the news, I assumed the same of Islam. So I go the Holy Land to be in a place where people can represent themselves.
And in the Holy Land that includes me being me. I go about bare-headed, wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans and am treated by staff with total respect. This is how I know this store: they tolerate difference. And so when I thought they were doing something that, in my opinion, is an act that separates people, I was so shocked I had to see it with my own eyes. Last Saturday I went to the Holy Land and there in the cooler, where it always is, was Danish butter. I looked for a sign advising me on how to think about this product, but I found nothing. So I looked for the owner, Majdi Wadi.
He was readily available. Yes, there had been a sign over the Danish butter, but the butter had never been removed, he explained. He had received calls from other Muslim businesses to participate in the boycott and so he had put up signs over the butter advocating the boycott. His intention was to let his customers decide to boycott it. He, himself, thinks it is wrong to insult any religion, but he also worries about the farmer who gets up at 5 a.m. to make the butter.
Such consideration is rare. It is not easy to consider all the players in any argument and farmers get the least consideration. Yes, there are farmers in Denmark who are going to be punished by this boycott and they have no relation to the cartoonist nor to the paper that published the cartoon. Majdi Wadi, a Muslim businessman, has thought about them.
We talked more, while customers bustled about us. He explained he’d decided eventually it was not right for him to tell his customers what to buy. He has Muslim customers and Christian customers, like me, he said, and he wants to serve all of us.
Most people think he had to choose between serving his customers or serving his religion. When I spoke with Mr. Wadi, I concluded he has made a different choice. He has chosen to serve both by practicing tolerance. He has made a difficult choice: tolerance is intrinsic to both Islam and Christianity, but many Muslims and Christians have not lived up to it. I am grateful to the Holy Land for choosing a difficult path, the path of tolerance, a path advocated by both Islam and Christianity. If outside pressures cause him to change his mind and remove the butter, I will continue to shop at Holy Land. As long as I am treated with respect there; they are entitled to their opinion.
2006
I started going to Holy Land several years ago to be with Muslims. We hear a lot about Muslims in the news and it is mostly bad. Since Christianity is misrepresented in the news, I assumed the same of Islam. So I go the Holy Land to be in a place where people can represent themselves.
And in the Holy Land that includes me being me. I go about bare-headed, wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans and am treated by staff with total respect. This is how I know this store: they tolerate difference. And so when I thought they were doing something that, in my opinion, is an act that separates people, I was so shocked I had to see it with my own eyes. Last Saturday I went to the Holy Land and there in the cooler, where it always is, was Danish butter. I looked for a sign advising me on how to think about this product, but I found nothing. So I looked for the owner, Majdi Wadi.
He was readily available. Yes, there had been a sign over the Danish butter, but the butter had never been removed, he explained. He had received calls from other Muslim businesses to participate in the boycott and so he had put up signs over the butter advocating the boycott. His intention was to let his customers decide to boycott it. He, himself, thinks it is wrong to insult any religion, but he also worries about the farmer who gets up at 5 a.m. to make the butter.
Such consideration is rare. It is not easy to consider all the players in any argument and farmers get the least consideration. Yes, there are farmers in Denmark who are going to be punished by this boycott and they have no relation to the cartoonist nor to the paper that published the cartoon. Majdi Wadi, a Muslim businessman, has thought about them.
We talked more, while customers bustled about us. He explained he’d decided eventually it was not right for him to tell his customers what to buy. He has Muslim customers and Christian customers, like me, he said, and he wants to serve all of us.
Most people think he had to choose between serving his customers or serving his religion. When I spoke with Mr. Wadi, I concluded he has made a different choice. He has chosen to serve both by practicing tolerance. He has made a difficult choice: tolerance is intrinsic to both Islam and Christianity, but many Muslims and Christians have not lived up to it. I am grateful to the Holy Land for choosing a difficult path, the path of tolerance, a path advocated by both Islam and Christianity. If outside pressures cause him to change his mind and remove the butter, I will continue to shop at Holy Land. As long as I am treated with respect there; they are entitled to their opinion.
2006
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