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.