Ghettos, Porches, and a Happy St. Patty’s Day to All
I recently had one of those realizations in which you come to see something with your eyes and feel it in your gut, despite the fact that you already know it in your head. I went for a run, the other day. Rather than follow my normal route, I decided to explore more of the adjacent neighborhoods, on the other side of the highway.
There is a trend that I have begun to see, just in my life in general. Whenever I decide to go “exploring”—whether it was after I got my license, when I first received a bicycle, or traveling abroad for the first time—I always seem to wind up in the ghetto. I don’t know if there is some sort of subconscious force that drives me to do it or what, but it always happens.
Needless to say, Wednesday, when I decided to go for a run and “explore” more of Baltimore, I wound up in the usual locale. I was running along and thought, “I wonder what’s around that corner?” BAM. Two pawn shops on one block. Yep, in the ghetto. The Baltimore Police Department has a practice of setting cameras with flashing blue lights on every street corner that is the site of a homicide. In transitional areas, you’ll see them every couple blocks. Here, there were flashing blue lights just about every block. I tried to play it cool, but in my head I was freaking out—not in a panicky way, but in the subtle “huh, I could die” way (like how I feel whenever I drive over a bridge, ever since the 35W bridge collapse).
People were staring at me, in a way that suggested that there aren’t too many crackers jogging through their neighborhood on a regular basis. They weren’t looks of animosity, so much as shock. I was looking around trying to figure out how I was going to avoid getting shot. I forgot to mention that it was dusk, and quickly turning to night. Whatever unease I felt was going to multiply a hundred-fold, once night fell. All of a sudden, in the midst of my white boy panicking, a man waved to me from his porch and yelled “Happy St. Paddy’s Day.” I stopped and waved back and cried “same to you.” It was at that moment that I looked and saw what was going on around me. There were all these beautiful, little children running around, playing and laughing. All the neighbors were out on their porches. [Everybody in Baltimore has a porch and, when the weather gets nice, they go out to sit on it and talk to their neighbors. This is not a white thing or a black thing or a rich thing or a poor thing. This is a Baltimore thing.] People were playing music and socializing. I was in a community.
Again, this sounds so dumb and obvious. Still, for so many middle class-plus white people, whether or not they consciously think it, the ghetto is some sort of black hole that is merely sitting there, waiting to devour white people who take the wrong exit off the highway. In reality, it is a neighborhood, where, in spite of the inhumane surroundings, people form bonds with one another. It is undeniable that I should not hang out on that block after dark but, frankly, it is probably unsafe for anyone, regardless of the color of their skin (although I would probably be an easy target). Nonetheless, I cannot forget that neighborhood is filled with wonderful people who are simply trying to live their lives in spite of incredible hardship, people with whom I myself could form incredible bonds.
The tragedy is not that white people feel uncomfortable on that block. The tragedy is that the children I saw there don’t have a playground.
++++++++
The weather has been beautiful, lately, and I am happy. I find myself feeling increasingly comfortable with this place and the people around me.
I find myself feeling increasingly fond of this city. I have started to feel defensive of it, too. It has very obvious flaws, but it is quirky and charming. The people here can be very warm and, everywhere you go, there are interesting little pockets of culture.
Baltimore never did anything to you. Leave Baltimore alone.
