A relative just sent me a link to this article on our old neighborhood which appeared in the Times while I was away. (The Times also produced a video companion to the story.)
I scampered on those streets, played in the playgrounds, and never, ever, felt scared or threatened, not for one single solitary minute. I never saw any violence on the streets or in the playgrounds, never saw anyone pull a knife or a gun, never even heard a gunshot in the night.
Everyone around me -- the other poor Irish, the Germans, the Puerto Ricans -- were just part of the neighborhood. The grown-ups looked out for other people's kids and everyone greeted everyone else by name when they passed on the street (and the kids always said "Mr." or "Mrs."). It was more of a neighborhood than most suburban neighborhoods that I've lived in during the five decades since. It didn't need cleaning up. A hand up, maybe. Instead, they cut the guts out of it and killed the spirit of the place to make way for the Starbucks and fern bars and their wealthy patrons.
I scampered on those streets, played in the playgrounds, and never, ever, felt scared or threatened, not for one single solitary minute. I never saw any violence on the streets or in the playgrounds, never saw anyone pull a knife or a gun, never even heard a gunshot in the night.
Everyone around me -- the other poor Irish, the Germans, the Puerto Ricans -- were just part of the neighborhood. The grown-ups looked out for other people's kids and everyone greeted everyone else by name when they passed on the street (and the kids always said "Mr." or "Mrs."). It was more of a neighborhood than most suburban neighborhoods that I've lived in during the five decades since. It didn't need cleaning up. A hand up, maybe. Instead, they cut the guts out of it and killed the spirit of the place to make way for the Starbucks and fern bars and their wealthy patrons.
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