Forgive me for the delay in getting to the 2nd part of “Home Sweet Home”, but I had more important things to address - like friendship and fathers.  Had I put “The Crackies” above that, I may have received a swift kick to the arse…and I’m not big on violence.  I also have poor upper body strength, which always put me at a disadvantage in potentially physical disputes.  Add to that a bit of a smart-ass mouth and you can imagine how my junior high years played out.  It wasn’t pretty.  (Catherine W…I still praise you for your 60-second forewarning that Marcia Bleike was hunting me down to “kick my ass”…I’m certain you saved my life).

Let’s get back to business.  The business of crack addicts.  And the fact that the two square blocks surrounding the beautiful duplex I reside in is a place they also like to call home.  If you consider the street home.  And they do.  For at least 12-14 hours a day.  As discussed in Part I of this series, I failed to check out the “nightlife” of this area before moving in.  But in my defense, the neighborhood didn’t scream “crack haven”.  Did it scream “heterosexuals will have trouble dating here”?  Possibly.  But “crack haven”…not so much.  So, you can imagine my surprise when, on the first night in my new, spacious abode, I was awakened at 3 a.m. by a blood-curdling scream.  I jumped from the bed (just after the cats leapt ten feet into the air) and separated the mini blinds to look out onto the street below.  It was packed…teeming with Crackies from all walks of life.  After picking my jaw up from the ground, I searched the crowd for any sign of the screamer.  This proved to be an impossible task.  There were just too many highly erratic subjects:  like the pregnant teen sucking on a lit pipe (yes, you heard me right…pregnant), or the 40-something businessman almost undetectably slipping cash into the palm of a passing black man, or the hispanic female fighting with her boyfriend while her two young children slept in the car, or possibly the cracked-out preppie wailing as he ran across the street toward the neighbor’s gate (ah - so that’s why the homes are surrounded by 8-foot rod-iron fences).  Guess you can’t accuse crack of rascism…it is one equal opportunity drug.

I think I sat there for an hour that first night.  Just watching the insane scene below.  And wondering…how is this possible?  How did I end up here?  How can an area full of caring neighbors and historic homes turn into hell on earth at night.  And where are the f’ing police???

I spent the next six months obsessing over the constant drama that played out in front of my home each night.  I spoke to all the neighbors:  “We call the police every night,” they said.  “Our civic association meets in HPD’s storefront…we’ve tried it all…nothing works.”

I began to call the police as well.  They’d eventually show up - inevitably during the thirty seconds each night the streets had cleared.  I went to the HPD storefront during my lunch hour (it was conveniently closed after 6:00 p.m. each night) to discuss the issue and possible solutions with the Sergeant on duty.  What I found was beyond disconcerting. 

I wanted to blame the police.  I wanted to find them incompetent.  But it simply wasn’t the case.  They were just as frustrated and felt just as helpless.  It was a viscious cycle.  They could arrest the users (and even some of the dealers), but they’d be back on the street the next day…not much of a deterrent.  Jails were overcrowded, the police force was understaffed, and although the area had changed around the Crackies, this was where they’d always come for drugs, so, consequently, it was where the dealers came to provide it.  It was odd, but it was reality.  And it seemed there was nothing we could do to change it.  Shit, Twitchy and her husband even had a news crew out at one point.  Didn’t matter.  No change.

My brother-in-law…a Lieutenant with HPD and a 20-some year veteran, tried to tell it to me straight:  “It’s good that the neighborhood is involved.  Eventually, they will move a half a mile or a mile down the road, but it won’t happen overnight.”

“But that’s just passing the problem onto someone else,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that wrong?  Why can’t they resolve it for good?”

“Just hope it happens sooner than later, and be happy when it does.”

That’s when I went into neighborhood vigilante mode.  Because, c’mon, we couldn’t just give up.  Maybe folks just hadn’t followed through.  Maybe they hadn’t called the police enough.  Maybe they’d had enough and they needed some new blood to put the fire back in their bellies.  I mean, the dealers, the addicts…they can’t just get away with this stuff…it is, after all, a crime.

Several months after moving in, I was asked by a member of the media to speak at their annual “Media Ascertainment” forum.  In layman’s terms, it was simply a way for print and broadcast producers to hear concerns from members involved in the community.  My topic of choice:  drugs.  It was through researching this complex issue that I realized “I don’t think there’s a solution”.  The “War on Drugs” has been a collosal failure (yet we keep pumping money into it), jails are overflowing, cops are overwhelmed and rehabilitation behind the prison walls is non-existent.  So what do you do?  Legalize drugs?  Take out the criminal element?  It can’t be a worse option than what we currently live with.  But morally, it’s a tough pill to swallow.  And the media won’t touch it.

In the end, my brother-in-law was right.  Enough pressure from driven, angry, fed-up neighbors would eventually pressure the dealers and their customers to move further into town - where gentrification hadn’t yet taken hold.  And so, today, as I peek through my miniblinds to the street below - I see a few stragglers, mainly bar and club patrons…but all in all, the street is quiet.  On rare occasions, a late-night tousle will wake me from my slumber, but it is now the exception rather than the rule.  And, as much as I hate to admit it…after all the research, bitching and grand plans to rid the earth of crime…I can honestly say - I’m just glad they’re gone.  I’m just glad they’re not my problem anymore.  And that’s the tougher pill to swallow.  Because it means that good doesn’t always prevail.  The battle isn’t always won.  And sometimes, no matter how hard you try, it just isn’t enough.

What I did learn was how fortunate I am to be part of a community that has the ability to fight back.  I also realize that many communities don’t have that luxury…because often times it takes money or influence with city officials…both of which our poorer communities traditionally do not have.  So I sympathize.  But I have no idea what the solution is.  And, really, I just want to kick someone in the nuts until they provide the answers.

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