A police station interview room. A young African American man is handcuffed to a table, whilst ex African American police chief Howard ‘Bunny’ Colvin, stands in the corner firing questions, designed to get the young man to furnish answers around a rage of fictitious scenario’s. Into the mix we have a White researcher, Professor David Parenti, who attempts to take copious notes on the same table where the youth sits. It is clear that the White researcher is using the ex police chief as a ‘broker’ designed to get the young African American man to open up. The barrage of questions combined with the intrusion of Parenti’s bungling attempt to gain insight into the young man’s life erupts into a violent confrontation, where the young man, who is clearly a victim, is forcibly restrained. The scene described is from series three of groundbreaking HBO series ‘The Wire’, where the outcome is disastrous when the researchers desire to gather data outweighs his understanding of the young man’s social reality. Needless to say the interview is terminated, the White researcher was shocked out of his system, and the ex-police chief’s cynicism in research grew. The sad part of the whole scenario was that what could have been an important insight into inner city deprivation, black criminality, and black rage, was missed because of a methodological error. As fans of cult US television series The Wire will know, Baltimore is portrayed as a city with problems; racial divisions, corruption, gang- and drug-related violence and the effects of social deprivation on every level of society. Does art really imitate life?
Lexington Market:
My guide and support Ted arrives at midday and takes me to Lexington market, a space teeming with stalls and masses of people talking, sharing, a long established community with a long history. At first glance you get the feeling that this is just like any other market day, where the community it out in force doing its daily shopping. It’s a powerful place to be, where all sorts of people are jammed into the building; eating, talking, planning, and observing. Ted explains this is the place to find stuff out on what’s happening on the streets. His reflections of his time spent here remind me that this space at times has been fraught with uneasy tensions, unpredictable behaviours, and conflict. On leaving I see an elderly woman, who is on drugs, begs, and is in a continuous state of decline. A usual and often occurrence Ted assures me.
City Springs Academy:
As the downtown skyline disappears I find myself outside City Springs Academy. We are let in and are face to face with a group of young men aged 14. All African American, all from the inner city, and all involved in a leadership programme run by a one of Ted’s mentees Bredon. Ted introduces himself, then me. For about an hour we swap stories, anecdotes, and in general make a connection with them. When the young men begin to share their testimonies words like fear, loss, drugs, violence, guns, gangs, and fatherlessness cascade like a waterfall. In spite of their outward confidence, these young men are living in extreme circumstances, trying to survive. I reflected on my own son, grandson and tried to imagine how they would get on here. The paradox of such a thought was on the one hand I would like them to be exposed to this situation as a learning curve, but in reality I was happy that they weren’t. An American football style huddle brought the session to a close and we were off to our next destination.
The Projects:
The term "project" is a much used term by African American comedians, but in actuality inner city housing that gives rise to tension, anger, drugs, and violence is no joke. Similar in size and stature as in the UK, these estates feel more daunting because of their awesome reputation. Ted tells me about how they came about, the politics of social landscaping, and his frustration in poor city planning. I can’t disagree with him. I look at the people who live here, pushed to extreme limits of frustration know that their social mobility is almost fixed with little chance of escape. I didn’t like the environment, as people with no room to breathe will exhale, usually with dangerous outcomes. However, the sense of community spirit was as strong as could be in light of the situation that most found themselves in. As we left the area I came face to face with D.C.C., aka Diagnostic Correctional Centre. A large prison, with a large population, inside a large city. On this hot day here I was sweating, I thought about the prisoners. The acceptance that little could be done for those in a city where life expectancy was low, and worse of all prison is a year round, 24/7 reality for section of the community, who spend more time in this monstrous building than they do with their children, friends, family and community.
Park Heights:
Driving through Park Heights again I meet an 8 year old boy who I am told had been selling drugs to provide for his family. He is cute, riding a bike, voice hasn’t broken, yet he is a seasoned young look out, drug dealer, and provider for his family. I’m saddened at seeing him, and even more upset knowing that school offers no prospect of assisting him to find a new future. More importantly his childhood has all but gone, before he has started his journey in life. A terrible feeling, imagine what it must be like for him.
Two young men:
I’m back at Little Melvin’s flea market, and enterprise that is open 24 hours a day, accompanied by a food stall, and clothes shop. Like the Wire there is a boxing gym, half built, complete with trainer and raw recruits. I learn from this community stalwart that no-one is allowed to box unless they improve their education. A great slogan ‘No hooks, without books’. As class begins to start I move to one side and let them get on with it. Outside I get a drink and am called over to meet two young men. One young man boasts about his tattoos, whilst the other describes an attack at the local shopping mall on his way from school. Both 15, both out there on the streets, and both telling me like it is. It’s painful to hear their stories. One of the young men describes the pain of losing 13 of his friends to murder, a similar number comes up for the other one. I ask them what is the single most important thing they need in their lives right now. Their heads drop, no smiles, just a sharp intake of breath, followed by the same request ‘I’d like my friends to come back’. I felt gutted, inadequate, and unable to grasp the enormity of the pain they were carrying at that moment in time. I reflected again on my own children, knowing these guys didn’t have a father between them. I told them to stay strong, gave them a hug, and asked Ted to take me home.
Full circle:
Art may impersonate life, but life is real, not constructed, slickly edited, and can be switched off at any time. Once again I’m both moved and saddened by what I’ve experienced today. In saying that everyone I did meet, was resilient, didn’t feel sorry for themselves, and never played the victim. Life was short and in many cases brutal. They were determined to live it the best way possible. A lesson learned. Be grateful for what you have.
Peace
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