My Ghetto and Me

We are said to live in an "information society", where a wide array of knowledge diffuses its way to a newly-enlightened public, through a variety of media.  Our nation boasts a vast network of colleges and universities; media empires fill a host of communications venues with "content"; and the internet can be accessed through an ever-expanding list of devices and gadgets. Unfortunately, almost none of this filters its way to the children who swarm and tumble over the stoops on Liberty Street, swirling like wind-gusted autumn leaves around the knees of the dope peddlers who try to ignore them.

But for me, little of what we call "information" stacks up against some of the things I learn on my half-block strolls from the driveway that flanks the 140-year old carriage house to the nasty little bodega on the corner of Liberty and Clinton.

On my first visit to the bodega, I wasn't yet confident that it was safe to wander the neighborhood, and I circled the inside of the store warily, tentatively inspecting the contents of the shelves that line both sides of the island that runs lengthwise from front to back.  There I found a rich assortment of poor choices -- cookies, donuts and packaged snack cakes; multiple varieties of chips -- corn, potato, and plantain; plentiful beef jerky and pork rinds.  The shelves held a few scattered boxes of sugary cereals, a carton or two of minute rice and a few cans of beans, represented a hint of nutrition, but basically it was a Nutritional Zone of Death.

I turned my attention to the long row of refrigeration units on the far wall, where a small assortment of soft drinks competed for attention amongst a few acres of beer.

I found a diet coke and headed towards the counter, when I was brushed aside by a muscular black man in a tight, sleeveless shirt.  He had burst in the door and was pounding on the counter, demanding something that sounded like a GlassRoast.  He was clearly in a hurry.

The young Yemeni behind the counter gave the man a blank stare, as if he had not heard.  He glanced sideways, at me, and then back at the vehement customer.  He obviously didn't want to deal with this particular request in front of a stranger.   The man grew angry, and shouted the request more loudly.  I had no idea what he was trying to get; what he said sounded like "GlassRoast, I know you got 'em". 

The clerk looked again at me, and back at the man, and then slowly, as if doing an act against his better wishes, took a small object from behind the counter and passed it across.  The customer threw down a five dollar bill and ran out of the store.

I walked back to the house, taking Clinton down to Grand, and there, parked along Clinton Street, was a car with the vehement man from the store in the driver's seat. He and a white male companion were leaning forward and seemed to be concentrating on a task together.  I did not stay around to watch.

That night, a little internet research cleared up the mystery.  He had bought a Glass Rose.  These are traditionally purchased by Catholic school girls, in connection with communion and other events.  The little vial in which the rose is encased is apparently perfect for mixing and heating crack, the quickest and cheapest cocaine high on the street.  The roses are discarded and left on the ground.

Regarding what I have learned on Liberty Street, high on the list is that it can be misleading to describe the ghetto and its ailments purely in terms of race.  Here, for example, a white man and a black man were cooking their crack together, having purchased a key piece of equipment from an arab immigrant who had somehow landed in the wrong neighborhood in the land of opportunity.

Another episode that has stayed in my memory occurred last summer on a hot day.  On my way into the store I was immediately preceded by a young couple with two toddlers, a boy and girl.  The man and the kids stationed themselves at the counter while the woman went to the back of the store.  The man was olive skinned and the woman a lightish caramel; their accents were tinged with a hint of latin mingled with ghetto, I suspected they were second generation Dominican or Puerto Rican.

At the foot of the little counter, right at toddler-eye-level, is a glass-enclosed freezer case filled with ice cream.  The kids were facing directly into the case, and were having a little riot, jumping up and down yelling excitedly "ice cream, ice cream, ice cream".  My own kids had staged similar riots in their time.  

The man's tone was gentle as he hushed them up.  "I am sorry, kids, but I only have five dollars. I don't think we will have enough money left for ice cream."  My hand reached reflexively for my wallet, but I knew that offering to help risked offending the parents.

The woman came from the back of the store, triumphantly waving two large 22-ounce cans of beer.  She beamed at the man.  As she placed them on the counter, the clerk said, expressionlessly, "Four dollars."  The man looked down at the kids and shrugged, "See," he said, "Sorry."

I slinked quietly around the little tableau to the customary shelf from which I retrieved my usual diet coke, and watched them leave the store.

A few weeks later, I was riding my bicycle on Liberty Street, heading back to the house from lunch at the Caffe Machiatto.  It was a blistering hot day, and I passed two ice cream vendors working the street, one peddling a primitive cart/bicycle contraption, the other a large ice cream truck playing various jingles, including, incongruously, a tune that I have always associated with the song "Union Maid."  The truck had already visited the corner of Liberty and Clinton, and there, on the stoop directly opposite the bodega, were the usual thuggy group of street-corner drug dealers, only they were happily licking ice cream bars.  They did not look scary or evil; they just looked like a bunch of overgrown boys enjoying a moment of well-earned bliss.

Sometimes, even when I am far from Newburgh, I close my eyes and all I can see is the kids swarming the stoops on Liberty St. 

Not long ago, I was at a pleasant gathering in suburban Westchester. The conversation ranged through the usual subjects. Home prices in the neighborhood were covered, as well as which local youths had been admitted to which ivy league colleges. The Yankees had traded for yet another middle reliever. Someone recounted their treacherous encounter with a sand trap at the golf course.

I was quiet, which didn't seem to bother anyone but I wanted to blurt out the words: "But it's wrong." 

And if I had, someone might have asked: "What is?" 

And I could only have said: "Everything."

I have some ideas about what can be done. One of them brings to mind Joni Mitchell's famous Woodstock lyric: "And we've got to get ourselves back to the garden."