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What’s Beef? Why did we hate 13th Street?

Memories of a Project Kid What's Beef? Why did we grow up hating 13th Street?/Neighborhood Rivalries Rivalries, neighborhood beefs, arch enemies. When you think of rivalries, most will mention the Hatfield vs the McCoys, Auburn vs Alabama, North Korea vs South Korea. For us, growing up in 5th Street Projects, our biggest rivalry was 13th Street Projects. Growing up, I hated 13th Street. It was natural. I was from 5th Street and I was supposed to hate everyone from 13th Street. Supposed to…… You see, I was from 5th Street Projects, technically known as Southwark Housing Plaza, and our natural born enemy was 13th Street Projects, officially known as the Martin Luther King Housing Development. I don’t recall the history behind it, but this was how things were. 13th Street was the next closest housing project to my neighborhood. To put things into perspective, in our section of South Philly it was rather ethnically diverse with a healthy mix of Blacks, Italians, Jewish, Irish, Vietnamese and Cambodians, all living within the same areas. But in true Willie Lynch fashion 5th Street Projects had developed an intense dislike for 13th Street Projects and vice versa. Forget the fact most kids hadn’t met anyone from 13st Street ever in their life but if we had “we’d definitely beat them up.” You see, by the time I was about 9 years old, 13th Street had taken on almost mythical proportions. It was well known that if you went up there alone, they would kidnap you and your family would never see you again. “Everyone” said the kids up there walked around with uzis out in the open and if they thought you were from 5th Street, they would shoot you. Or if you were down South Street by yourself and they knew you were from 5th Street, they would jump you and beat you up (which was actually kind of true). Growing up, there was an intense hatred for a neighborhood which I’d never been to, never met anyone, nor did I know anything about other than rumors. Until a short trip with my Aunt Doris. It was right before Easter and I had to take back a shirt my mother had bought me from City Blue in Center City. My Aunt Doris had offered me a ride, which I happily accepted. As I waited for my aunt to get in the car, I decided to turn on the car radio “Express ya self, doing good….I’m expressing with my full capability, now I’m living in correctional facility, but some don’t agree with how I do this, I get straight meditate like I’m Brutus…..” My Aunt Doris got in the car and looked at me with the look an Aunt gives to her nephew when he changed her radio station. “Who told you to turn my station? Take that mess off!” As she backed up and pulled out of the parking lot, she fumbled thru the dial and found what she was looking for “Bad boy singing……Ooooh yeah! Shubby doo wip da wee wee wee, its all right. Yeah, Bad Boy singing” “That’s my jam Mal!”, my aunt said as she turned it up and began to groove to Luther (the skinny Luther) while driving. As we drove down Christian Street and stopped at the traffic light, my aunt thought for a second and then said. “You know what Mal, I gotta stop by Val’s house to pick up something.” Val was the mother of one of my cousins and would sometimes visit our house. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but as we kept going straight down Christian Street, 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th…., I asked “Aunt Doris, where Val live?” I asked. “13th Street” my aunt said, not thinking twice about it. As we pulled up to the housing complex, I leaned back into the car seat as my aunt got out of the car. “Let’s go.” She said looking at me. Now here I am, in enemy territory and she’s asking me to get out of the car. “I can’t get out around here!” I said, fearing some unknown assailant. “Boy what you talking? You ain’t gone sit in the car, let’s go” As I slowly exited the car, I glanced around. Keep in mind I wasn’t involved in any gangs, a life of crime or really, anything negative. There was no tangible logic to be afraid but for some reason, I had this idea someone from 13th Street was out to get me. We walked into one of the towers unnoticed by the dozens of people standing around outside. The lobby was dimly lit and there were a few shady characters standing around. My aunt pushed the button while, I watched the front door to make sure no one would sneak up on us. There was a boy about my age, also waiting for the elevator and as the doors opened, he took his side of the elevator and I took mine. My aunt pressed for the 9th floor and for a second, I thought I saw the kid going for something, but he was only unbuttoning his jacket. The elevator went up and after a minute came to an abrupt halt. Suddenly the doors opened and we noticed that the elevator had stopped a few feet from the 9th floor. My aunt and I didn’t know what to do, so I decided to just try and climb up and get off but the kid on the elevator quickly grabbed my arm. “Don’t do that, the doors might close on you. Sometimes if you wait a few minutes it will go up to the floor. Just push another button.” 3 seconds later, the doors slammed shut and the elevator went back down to the 8th floor. This time the doors opened all the way on the floor. My aunt pressed the button for the 9th floor again but the elevator made no movement and remained motionless. “It’s better if y’all walk, sometimes it’ll be stuck for hours.” the kid said to us. We heeded his advice and took the steps to the 9th floor with the same boy walking behind us. As we reached Ms. Val’s house, we noticed he lived two doors down. “Thank you for your help. We’d probably be still be in there.” my aunt said to the boy as he was opening his door. “It’s cool.” he replied. “Jamal, you not gone say nothing?” my aunt said. “Oh yeah, thanks.” I blurted out, a bit late as the boy had already closed the door. We went to my cousin’s mother apartment, sat and talked for a few minutes. On our way back down, we decided to take the other elevator…which worked just fine. As we exited there was a group of guys hanging out in front of the building. “Hey what’s going on Doris!” one of the men shouted. My aunt looked back, “hey what’s up Mike, what you doing out here?” My aunt shouted back. “Chilling. Is that your son?” he asked. “No, that’s Marilyn’s son, Jamal.” My aunt replied, bundling up her jacket as a strong wind passed. “Little Jamal, that’s Greg’s son! How you been young buck? I ain’t seen you since you was a baby. Ya pops still in the army right. Tell him I said what’s up.” The man said, as I nodded my head and we got into the car. As my aunt turned the ignition, WDAS blasted out “……Chaka, chaka, chaka Khan. Chaka Chaka Khan…..I feel for you, I think I love you!” “They jamming today” my Aunt said smiling as we drove off. Turning the corner, I was relieved to have escaped from 13th Street Projects. But in reality, did I really have anything to be afraid of, and more importantly, if I did, then why? Question What makes young black men, hate other young black men for no apparent reason at all? The deadly rivalry between 5th Street and 13th Street was not unique. It’s very common, not just in Philadelphia but all across the United States. Young black youth growing up with a blind hatred of other young black youth from different neighborhoods. In many instances, there will be a dislike for other neighborhoods as a youth and yet, they would often have had little to no interaction with others until they reach high school or are old enough to travel to other parts of the city on their own. By then, the hatred for these rival groups has become so real that one black youth will kill another from that neighborhood as a testament to how tough his neighborhood is. But is that really being tough? Killing another individual, from another neighborhood, simply because his family was also poor and had to live in the projects. It’s actually kind of insane. Poor people, seeking out other poor people to become enemies and to ultimately wipe each other out. Often times, we’ll skip over entire sections of the city to identify the other poor people to make them adversaries. In theory, some may suggest this is because ethnic groups generally interact with each other most, hence previous confrontations may have created rivalries. Additionally, the generational aspect would have an impact because if someone from another neighborhood attacked your father/uncle/cousin or whatever, these stories would have been passed down, etc, etc, etc. This may be true to a small extent but much of the hate and violence is completely random and totally unrelated to anything or anyone even remotely connected to previous generations. In my opinion, there seemed to be a level of self-hatred which manifests itself against other people from similar backgrounds. I’ll give an example. A few years after the above incident, my mother transferred me to another elementary school. I was a very good student academically with straight A’s and my new school, Meredith Elementary, was a diverse school with students from a variety of ethnic, social and cultural backgrounds. Although the school had a sizable number of black students, in the 7th grade, there were only two black males, myself and a guy named James Tyrone Lane (who would go on to be a world renowned dancer and has performed on Broadway, East End London and Italy). One day, our teacher, a really cool Italian guy named Mr. Spina took us on a class trip to the Liberty Bell which was only a few blocks away. After the class trip, the class went to the local Gallery Mall to get something to eat at the food court. On our way out of the mall, James and I were approached by two other young guys, just about the same age as us. One of the kids walks up to us and says “my homie want to fight you. And then me and you are gonna fight.” Now keep in mind, there was no previous confrontation, no history, it’s as if we had bumped into them inside the mall. Yet, these two young black men decided to single out me and my friend for a fight. I’m not suggesting that he should have started something with one of the Italian, Irish, Polish, Jewish or Asian kids but why did they pick us out? The kid repeats it “my friend wants a fair one” (i.e. a fight), so I look at James confused and he looks at me like “who the hell are these guys. One of the girls in our class saw the incident and shouted “Mr Spina, they’re going to fight.” Mr. Spina turned around completely baffled to see these two kids not in his class challenging us to a fight and presumably for no reason whatsoever. He gives them a look and then says “Get the hell out of here before I call the cops!” The kids looked at him, then looked at each other and then ran off in the opposite direction. Mr. Spina looks at me and says “what was that about?” My response was “I have no idea Mr. Spina, we don’t know those dudes”. And literally, I had no idea who they were, nor why they decided that out of all the people in life, they wanted to fight us. As I look back on that situation, a number of questions come to mind. Why did those kids really signal us out? What was going on in their minds? Why weren’t they in school? And one final question: Did they have a father in their lives? To those unfamiliar with the inner city dynamics, this may seem like an amazing and baffling story, but it is actually quite common. These kind of incidents happen every day, in every kind of situation amongst young black males. Nine times out of ten, the reasons behind the conflicts are either truly non-existent or simply stupidity (and to note, we would have trashed those dudes). Sadly, it’s the byproduct of self-hatred in which many people instead of having an affinity for their own, they instead have an intense, oftentimes, unexplainable hatred for their own people. This phenomena obviously didn’t just exist in Philadelphia and isn’t even limited to urban settings. My grandparents are originally from a small town called Elloree in South Carolina and we’d regularly go there for visits and family reunions. I was talking with my cousin Darnell and noted how relaxed it was there and the lack of gangs along with violence. He noted how on the surface, it looks okay but then explained how even though there were only a handful of black people in the entire county, they would regularly fight the other people from the next town over, causing numerous problems and incidents. To that extent, in my travels across Africa and the Middle East, you find the same dysfunction from distressed communities with the common theme of having an inexplicable dislike for another people in a nearby village or town. But……all is never lost. As a youth, one of the local community organizers, Doug Nesmith, would organize basketball tournaments and invite a few teams 13th Street, 7th Street (another local neighborhood which coincidentally, my father said was their biggest rivalry when he was growing up) and a few other teams from different parts of South Philly. As kids, we just saw this as a sporting event, but in a lot of ways it also humanized the people from those different neighborhoods. Their parents and friends also came out to support them in their games and were also supportive of our teams. Thus while it was only basketball, the positive interaction allowed us all to grow out of the enmity, which some people may have had. As I got older, I would actually meet numerous people from 13th Street, 7th Street and other neighborhoods from different walks of life while in college, professionally and in business. What I learned was the idea of young black men, hating other young black men for no apparent reason is a symptom of the larger social problems of the inner city and our people. People tend to take out their frustration and hatred on those similar to themselves. However, the flip side is people also tend to seek the assistance of individuals who have a similar upbringing. It’s led me to believe we need to identify these issues at a younger age and promote positive interaction before it’s overshadowed by negative sentiments. One thing is for sure, if you were to talk to the majority of adults from both neighborhoods, who’d witnessed the violence which took place, they will all agree it was over nonsense. No one ever looks back and is happy about that kind of stuff. Over time, even the hardest gangsters learn the difference between right and wrong. In the early 2000’s, both 5th Street and 13th Street projects would meet the same fate, the wrecking ball. Both housing projects would face massive redevelopment projects in which the majority of their inhabitants were not able to return. Today, 5th Street is formally known as Courtyard at the Riverview and 13th Street has the official name of Universal Court at MLK Plaza. Although some of the neighborhood youths try to hold onto some of the past “glory”, it’s definitely not the same, which is a good thing. One final factor is the notion of finding some form of identity or even strength in coming from such violent neighborhoods. As a youth growing up in our projects, we all thought we were the toughest people in the world. However, as we got a little bit older and started learning about 13th Street, 7th Street and South Philly as a whole, you started to believe our section of the city was the “toughest”. A bit more experience and traveling would allow you to see other parts of the city such as West Philly, North Philly, Germantown and Kensington, all of which had their fair share of violence and supposed toughness. And yet, when I got to college and started meeting people from Brooklyn, Detroit, Baltimore, Los Angeles and other places, you’d hear similar stories of gangs, street violence and other issues. I remember the first time hearing how dangerous Washington DC was and didn’t believe it because after all, it was the nation’s capital and they had the White House, Congress, along with all those monuments, so why would they be tripping? However, what became clear was how, while the violence took different forms, it all stemmed from the same systematic problems: broken homes, drugs, lack of opportunity and quite honestly, a lack of love for one another. Within this notion as I reflected on growing up with the idea of coming from a supposedly tough neighborhood because of the level of crime, I began to view my neighborhood from a more positive perspective of community and wanting to see change. There’s nothing wrong with loving one’s neighborhood, in fact, we should encourage it. However, we need to move away from the concept of affiliating our neighborhood with violence, and focus on hope and community. Hopefully this generation can move in a more positive direction and creative a better future. We can’t afford to lose another generation to a rivalries which were never really rivalries to begin with.

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The Crackhead

The Crackhead As the blood slowly dried up the side of his mouth, I thought he was dead. He’d been lying still for the past thirty minutes and no one had even bothered trying to help him up.. If he was dead, an ambulance would come to take him and if he was alive, then he was no longer their problem. I’d just witnessed the worst beat down I’d ever seen in my life and I just kept wondering…..is he dead? It was the middle of the afternoon during the fall of ’87. Me and some of the other neighborhood kids were playing basketball in Vegas playground inside of our project. Vegas wasn’t the formal name for the playground, however, this became its adopted name because it was the main place for gambling in the projects and in the immediate area. Within the projects, many people sold drugs but one of the unofficial rules was no one sold in the main playground areas where most of the neighborhood kids would play. Maybe it wasn’t an official “rule” but more like a guideline. In fact, with it being the 80’s and shootouts being common, Vegas saw its fair share of action. What was also becoming more common was crack. The crack cocaine epidemic hit the inner cities fast and hard. It initially started out as a party drug but its cheap price and highly addictive nature turned out to be far more potent than most people bargained for. I can vividly remember neighbors who were “normal” one day and then seemingly overnight become a crackhead. It was similar to watching a zombie flick in how, once they got bit, they were gone. Additionally, these weren’t just anonymous people who appeared from out of the blue. These were mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, uncles and aunts. For me, some were those I considered to be my old heads and close neighbors. As a kid, you didn’t really see the actual transition. One day they were regular and the next thing you knew they were stoned out of their mind asking a nine year old kid could they “borrow” his Excite Bike Nintendo game. Equally disturbing was the violence which surrounded the crack game. Seeing gunfights and knowing individuals who were shot, paralyzed and even killed, became a common thing. But at the same time, it didn’t really seem strange. If you witnessed these scenes regularly it appeared rather ordinary. Some people would say it resembled the movies, but I don’t agree. A movie has a start, a middle and an ending. Then the credits roll. In the movies there’s a script and an angle. In real life, stuff just happened no slow motion movements, no camera shot of a menacing character pulling their gun and no sad music playing in the background as someone is laid out on the cold concrete with a bullet to the chest. To make matters worse, economic times were very rough in the 80’s. You know the hood motto for the Reagan era “The rich get richer and the poor don’t get a f*ckin thing”. In the eyes of many black youth, they had two choices: One was working at McDonald’s and the other was selling drugs on the corner. A lot of people took option B. Not, to say it was the right choice because as I became older and understood economics, I realized if you started out at McDonald’s as a teen and worked your way up to least a mid-level job in corporate, you would make a lot more money (and have better job security) than standing out on a corner, but those types of lessons aren’t taught in schools. It was the middle of the afternoon in the fall of 1987. Although the neighborhood hustlers didn’t openly sell drugs where kids were playing, there were no rules to where they kept their drug stash. Within the neighborhood and especially amongst the kids, we all kind of knew where they hid their drugs. In a bag of chips behind the bushes. Under the third bench next to the monkey bars. By the sewer grate next to the abandoned car. It was just common knowledge. On that day, as we were playing basketball on one of the crates, we saw a crackhead, wandering around the playground area. Normal. What wasn’t normal was how he kept pacing back and forth, looking around. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was trying to do and it also didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. After a few minutes, his eyes caught a small bag, hidden behind some bushes. Initially, he seemed as if he wanted to be a bit more covert but he just dipped down, grabbed the bag and then looked around nervously. A second later, one of the kids playing ball with us, ran around the corner and told some of the hustlers what happened. Seconds later, another older guy at the end of playground shouted, “A yo Dave, one of them smokers grabbed ya stash.” The crackhead began to fidget and then nervously walked away from where he’d grabbed the stash. He must have been already high because as he walked through us kids, he actually tried to hide in my friend’s jacket……. while my friend has his jacket on! My friend shoved him away and the crackhead began to try and getaway. When I say getaway, I mean he ran into the house of one of his relatives and locked the door. “Oh shit, here come Dave now!” The dealer whose stash was stolen went to check his spot and immediately began to walk in the direction where people were pointing out the crackhead. His crew was behind him as they walked across the playground to where the crackhead was staying. Soon, dozens of people were standing in front of the house, waiting for Dave and his crew to get there. For me, I didn’t have to go far, the house was right next door (more on that later). Dave and his crew walked up to the door and kicked it. The door didn’t give way but it shook the frame. They banged on the door and one of them tried to pull the knob off. Someone inside quickly peeked out the front curtain and then closed it. After a few seconds a woman slowly opened the door “I know..I…I…I know what he did was wrong but he not here, he left…..” she said as Dave and his crew tossed her out of the way. By now there were at least 30-40 people standing around outside the home, me being one of them. You couldn’t really see much but you could hear the punches, the kicks and the sound of someone getting hit with a chair. Suddenly one of the guys said, “take this nigga outside!”. Soon the crowd parted as Dave and his crew dragged the crackhead out, into the front yard. They then proceeded, to stomp and beat the man into the ground. There were only a few punches because after about 5 seconds the guy was laid flat out in the dirt. They then proceeded to stomp him to the point in which he was just motionless. As they stood over him, a few of the guys spit on him and tried to wake him back up to no avail. Then, Dave, the leader of the crew began to look around and saw a large slap of concrete at the side of the garden. I can’t give any logical explanation for why a giant piece of concrete was just lying around but it was the projects and……random items just happened to be lying around. Dave then went over, picked up the concrete over top of his head and looked around at the crowd. Not one person uttered a phrase to prevent what was going to happen, everyone just stood there with their mouths open. He then slammed the concrete onto the back of the man who let out a yelp. It wasn’t a holler or scream but a yelp. The man writhed in pain as Dave and his crew slowly walked away, as the crowd began to dissipate. Since I lived next door, I stood there for a few minutes wondering if the guy was going to ever get up. About an hour later, was when the two police officers saw him on the ground and checked on him. They tried to ask him some questions but he was unresponsive, so they surveyed the area and simply walked away. By now everything in the projects was back to normal, with the exception of a man who probably had just had his spinal cord broken lying on the ground. To provide some insight, I would like to provide some closure on what happened to the man. Did he live? Did an ambulance ever come and take him? Was he permanently damaged? I honestly don’t know. The last image I have of the man is of him on the ground with people causally walking by him. Many years later, as a young adult, I saw Dave again. In fact, I’d seen him numerous times since the incident but because of the age difference, we never really spoke and we rarely were in the same circles. However we both happened to be at Joe, the neighborhood barber. Joe and another customer had also been there that day and for some reason, someone asked Dave about the incident. Interestingly enough, Dave expressed heartfelt regret over the situation. As life progressed, he’d learned a lot about the world and had gone on to college, finished graduate school and started a family. In his previous life, he explained how he didn’t really think about the consequences of his actions. Yet, life had taught him many lessons which he’d learned to carry on and become a productive member of society. He now does spoken word poetry and you can see him at numerous venues around the city. I doubt if he’ll go into these kind of tales, but from what I can say, he’s honestly a great guy and a great role model to the youth. Reflecting on this incident, there were so many contradicting and powerful aspects to it. With the crack cocaine era being a prominent aspect of life, such violence was not unheard of. At the time, many people felt it was worth it but when you talk with those who were involved that world, most wish they’d chosen another path. After 10-15 years, it became common to see both users and dealers not living the most comfortable lives. Personally, I also learned a very important lesson which remained within me throughout my youth. I’d always understood this but it became deeply embedded in me when I saw the rock being slammed on that man’s back. The lesson was……. SAY NO TO DRUGS!

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Introduction

Memoirs of a Project Kid

Life growing up in the projects…….was interesting. How? Well it depends on how you looked at it. For one, there was always something going on, never a dull moment.

Two, the characters. There were people whom I grew up around that were some of the most creative, crazy, smartest, diabolical, artistic, talented and a mix of everything.

Just to give a bit of background, I grew up in a housing development in South Philadelphia. Formally the name of the development was Southwark Housing Development but it was generally known as 5th Street Projects. Unlike other projects, our development consisted of both high rises and low rises. There were 3 high rise units with 25 floors apiece, which stood in the South Philly skyline. Anyone driving on I-95 could see them a mile away. Everyone in the neighborhood called them the 3 Stooges. The low rises were spread out over a 2 block radius and were a mix of 2-storey and 3-storey blocks of homes. Within the two story units, there were 8 homes and for the three story units there were 12 homes.  In front of each home there was a small garden. By the time I grew up, 95% of the homes just had a small patch of dirt but some people still kept it up.

My family resided in one of the three story units in a section of the projects known as Vegas. It was given this name because of the playground in our area which was the main gambling place in the entire housing project.  Within my area, everyone knew each other. Regardless of who they were, in general terms, you knew everyone who lived in every house in your section. That’s just how it was. From the low down dirtiest, most hustling, filthiest, untrustworthy scoundrel to the most hard working, 9-5 grinding, working hard to stay alive and keep food on the table families all knew each other. No one was too good to be totally anonymous and while they may not have had many friends or even a few enemies, at the very least, you knew their names.

Now as far poverty? Everyone was poor, so you really didn’t think about it too much. Government cheese….was just cheese to us. Fact is, I haven’t had a decent grilled cheese sandwich since they stopped giving out those large blocks. Utilities? I can’t speak for all of the other housing developments in the United States, but in the projects our lights and water stayed on 24-7……which, now that I look back on it, wasn’t really a good thing.

The goal of this blog is to evolve into a book and potentially, a short movie, with each story being its own feature. Also, most of the stories won’t directly involve violence. The goal is to tell real stories which are well rounded and show the deeper issues of different occurrences.

It's also not just stories from Philly. We'll be taking stories from NYC, Chicago, LA, Detroit, Clevland, DC, Baltimore, New Orleans. Basically, everywhere with government housing and someone with an interesting story whhich we can all learn from. These memoirs aren’t necessarily just about life but more of a reflection, on life itself. Growing up in the projects, you saw things in a certain way. I wouldn’t say the lenses were “rose” colored, more like grape kool aid colored. But hey, it was life and it was the projects.