June 30, 2004

Thank you, Just One Minute (blog), for this on the Man from Missouri as v.p. pick:

"Gephardt is probably the only Dem available who makes Kerry look life-like, so get ready."

posted by Jim Bowman @ 6/30/2004 10:24:00 PM 0 comments links to this post

June 12, 2004

Life on the East End
(Wed. Journal of OP & RF, 6/2/04)

In 1971, 300 South Humphrey went for 19-5. Seven houses stood empty in the immediate vicinity. Expected black flight from undesirable neighborhoods had precipitated white flight. Five years later the house went for 36-5. It had been cul-de-sacked two ways, one at Austin, where the village had blocked Randolph – you woke up one morning, and there it was: access denied as much as any locked WordPerfect file. The other was at the alley before Washington, where the village installed a blocking turnaround at a small price to owners. So on a summer night, you could sit on your porch and watch a car go by every half hour if that. Nice.

Couples and others strolled, including from Austin. But on one dreadful occasion, some joyriding white teen-agers tried to run a black kid off the sidewalk. I ran out yelling, and they got away, but eventually we made contact, and at least one mother had her say with her wayward son.

This wayward-son bit took a less violent turn for us later, on the 200 North Harvey block, where one sunny day my beer was grabbed off the top of our vehicle, where I had plopped it while carrying groceries into the house. A carful of lads careened away. Another lad came by, said hop in, and we gave chase until I got the plate number. Thanks to which, I got through to the father, whose son showed up later at our door, apologizing profusely. The moral was clear: When unloading groceries, take the beer in first.

Later on Harvey, I personally chased black kids from Austin who had tried to commandeer a bicycle ridden by neighbor boy Josh, seven, on a busy summer night with T-ball in full swing on the Beye School field across the street. They headed east. I, a jogger in those days, pursued. At one crucial moment, one stopped, turned, and hefted a rock. I kept chugging, and he didn't throw but turned and continued running. It was one of those frozen moments, his thought processes all but written on his forehead, ending in "This is not something I want to do."

The cops had been called, and at Taylor, two blocks east, they had stopped several black teen-agers. I can still see the black cop, looking at me in full chase (hopeless by now, as the black lads had gone into gear), pointing at his catch: Are these the ones? No, no. The cop was doing his best, but in truth the ones he had nabbed looked as if on their way to a chess game rather than running from an irate neighbor. (Another complaint here: Stopped By Police While on Way to Chess Game Black?)

Back at the front porch, I watched Josh solemnly giving answers to the officer questioning him, while the T-ball crowd engaged in bursts of cheering at the game across the street.

That play field offered its own moments, like the day five or six white teens kept hitting baseballs to each other, half of which landed on the street. It gave them the pleasurable feeling of going for the fences, but some bounced off a parked car, and most offered a sharp challenge to pedestrians. I called the cops, extorting their promise not to identify me, and a black officer came to counsel the hardballers. They took his advice and desisted. "You called him, didn't you?" they said while packing up to leave. I denied it, but later an egg was splashed against a bedroom window, which I considered rather moderate retribution, maybe even reasonable.

Some weeks later a bunch of black kids playing softball were filling the air with blue language. I walked across the street and spoke to them about it. One started to get indignant, but another shushed him. Others made cracks about my skinny legs as I walked away, likening me to a Biafran refugee. Again, moderate, even reasonable retribution.

Yet later I picked up one of the many balls that had accumulated from Doctor Jim and team mates practicing, shagged by and given to our Jim, aged 10 or so. I gave it to the black kids, genially requiring an at-bat in return. Wouldn't it have been wonderful if I'd powdered it, sending it to the warning track? Sure. But I topped it, several times, then handed the bat back and slunk away on my skinny legs.

posted by Jim Bowman @ 6/12/2004 08:06:00 AM 0 comments links to this post