Ward8DC

Chapter 26 Pipefitter Jeff

2010-01-20T22:03:00.000-08:00

It happened the following Saturday on an already warm and muggy April morning. I drove my truck to Home Depot in Oxon Hill, Maryland -- my quasi home away from home.

His truck was there, a dingy, light brown Ford F-150. It looked beat up, weathered. But I bet inside her hood held a lot to show--a souped up V-8 engine that could pull a 6,000 lb camper or a 20 foot sailboat.

And there on the door was a sign that caught my eye: “Triple T Home Repairs”. I didn’t wait a minute. I picked up my cell and started dialing even before I finished reading the sign.

A fellow by the name of Jeff answered the phone by the second ring.

“Let’s meet inside the customer service desk.”

I agreed and headed inside.

At 5’ 8” Jeff Bishop was stocky, a few extra pounds but not overweight.

He had wide shoulders, thick legs and even a bigger grin.

Jeff carried a cheery demeanor and I immediately felt that he was trustworthy. But I knew I had to be careful. I felt the same with Jerry, with Jimmy, with Monty and now Bobby.

“What’s up big doc,” he said, giving my hand a firm shake. “My name’s Jeff. What can I do for you today?”

“Nice to meet you Jeff. Name’s Chito. “

“What have you been up to?” His smile seemed genuine and warm.

“Just staying busy. You know we’re busting our backsides here, fixin’ my damn house – it’s like pouring money down the drain. Can you help?”

I asked if he was willing to install a surround bath and do some laminate flooring work. He told me that he would be glad to take a look at it.

“There’s absolutely nothing I wouldn’t tackle—except carpentry,” he said. “And I’m willing to do just about anything even clean a shitter, if the price is right.”

“I also do some electric but I won’t change out power panels,” he added. “Leave that for the big boyz. I want to live long enough to see my baby finish school, get married and make me a proud granddaddy someday.”

Jeff by trade was a plumber and professionally schooled as a pipefitter journeyman, welder and foreman.

He was licensed for those skillsets, but nevertheless, he considered himself a jack-of-all –trades, and at the end of the day cared mostly about the bottom line. He would even haul a load of trash as long as there was a big healthy stack of greenbacks waiting for him in the end.

Jeff Bishop, the sunny-tempered, pleasant-faced former crack addict whose plump mien always lights up with a smile, is a pipe fitter by trade.

Despite his trade, he would always strut in style. On his fingers, Jeff wore six gold, diamond-studded rings. On his neck he wore a gold necklace with a heavy cross pendant. Each piece of jewelry represents the eight years that Jeff had been drug free.

Never daunted by squalid, filthy environs, he religiously lives by his motto: nothing is too heavy or too messy for him to deal with. His job may not rank too high in prestige, but his skills are undeniably in high demand and he has no qualms about charging an extremely high premium for it.

Jeff has volumes of such squalid stories in his memory bank he would relate to create a diversion in the monotony of the tedious renovations. He told grimy, sordid stories of working on the condos on Danbury St SW, near South Capitol Street where sewer lines of the buildings were never connected to the city's sewer lines.

And so it happened that for a good 20 years, the waste from the bathrooms ran into the ground and eventually seeped through the basement walls, oftentimes creating visible pools of sewage. Homeowners had to install a sump pump that worked 24 hours a day to pump raw sewage out of the basement and out onto the back alley. The ensuing revolting situation defied description, with toilets stopping up and drinking water becoming contaminated. Eventually the city gave up and demolished the buildings.

Jeff spoke of stories that the city had worked out a deal with Centex Homes, an established builder known for constructing upper middle class town houses in the past. It would a first for Centex Homes to build housing in the city and it would not be long before they realized this was a different kettle of fish.

I was going to make Jeff responsible for unclogging my drains, for installing two new bathrooms and for replacing faulty plumbing. Intuitively I knew that this would work.

Jeff and I made a commitment to meet at Lebaum St. that afternoon. He showed up promptly in his beat up Ford F-150. From the sidewalk he gave the house one good look over as if he could sum it all up from just out in the street.

Then Jeff coolly strolled in. He carried an easy gait, head held high, he squeezed his wide shoulders through the front door and made his presence known like a big jobsite foreman would. He looked around and saw the rugged team of men working aimlessly in the house and didn’t pipe a word.

He eyed them suspiciously and they stared back like he was some city inspector or tax collector or even worse the drug king from around the corner snooping on their turf.

As he toured up and down, every nook and cranny, he shook his head in utter disbelief. “Pitiful and disgusting” were the only words in his tongue.

Jeff was ripping the place apart as if this house could be condemned right then and there. I was alarmed but internally satisfied. This was exactly the kick ass, take names type of guy I was looking for – exactly what I needed.

Jeff inspected the whole entire house and noted the sloppy paint job and the basement with the unleveled walls.

Then down in the basement, inside an empty room at a far corner, the doors shut tight, Jeff came right up to me.

“Man, who you got doing the work—a bunch of drunken, sloppy, good-for-nothing crackheads?”

“I guess. They’re the best I got though.”

“Where did you pick these ghetto rats at; down the street on King Ave? I mean I got hoes that can skim, sand and paint better than that. My girls will put these guys to shame anytime of the day or night.”

Sinzinger, Kathryn and Abeyta, Oscar, "Ward 8's Public Cesspool", The Common Denominator, Dec 4, 2000

Feb 2003: Finding Anacostia

2010-01-02T23:55:00.000-08:00

Chapter 1

Bzz....bzz...bzz...

The nagging buzz of the alarm clock penetrated my dreamless sleep. Shoot, 4.30 already........it seemed merely minutes ago when I laid down. It would be many, many hours before I would once again learn to enjoy the mindless comfort of my Sleep Number mattress.

Waking up at “O-dark-thirty” was never pleasant, but it would be severely painful for my fitness report if I didn’t make it to work on time. (O-dark-thirty is military jargon for “earlier than the rooster crows”)

Automatically I sat up, eyes fuzzy with sleep, and fumbled in the dark to still the alarm, unaware just then that I had woken up to a day that would forever change my life.

As good as auto-pilot, I showered and shaved, and dressed to face a freezing wintry morning in the nation's capital. The biting wind stung my face as I stepped on to the snow-covered streets with caution to negotiate the short walk from the Metropolitan mid-rise apartments in Pentagon City to my office at the Pentagon. The normally invigorating ten minute walk seemed like eternity that morning.

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My short walk from the Metropolitan Apartments to the Pentagon

As my boots scrunched on yesterday’s snow, my mind had already wandered firmly into my office setting, letting my thoughts slip lazily over the job that awaited me at this early, silent hour. Privately and for the last three weeks that I had embarked on this wicked regimen, each weekday morning, I had often times categorized it as menial and monotonous. But in stark reality, I knew how critical and valued this by-product would become.

My crucial task was to conduct a targeted online search, browse Navy-related articles or ones of relevance to the Navy and collate them together in one concise PDF document. In particular, I would have to browse the 5 major metropolitan papers that CHINFO, or the Navy Office of Information, subscribed to daily: The Washington Post, the Washington Times, USA Today, Baltimore Sun and the Christian Science Monitor. I have always been baffled by this particular combination, but it never once occurred to me to ask why.

This “CHINFO News Clips” the twenty or twenty-five pages of methodically culled Navy-related and sociopolitically relevant news of the day that I religiously prepared each morning, is electronically distributed to the entire Navy leadership before they are served their first cup of java. Some of Washington’s powerful decision-makers and opinion shapers within DoD and USG were also on the obligatory distribution list.

In the distance I could see the massive concrete and steel behemoth known colloquially as the "Five-sided Palace", the bright lights beckoning, enticing me to the warmth of its secure fold. I quickened my pace, my chilled body longing for the almost maternal embrace of the heated atmosphere within. As my breath steamed in the frosty air, I imagined the pampered feeling of being enveloped by the pungent aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. My near-frozen body yearned for my first mug of steaming java. Just a few steps more .......

I headed to my office located in the B ring of the 4th corridor, specifically 4B463, the same wedge that was damaged on 9/11 and now arose like the proverbial phoenix from the ashes of the ghastly terrorist attack.

Now looking at the cozy interior, still shining with the fresh glow of newness, it struck me anew as it does every time I enter the building, as symbolic of our resurrection from the brutal onslaught of terrorism.

As I settled myself down comfortably in my office embracing my mug of steaming hot java, my thoughts sobered as they dwelt on the prevailing global political arena. There was no doubt that trouble was brewing in the Middle East drama, with hostilities escalating at dizzying speed. The UN reported that Iraq has not come to a "genuine acceptance of the disarmament that was demanded of it," and President Bush announced that the US is ready to attack Iraq even without a UN mandate. So, it became very apparent that the US was poised to strike Iraq at any moment, and all the tension, the suppressed excitement, the anxiety of an impending war was almost tangible around me at the Pentagon. It was getting translated into laborious top level meetings, long hours and lots of pizza deliveries. As much as it got the adrenaline pumping, I felt a tinge of fear mixed with anxiety. Several of my close friends and colleagues were forward-deployed to Kuwait . How long would they serve in a violent land with an indefinite end date and what was the fate of the impending war? How were their families coping while they were overseas? Would they return home safely to hug their children once again? An unsettling feeling of disquiet tugged at me as I reviewed the news of the day – so slow, so lethargic, as if everything was holding its breath in anticipation. This feeling of calm before the storm was unnerving and I was feeling over the edge.

As these thoughts and concerns swirled wildly in my stream of consciousness, I casually opened the Washington Post and began browsing its contents. One section, then the next ... suddenly I stiffened, my attention riveted by the Feb 13, front page story of the Metro Section. It was a two-page spread on the plight of a community east of the Anacostia River. The graphic story of this economically-distressed neighborhood tugged at my heart in the most peculiar way.

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The writer’s passion and sensitivity added depth and poignance to an already heart-wrenching story. My attention was caught by the accuracy of the information and the upbeat tone that hinted at a better future around the corner, for the residents.

Such are the contrasts in the hilly neighborhoods of Bellevue, Washington Highlands, Congress Heights, [Frederick Douglass] and Shipley. Together, these five neighborhoods fill the bottom of the D.C. diamond, just east of Bolling Air Force Base.

It was sparsely populated until the middle of last century, when doctors, engineers and other professionals arrived to new neighborhoods of brick houses and bungalows. Many worked at nearby Bolling Air Force Base, just across Interstate 295, or at St. Elizabeths. Some of the public housing projects now being demolished were constructed as temporary government housing during World War II.

In the 1970s, thousands of poor African American families were relocated to these neighborhoods and the rest of [Ward] 8 to clear the way for "urban renewal" on the Southwest waterfront. Many were the children or grandchildren of an earlier generation of families moved to Southwest from Georgetown, Foggy Bottom and Dupont Circle, to clear those neighborhoods for affluent whites.

Like other financially struggling areas of the city, the neighborhoods in the southern tip suffer from a lack of retail shopping. Martin Luther King Avenue, across from the gated east campus entrance of St. Elizabeths, today offers little more than a barbershop, a convenience store, a discount general store and the Player's Lounge, a local and political watering hole. There is no dry cleaner, drugstore or hardware store, no place to sit down with a cup of coffee. The gaps remind Avery Thagard, the city planner assigned to Ward 8, of the mouth of an old man who has spent a lifetime without good dental care. "It's like missing teeth," he said. "We've got to find a way to fill these gaps with the type of neighborhood conveniences that other communities take for granted."

As I methodically consumed the information, savoring every nuance of expression, I was mentally shaking my head. No, not there, I thought. I had heard way too many horror stories from way too many people in different social strata. And this was even before I had ever stepped on the soil of Washington DC. Anacostia, the armpit of the nation’s capital, ironically, seemed saturated with crime and as sleazy as any downtrodden community could get. Not to be touched with a barge pole ...... that was the unspoken conclusion I had drawn over and over again.

The day dragged on, and with the passing hours I was conscientiously monitoring the overseas news, tracking each incident as it arose. And all the while, an inner voice was nudging me, trying to steal my attention to the dangerous dilemma of Anacostia. My mind was focused on the glimmer of hope I detected in the story; it yearned for the people, its presence, their plight. “That community is on the verge of a turnaround. This could be a diamond in the rough.” Like the tides, I learned to trust, the thought waves ebbed and flowed, and being a good military officer, I was determined to do my own reconnaissance.

It was like was jumping head on into an adventure in the wilds. The danger and the forbidding elements only whetted my insatiable appetite further. Anacostia was calling me in mysterious, unfathomable ways. No work week had seemed so long. Never had time dragged this way. I was impatiently counting the hours till the weekend when I would get the opportunity to do my own windshield tour of Anacostia.

I couldn't wait until I returned home, realizing that the day got dark earlier and earlier as it got colder and colder. Almost the very first thing I did after kissing and hugging my five-year-old son was to succumb to the luring attraction of search engines and news clippings. I expended critical hours surfing the web and learning everything I could about this unknown and dangerous side that lingered across the Anacostia. It seemed like the beginning of a mysterious love affair, but one that I wanted to seriously shake away. I was delving as deep as I could into the history of Anacostia, to get to know her, to understand the myriad complex facets that make her what she is today.

Chapter 2 Discovering Anacostia

2010-01-02T23:50:00.000-08:00

"The deprived community of Anacostia came to be, not by choice but by chance and through a woeful lack of vision."

Anacostia, known as Uniontown in the 1850s, was once home to an all-white workforce from the nearby Navy Yard across the Anacostia River. A stone’s throw away was the Barry Farms area where the descendants of slaves and freed Blacks lived. As the 1880s wore on, the blacks began moving into Uniontown. The home of abolitionist Frederick Douglass on the panoramic Cedar Hill is a National Historic Site managed by the U.S. National Park Service and a the largest tourist attraction in the area.

By the turn of the century, the city began to expand into the Anacostia area. Even the federal government moved in, developing an airfield on a tract of land that spanned several miles along the shoreline. This installation would eventually be named Bolling Air Force Base, Anacostia Naval Air Station and the Naval Research Lab.

In the early 1900s, Anacostia’s economic wellbeing was hitched to a hub of barber shops, small drug, grocery and hardware stores, and family-owned furniture shops.

WW II brought in dramatic change to Anacostia. The population doubled as new neighborhoods in the far southeast region were developed. The wartime growth in the military bases spurred demand for housing, with thousands of two-level apartment buildings established.

In the years leading up to the 1960s, Anacostia was a thriving, vibrant community with quaint and dignified suburbs in the outskirts of Washington DC, with predominantly white people, good schools, plenty of parkland and clean air. With the gradual development of the outlying areas of Washington DC in the 1950s and the 1960s, longtime white residents moved out of Anacostia, and waves of blacks began to move in. Many of the small shops put up shutters or followed their longtime customers to the suburbs.

The influx of new residents occurred along with the shutting down of the wartime industry such as the military armament factory in Congress Heights. These combined effects triggered the economic and population decline of the southeast.

As I read on, I realized that the deprived community of Anacostia came to be, not by choice but by chance and through a woeful lack of vision. As the once wealthy neighborhood began to collapse, day by day, the affluence was getting replaced by stark disrepair. The city leaders of the 1960s lacked the vision and foresight to realize the negative consequences of what they did in order to make space for revitalization of the southwest neighborhood across the river. Supported by the federal government, they literally dumped the poor and under-privileged across the river to the newly-built but congested tenements that were sprouting like mushrooms around every corner.

Before long, the city fathers realized the gravity of their error, but it was too late in the day to retrace their steps. The shift in populace and the new bussing regulations that swept the nation, led to white people leaving Anacostia in droves. Following close on their heels were the middle class blacks who couldn’t stand how bad the streets had gotten and how unsafe the schools had become. The neighborhood was almost unrecognizable after some time. The safe and trusty Mom and Pop stores and the family barbershops gave way to vandalized houses, vacant lots and liquor stores.

Over thirty years, the upscale neighborhood fell from its middle-class perch to a poverty-ridden, crime-infested community where the common sights were check-cashing outlets, liquor stores, drugs, crime, homeless people, storefront churches and abandoned buildings. When Interstate 295 came into being in the 1960s, there was fervent hope that might bring a change for the better. Hopes were miserably dashed when all the beltway did was to give Anacostia a sense of being little more than a shortcut from the suburbs to downtown.

By the beginning of the 21st century, nearly one in six housing units were vacant and more than one in three residents were living in poverty.

Only residents know the miserable reality of life in Anacostia. Crime is a part of daily life, with one-fourth of the city’s murders committed in the area, according to police statistics for the Seventh District. Anacostia and Ballou, the High Schools of the area are among the District’s most troubled. In 1990, the only grocery store in Anacostia closed down. There are no sit-down restaurants in the entire Ward – just a sea of carry-outs that pass food to customers through bullet-proof glass. The Players Club on Martin Luther King Street, the only place that serves a decent lunch, has albeit, a Jekyll-and-Hyde façade.
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The Players Lounge

During the day, you may run into the mayor for lunch or encounter a local or aspiring politician. By night, the lounge transforms into a sleazy, sordid strip club where people get mugged or stabbed perennially every night. The formerly famous and classy Nichols Avenue (Dr. Nichols was formerly the superintendent of St. Elizabeth's Hospital) is now the infamous Martin Luther King Avenue, where open air drug markets, drive-by shootings and gang wars play out in squalid surroundings. Teenage boys regularly terrorize the town by stealing cars, burning them up and leaving the burned carcass on cinder blocks on the wayside. Makes no sense. These acts were merely for the fun of it. Crime was coming back in a big way. Crack or cocaine use is rampant on Galveston Place and Mellon Street and residents who brave the menacing behavior and threats in the light of day, are too scared to do the same at night, even though securely locked up in their cars. Fear is all-pervasive, and even the police delay answering distress calls, often waiting an hour or more to respond. The state of the main thoroughfare of Anacostia seems no different to the vandalism and waste of war-torn, terror-swamped Beirut or Baghdad after a terrorist strike.

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When the weekend came around, I was sufficiently acquainted with the history of Anacostia for my first visit there to be meaningful. As I drove my truck down from Arlington, the dismal weather added to my somber mood in no mean way. The twelve inches of thick, wet snow dumped by the huge snow storm of the previous week was gone. What was left behind was a muddy quagmire of rocks, sand and mud and a bone-chilling, blustery wind that blew steadily from the east. I passed the Barry Farms, the last vestige of public housing in DC. My truck rattled crazily on the cracked and rutty road which was in an absolute state of neglect and disrepair like the dilapidated, pathetic-looking puke-brown houses at Barry Farms. Rough-looking, unkempt; youth hung around the street indolently, while the children of the area played around them, shrieking and yelling as they ran hither and thither amidst crack needles and used condoms, innocently oblivious to the more sinister goings on around them. Every which way I turned, hopelessness stared me in the face and my heart kept sinking with every mile, even as the laundry hanging on makeshift clothes lines whipped about crazily in the cold blowing, as if desperately trying to lure me there. The feeling of abandonment, of overhanging danger, was so intense I began to wish I was in an armored humvee with ballistic glass, instead of in my simple Ford Ranger pickup truck.

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As I steered my truck down Martin Luther King Boulevard, the atmosphere turned tangibly formidable. The solitariness that seemed to pervade the area was enhanced by the silence that enveloped the red-brick walled campuses of the old mental asylum of St Elizabeths, which flanked both sides of the road. I had no idea where I would end up—perhaps this was a war zone .... With a deep sense of uncertainty I headed north on Alabama Avenue.

And then serendipity walked into my life. What a wonderful feeling of old-world charm, of warmth, courtesy and dignity flowed through my being! Not in my wildest dreams had I expected this kind of genteel neighborhood in such squalid, miserable surroundings. Leafless burly oak trees, like faithful sentinels, lined the street, their gigantic trunks offering security and stability to the ornate Victorian houses that stood beyond, gracious, spacious buildings, most of them orderly and well-kept.

As I cruised by, bemused, enthralled, the years rolled back to an era of wine and roses in Anacostia. I imagined an environment of upper class living that matched the graciousness of their homes. A well-maintained playground and a softball field would have been favorite haunts of the children of the area as they ran and played with abandon, singing at the tops of their voices, the air filled with high-pitched laughter and joyous screams. The ting-a-ling-ling of the ice-cream truck on a hot summer day would have brought the kids out by the dozen, thirsting for ice-lollies and varied flavors of ice-cream.

Schools that were clean and well-maintained where the children of affluent white Americans in days gone by were given the foundation for their lives. As I drove past, I could not help the let-down feeling that engulfed me as I observed the leaky roofs, the sense of dilapidation and neglect that seemed all-pervading. The neglect outside was just a whiff of the unkempt condition that could probably be found inside, I said to myself.

Chapter 3 My Early Eye-Opening Beginnings

2010-01-02T23:45:00.000-08:00

Reflecting

I joined the Navy not really by choice but merely by chance.

A day after 17, fresh out of a backroads Georgian high school and risen from the far, debt-ridden reaches of a one-stop, boonie town called Darien, where the biggest industry was shrimping and crabbing and even that was quietly fading away.

Within a year of coming to Coastal Georgia immigrating from the cultural metropolis we longed for in Singapore, my family and I were rudely confronted to the civil dissent and racial resent that was so pervasive in the backwater lowlands.

   In 1981, I was shocked to come face-to-face with a dozen hooded racists, wearing conical-shaped hats, eyes that implied a face of hate. Mysterious men with thick biceps welding pick-axe bats villified, the throng terrified as the hooded beasts pushed through downtown Darien to protest a bitter feud between the only two (equally-represented) social classes that existed within the four corners of our classrooms, snugly, albeit tumultously like thundercloud and sky.

   That's why I was nary surprised when Praying for Sheetrock", the 1991 epic story of the tribulations this backwoods County faced under the tyranny and uninpuned felony of the ominipotent Sheriff Tom Poppell became its most identifiable symbol of depravity of days gone past.

   I wanted to join the Navy because it was my only recourse and this quest became instinctual, rather natural, after being raised along the high seas and growing up deck and dawn onboard a 40-foot yawl for most of my childhood existence, I was naturally drawn to the sanctuary of the ocean and its calmy balm, eerie solitude.

Born in Hong Kong in '67, while the war in Vietnam was still brewing and napalm incendiary violently burning, I knew all along I was destined to roam free. When I was four-years old and having a ball in this bustling urbanity, I remember vividly the night my mother woke me and my sister as if our lives were suddenly on the brink. Our bags were already packed and we sneaked out of the flat that we knew as home. My father was somewhere around, sound asleep, unbeknownst of our clever escape strategy as we were also unaware of the fuzzy horizons that lay eerily ahead.

For the first time, I had got to know an American, who became my Dad and we pulled anchor at the wink of dawn. Our first destination to be followed by a string of remote, exotic locations was Manilla and this is the city where I thrilled the shores and chased the gulls and was graciously presented a name that stuck with me to this day.

After sailing vicariously throughout Southeast Asia to the likes of Indonesia, Thailand, Malaysia, to the most remote reaches and white crystal beaches in the Asiatic Archipelagos, we finally set anchor in the port that would become our home for five endless years -- the Lion City of Singapura.

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Then when I was 12, a waderlust pre-teen, spoiled by the unstructured, unschooled lifestyle within a global classroom, my family decided we had reached our fill with our lifebound-journey--we shipped the boat to the mother land and purchased a one-way ticket to our new-found home, reaching foreign shores with fresh perspectives, new hopes abound.

But we were sad to let go -- we loved this city, the food, the friends, the culture -- every single and social bit of it. And we were sad, outrightly downtrodden, when we had to reluctantly wave goodbye to the only thing that I clinged in my life.

With all the excitement and adventure, you would think we would settle down in a major metropolis with beaucoup culture and high societies somewhere along the eastern seaboard or California shoreline.

To my dismay, we rested our travel-weary bones in a quaint, backyard town of Darien, population 2,500, where we learned to live slow and enjoy the tranquil Golden Isles sunset slipping away along the saltwater marshline, and we sadly vowed never to sail the high seas by line or lever ever again.

We loved our country and my mother, my sister and I became proud, naturalized citizens and upon graduation from high school, I decided to break our family promise of dismissing the seas so that I could give something back for the country that gave me some hope.

My first duty station after boot camp in frigid Great Lakes where the snow rose over our knee caps and our uniforms froze to our bellies.

Then on to initial specialty training school in Virginia Beach to become an Operations Specialist (radar operator) and excitedly to my first ship berthed in Yokosuka Japan, the defiantly sleek fast Knox-class frigate, USS Francis Hammond (FF-1067). We were a small crew, barely over 200, and we were one, tight family who embraced our new culture and traditions of this amazing land, the country of the samurai, origami and the most celebrated rituals in all the world.

My first duty station was also the one I got to rediscover my core family -- to get to intimately know my other sister who resided with her grandma her entire life and my mother's family who resided in Kobe, Japan. They had not gotten to spend much time with my mother since she left Kobe to Hong Kong in the early 1960s to be with this charming, seductive man who would become my father.

And it was from an opportune port visit in December 1986 in Hong Kong that I got to visit my father for the very first time since I was four. We embraced as if it was our very first time and talked as if it would be our last conversation that we would know. We bawled our eyes out and cried like doom and death looming, and he asked me about the night that we slipped away never to be seen or heard again for a seeming eternity.

It was a tear-jerker and too emotional for the likes of a budding, 18-year old Sailor who wanted to spread out and stretch his wings. We said our hurried good-byes as the ship was preparing to weigh anchor hoping to unite again, and not having to wait another 14 years to do so, but knowing deep inside that the days were numbered and there would be more port visits in other distant lands between here and now.

I did return to Hong Kong later, much later in my career, when I was already a commissioned officer, this time aboard a sprawling aircraft carrier of 5,000 Sailors Strong (USS John C. Stennis), but it didn't matter much anymore -- my father died just a year after I visited him, I always pondered whether he had waited for this time to cherish memories and to bury the past before he had to depart -- his soft, tender ashes scattered like seed somewhere along the South China Sea and my memories clung on distant and long hoping never to fade.

Chapter 4 My Exploration Continues

2010-01-02T23:35:00.000-08:00

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Reflecting

The very next weekend, my exploration of this forgotten forage continued with passion and service like it was my voyage to capture and re-purpose; the lifelong explorer and adventure-seeker I've always aspired to know, wanted to behold... I yearned for a clearer vision of what existed now and what lay ahead for me, my subtle inhibitions, my forever eternity.

Understanding

During the week I had filled my hours and after hours with intensive homework. I read up voraciously on Anacostia or anything vaguely related, past and present...future. I spoke with people in the physical and in the emerging virtual who had known Washington or grown there or sown their roots there. And by the week's end, I had gained invaluable insight into why Anacostia is such the state of mind and decay, yesterday and abundantly today.

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Negotiating

When I drove down there the next weekend, I was deeply aware of the area’s notoriety for drug turf wars on the streets and alleyways, in the courtyards and stairways. The drive by shootings for no reason at all, the hold up just for a scrambled up pocket of bills and change. I heard anecdotally from people who knew or professed to know: You were in danger of getting shot at just because you were not from the area or were from a different block or street. High schools pitted against other high schools. Streets versus streets, block versus block, alley vs alley. That seemed to be the only line of segregation. There was just one race in Anacostia -- black Americans. A white man or any type of man with sane mind or mindful soul would not dare even drive through. At worst, he would be shot at. At best, the cops would pull him over and inquire whether he was buying drugs or shopping for street walkers who boosted the local crack-whore economy here.

I listened intently, showing interest, immersed but tempered with a large grain of salt choking skepticism. I would definitely pay heed to their yearnings and warnings, but once again the explorer in me wanted to see, wanted to visualize, wanted to feel, wanted to dream.

Driving down Martin Luther King Ave, I could see a group of about twenty ruffians with dirty, disheveled appearance, milling around the run-down liquor store at the corner, whiling away their time by staring and yelling at passing cars. In an unexpected move, an elderly man with an unkempt grey beard that fell to his chest, jumped off the sidewalk gesturing wildly. I instinctively stepped on the brakes. “No carryout,” he commented in a jeering tone, referring to the ubiquitous carry-out Chinese food shops all over the city. This joke at my expense provoked a wave of derisive laughter from the rest of the men. I shot him a look of pure disgust. The car behind me honked violently, jerking my attention back to the traffic I was holding up. I shrugged off my annoyance at this uncalled for provocation by the street corner drunks, and hesitantly turned right to head down Lebaum Street, unsure of where this would lead.

I remembered my trip down memory lane last week and the remnants of gracious living down Alabama Avenue. That seemed a world away as I courageously continued down the rough and pitted Lebaum Street. Neglected, dirty-looking apartment buildings and empty soda bottles appeared to be the signature of the area, as were the formidable-looking ghetto youth who hung out on the sidewalks as if they leased it and in the back alleys doing whatsoever they pleased like it was none of your business.

Amidst the squalor and lurking danger of this street, my attention was suddenly captured by a forlorn-looking, worn down, weary-windowed, red-brick house -- 500 Lebaum Street.

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In this two-story Cape Cod house, the roof sidings were hanging by a thread, waiting for the next puff of wind to blow them away. The weather-beaten roof had layer upon layer of scrambled up tile. The two front windows were boarded up, and shattered glass lay scattered on the unkempt grass next to bottle caps and bottle rockets and traces of hand-rolled joints ditched carelessly in a wreckless foam of unknown. Malicious streaks of graffiti smeared one forgot-about wall and empty beer bottles and crushed soda cans littered the sidewalk. The front yard was cluttered with a worn and loosely scratched dining table and four dirty-looking half-broken chairs tossed about. Close to the retainer wall were boxes overflowing with untidily packed clothes. The very air was filled with desolation and abandon. I was intrigued. Was this house up for sale? Was it an eviction? It had definitely seen better days – that was for sure, but how long ago and how much longer before it would get to know them again. I parked my truck cautiously across the street, and sat stoically, debating the prescient wisdom of leaving the safe confines of my vehicle. I had served in the military for 14 years, and had been deployed to a war zone thrice, but this time the prescibed tasking was of a completely different nature and non-mission essential to boot. I carefully felt my side for my sheathed Leatherman hunting knife, reassured to know that it stood rigidly against my side and on ready. With my left hand, I carried my latest CDMA cell phone equipped with a digital camera and 911 smartly pre-programmed that can be activated with a simple push of an emergency button. I opened my car door cautiously, stepped onto the premises hesitantly. The boarded up windows were dirty and eerie-looking. I felt a shiver of apprehension run straight through me but couldn't opt to escape. As I trod warily to the backyard, I was accosted by more shabby furniture and many more boxes of clothes thrown willy nilly. What was inside, I didn't seem to want to gander. Perhaps the clothes was just a mischievous, misleading front; buried deep down inside lay a lonely hand, belonging to a body, it no longer knew, a body the world had long abandoned. The 14k gold wedding band that for the majority of its years it became an intimate part of now was hawked at a District corner pawn shop for a dime to buy just a whiff of crack. It gave me the creeps just imagining, just thinking the perhaps..my inner being revolted, I simply wanted to run and embrace even the worst I could possibly dare to dream. The scary, isolated atmosphere was beginning to penetrate my very being that even the color of my skin started to change. I had turned for a lingering moment to retrace my steps. But incomprehensibly my body didn't want to move. Rebelling, it no longer responded to split second impulses from my mindless cranial cavity. For some soiled reason, images of some soulful moments in some so-distant past unwittingly came flooding in. Then like a pulled trigger on a perpetually-cocked handgun, I started to remember that forsaken story of forgotten hopes and unforgiven dreams. I could not simply just stop and applaud without being a primary part of it. Could I walk away from indigence and oppression? Could I walk away from wide scale depravity and potential? Then as my mind resurfaced, I turned around to scope my horizons. Could I walk away from some of the most awe-inspiring views of this city that bore my hope.

Just moments ago, on another depraved road, I stood among the trees on an incline gazing spellbound at a panoramic view of Washington DC, stretching as far as the eye could see, beyond the Capitol “Hill”, beyond the Washington Monument, over the heads of the rich and the powerful, towards the bleak, wintry skies. It was as if a profound statement was being made by the poor and forgotten rest of us in Anacostia.

Photo of the new city from the Anacostia Gateway, courtesy of Anacostianow.blogspot.com

Chapter 17 The Little Town in the Nation's Capital

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The little town in the Nation's Capital began to be plagued by various drug problems, the secondary but most primary effect being the violence associated with distribution. Street “crews” would operate and pervade various neighborhood corners uptown and downtown with virtual impunity, as if they were street legal. Cocaine and crack gradually was perceived by some to be the city’s most prodigious industry. Streets were no longer referred to by landmarks. Instead, there were the drug streets each assigned their own drug crew notoriously run by the seemingly-invincible drug kings who nobody dared to mess with, not even the Five-O. The druggies werestreet-wise--they would never be caught dead with merchandise, but instead buried their wares underneath rocks, bricks, scrap tires, anything that a tout can craftily store his goods under and get his own kicks. If someone from Barry Farms, Condon Terrace or Wheeler Road decided to snitch to Seven-D (DC Police, 7^th District), there was always the very real danger of serious repercussion -- getting hurt or worse honorable mention in tomorrow’s crime blotter. On street corners and playgrounds, kids perennially skipping grade school could rant with peculiar accuracy, the names of inner-city star dopers and touts in their neighborhoods, and the going rate for their wares. They uttered names and figures like some kids boasted batting averages of their favorite Major League All Stars in more peaceful neighborhoods. These "Children in the Hood' knew enough of drugs to recite the color, taste, and smell of heroin, cocaine, and marijuana, and rattle off the colors in a rainbow comprised of weed, pills and powder. Social workers working through the weekend in neglected pockets in Southeast on both sides of the river knew the names of such kids and were apprised of their issues -- sometimes even being more familiar than children of their own. As they ripped and wrote sheets after sheets of crumbled picture board, they utterly came to the bitter conclusion that the reason why so many inner-city children ended up involved in drugs was because they had no male authority figure at home they called “Dad.”

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Many parents of these kids involved with drugs are the unwed mothers of Generation Y in the '70s and 80’s, who are bringing up their children by trial and error. In the absence of a properly structured family setup, kids form relationships with those who feed their hearts, their pockets and their egos.

If their peers are into drugs, it does not take long for the kids to fall prey to the sinister power of illicit trafficking also. Perception overrules and as they groom their image, these kids do not look upon drugs as something illegal. And when drugs bring in pocket money, enough cash to sample and perhaps ham on the kitchen table, it is viewed as a vice that is immensely positive in an economically deprived and repressed society.

Chapter 18 The Cunning Electrician

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What kept churning in my mind was how to get on with the repairs in any logical sense. I knew construction like I knew homemaking and despised it as much as I loved to go shopping for a new wardrobe in the Pentagon City Mall. Frankly, I needed the on-the-job training from a construction worker as well as a full team of laborers to complete all the repairs.

Where would I start? At the very beginning, of course, after everything was torn our and the dust had cleared. I had decided from the start that Billy wore the foreman's hat. Maybe he wasn’t the brightest bloke in this world, and he could do with more than a few strokes of refinement. But he had a personal stake in this house he grew up in, some tiny wisps of attachment to a past long gone. And just as he introduced me to the house in the first place, now he could round up a scraggly group of guys for for electrical, plumbing and repair work.

Besides being the foreman, I assigned Billy to be the overall fix-it man. Where he fell short on the art of supervision, he had the cunning skill to grasp and remember shortcuts. I was impressed by his resourcefulness in removing wallpaper. If you would think about it, it is so simple, commonsensical. It is just that such things don’t strike you until you see it with your own eyes. John made hundreds of holes in the wallpaper with a scoring tool, and then sprayed a mixture of water and vinegar on the walls. The wallpaper soaked overnight and the next morning, it came off in the hands like orange peel.

John introduced me to Monty Freeman, a thin, boyishly handsome son jack-of-all-trades who looked taller than his 5’8.” He insisted on referring to himself not as a contractor but as “a craftsman” first upon his introduction to me and then on a regular basis, as if to keep reminding me to treat him with respect. An ex-Navy aviation electrician's mate, he possessed undoubted manual dexterity in handling tools and machinery. Having been a sailor aboard the U.S.S. John F. Kennedy back when it was a brand new ship, he was trained to troubleshoot and repair the complex electronic and communications equipment aboard aircraft and became quite adept at conducting maintenance. He apparently loved his job and became quite proficient at it. It was heartening to see some one take so much pride in his work. The only military veteran of the group, he had quite a staggering experience as a heating and refrigeration mechanic, considering his rather uninspired childhood in the neighborhood of Anacostia. The last he remembers of his schooldays is being a rambunctious student in the very last 6^th grade class at Congress Heights Middle School which was built in the 1800s and was one of the oldest school structures in DC. The school itself was a study in contrasts, resembling an ornate castle juxtaposed between rundown, vacant buildings and overgrown, littered lots of the battered and easily-forgotten environs of Congress Heights. This community had long been one of the poorest in the District. One could stand there and see large tracts of dirty brick apartment complexes, neglected and never-spoken of, broken down or boarded up, everywhere was the unmistakable stamp of poverty and deprivation. Remnants of this deprived past clung to Monty as he bargained and negotiated with dear life as if he had to fend for himself against all the other hoodlums and thugs in the neighborhood where we all were easy targets for crime.

With his obvious technical skills, he would have had a good future in the Navy but for the daunting obstacle of his complete revolt against the rigidity of the military hierarchy. Monty wanted to work in his own time, at his own pace and the way he wanted – in other words, he wanted to be his own boss, which was hardly possible in the Navy. He refused to be confined by a complex set of rules and more often than not found a way out of them. May be he did it once too often and got marching orders.

However, looking back on his seafaring days, Monty cannot but agree that he had a good time. He cherished the days let loose in liberty in wild ports like Palma, Spain and Sigonella, Italy. He enjoyed the passion and caresses from the healthy, sultry Mediterranean women who knew exactly how to please a man especially after a long period at sea. The extent of the sexual heights he reached at the hands of brown-haired bombshells was never relived ever again, not even in his most intimate dreams. Each experience made him lust for another woman, then another, then another. The variety was fascinating. Their passion and sexual awareness were amazing. His own sexual prowess was sharpened minutely with the training he received at the hands of experienced women. The stories he related had the men’s eyes glinting. Even though he threw military discipline to the winds in these escapades and he rebelled against it all the time, he still understood the meaning behind such discipline and training and that was what drew me to the man despite other negative factors in his character. In a strange, silent way, he and I understood each other at various levels of communication, for we were both a part of the Navy.

I assigned Monty to install the electrical system in the basement and to do some basic electrical repairs upstairs - a straightforward, clean and easy job. After all, it didn't take a whole lot of lifting, cutting, or scrubbing to lay electrical wiring and to install a switchboard. However, there were instances I regretted this decision, especially when the process became intricate and he started becoming difficult. In particular, Monty had lofty ideas when it came to payment. He had listened to me nonchalantly, with pretended indifference, as I outlined my plans. Then he looked at me blandly before his face broke into a monkeyish grin.

“I’ll charge you $12,000 for wiring the whole house—basement, ground, attic - all,” he announced emphatically.

I could not believe what I heard. “What?”

“ I said 12,000. That is cheap.”

“No, Monty, no way. My entire budget is $15,000. That is out of the question.”

My firm voice got Monty’s attention.

“OK, I’ll make it 10,000. You gotta a deal.”

I shook my head silently, my brows furrowed at this unexpected hurdle in cost. Monty pursed his lips obstinately.

“I can’t go lower than $9,000,” he muttered sullenly.

“5,000 – take it or leave it,” I said, with a firm resilient voice.

“F*** that, Mr. C, you gotta be kiddin’. I can’t make a living on that. I‘ve got bills to pay, my man. You’re in the military. The Navy will take care of you. Not this nigga. I could be sleeping on the streets tomorrow.”

Monty gave a hard, bitter laugh that dripped with self-mockery. The sardonic edge to his tone gave me visions of Monty teetering on the edge of eviction, eating pork and beans with the homeless. Did I have the heart to go ahead? I sighed with exasperation as my determination lost its momentum.

“All right, 7,500, but don’t push me, Monty because that is the absolute most I will give you.”

Monty had learned at every point in his life that it was unforgivable for a black man to show emotion. Whatever the blows life dealt him, he had to accept the pain stoically and carry on. But the travails of the black man had taken less traumatic turns over the past several years and now it was no sin for a black to show emotion. A ripple of relief quivered through his sagging shoulders that imperceptibly lost their droop as they were fortified by the hope infused by my words. Where was this leading me now?

Monty seemed ready to gallop another mile, his thoughts forging ahead onto untrodden territory.

“Hey C, my man, how about HVAC? Why don’t I do it all for $15,000?”

I was more than mildly irritated. Had he listened to anything I said before? How do you deal with exasperating rascals who never accepted the word “No”?

“Come on, Mr C, it’ll raise the value of your house."

Monty had renovated several houses for millionaire realtor Debby Jackson that had been so torn apart that sane people wouldn’t dare step inside those structures for fear of collapse.Monty and his partner Gameel performed miracles overnight.When they were through, the rickety dwellings often looked healthier than newly built houses.

“Monty,” my voice was icy with annoyance and intransigence. “I do believe you want to do the work I assigned you. If you try your luck too far, you just might find yourself out of a job.”

Monty stared at me as if I was some alien landed on the earth. He opened his mouth to carry on his vein of conversation, then thought better of it and shut up. I guess being street-smart also involves a shrewd assessment of when to leave off bargaining and accept what is offered. As I could see, his only saving grace but a considerable one, was that he was a decent contractor when he wasn't drunk or high on drugs. But more often than not, he was high on crack, booze, or both. There were the occasional days that he combined a deadly cocktail of crack, whiskey and a cigarette dipped in embalming fluid and came to work with bloodshot eyes and horribly slurred speech. And then his mind would definitely not be on Lebaum Street, but out somewhere in the choppy Atlantic and his work would be crappy at best.

Jimmy Davis was to be the carpenter. I scrutinized with eagle eye, this light-skinned man not quite a six-footer, with an unkempt, steely gray beard and a bald pate he insisted on keeping covered with a hat even when he was indoors. I got the impression of a man who had allowed life to pass him by swiftly and inconsequentially so that now, with the best years behind him, there was nothing to write home about, nothing at all. He walked with a slight hump on his back but the steely bands of muscle on his forearms told their own powerful story. Despite his premature aging, he still had strength in his body and I would put it to good use, I promised myself silently. As I discovered later, for some obscure, unfathomable reason, women found Jimmy charming. Maybe it was his caramel-colored complexion or the obvious masculinity he exuded with his wild facial hair. Several times, I myself was witness to his obvious popularity with the women of the streets in the area. Once we had stopped at the traffic lights at Congress Heights, and Jimmy seated by my side waved and hollered at all the sleazy-looking women who passed by. I felt distinctly uncomfortable as the women all showered him with attention while also gazing at me with obvious curiosity.

“Hey,” he yelled at the top of his lungs at an olive-skinned female in a skin-tight skimpy skirt and see-through blouse. “You look mighty fine today.” She looked his way and then smiled in recognition. “Well thank you. I’ve been missing you, Baby,” she responded loud in a sultry voice dripping with invitation.

“You know I’ve missed you and I haven’t gotten none since. Will you give me some of that fine cooty, baby?” I noted with rising concern that Jimmy was getting aroused. For the love of heaven, please let the lights come on. But they seemed in no hurry and neither was the hooker. She leant against the truck door, her cheap, strong perfume wafting into the truck. She carried on huskily, “I’m savin’ it for you, hon. Hey, who’s that driving the truck?”

“Oh that’s my bodyguard, Jet Li. He won’t mess with you.”

At that moment, I could have cheerfully throttled Jimmy, and, as if to prevent any further escalation of unwanted passions, the lights changed and I pushed the gas pedal with all my might. Jimmy chuckled as if he could read my thoughts.

In spite of all these diversions, I was quite impressed with Jimmy’s philosophy on life and felt that John had picked the right man to be the carpenter. Jimmy explained to me how it important it was to lay out the floor plan and to measure everything to the “T.”

I was particularly taken up with his comparison of carpentry and construction to a chess game, stressing on patience, planning and concentration. “You can’t just go for the easy option. You have to go for what’s beyond and you have to get a feel for what’s happening on the board.” So, true, I thought to myself, when you take a step back and try to think objectively, it all made a lot of sense. I could see that it all required calculation and careful planning.

Jeff Bishop, the sunny-tempered, pleasant-faced former crack addict whose plump mien always lights up with a smile, is a pipe fitter by trade. Never daunted by squalid, filthy environs, he religiously lives by his motto: nothing is too heavy or too messy for him to deal with. His job may not rank too high in prestige, but his skills are undeniably in high demand and he has no qualms about charging an extremely high premium for it.

He is indiscriminate about location and takes on plumbing jobs in every nook and cranny of the city, and when it gets to the sewer business, the mess is unbelievable. Yet, he is able to take in all in his stride, after all, what matter, if in the end it brought him the green bucks. Jeff has volumes of such squalid stories in his memory bank he would relate to create a diversion in the monotony of the tedious renovations. He told grimy, sordid stories of working on the condos on Danbury St SW, near South Capitol Street where sewer lines of individual buildings were never connected to the city's sewer lines. And so it happened that for a good 20 years, the waste from the bathrooms ran into the ground and eventually seeped through the basement walls, oftentimes creating visible pools of sewage. Homeowners had to install a sump pump that worked 24 hours a day to pump raw sewage out of the basement and out onto the back alley. The ensuing revolting situation defied description, with toilets stopping up and drinking water becoming contaminated. Eventually the city gave up and demolished the buildings. Jeff spoke of stories that the city had worked out a deal with Centex Homes, an established builder known for constructing upper middle class town houses in the past. It would a first for Centex Homes to build housing in the city and it would not be long before they realized this was a different kettle of fish. I was going to make Jeff responsible for unclogging my drains, for installing two new bathrooms and for replacing faulty plumbing. Intuitively I knew he would do a good job.

As for myself, being the homeowner, I had to be anywhere and everywhere at the same time. Granted that I had no handy skills, but I would assist wherever and whenever needed. Mine was the vision that guided the whole project, and so, with aesthetic sense bolstered by exotic imagination, I would be the architect and lay out the floor plan for our new and improved basement. Furthermore, being the prospective owner I would have to make tough decisions. The final ruling on all things would rest with me. Not that I had the faintest idea how it would work out with this motley crew, but I was determined to make it work. I would learn with experience how to be persuasive, friendly, and helpful and be the firm boss at the same time. My truck would come in handy in getting the supplies together and I would help each one when the need arose.

When the renovation crew assembled in my presence, they were all eager to get going – the sooner they started to work, the sooner they would be paid. Only Jimmy seemed inclined to delay - as long as I didn't mind loaning him money to go down to the liquor store to get his malt liquor. Jimmy would visit any store so long as it sold liquor but he preferred the one on Southern Ave on the Maryland side simply because it was cheaper and the beer was chilled.

With all the hiccups of getting started, we finally got started. The initial task was to clear the house of all the junk. The old 1970s era RCA CRT TV set with gargantuan speakers on both sides had to go. As cumbersome as a solid desk, it seemed ten times heavier when we tried to carry it out. The threadbare sofas, the stained chairs, the worn and creaky beds, the dust-laden drapes – everything, just everything had to go. It did not make it easier for us with all the souvenirs, photographs, and trinkets of the past lying around. Looking at them, I felt an interloper. Technically, the house had to be free and clear of all items before we closed the deal and Tracy promised do handle this without delay. Although I rather disapproved of the unsentimental and flatly impersonal approach, I could see she didn’t care about the memories anymore and wanted to move on and leave the past well behind. John, on the other hand, seemed inclined to take time to reminisce, to go over stuff slowly, reflectively and keep the past snugly tucked in the present. I felt distinctly uncomfortable as I stood watching John pore over old scrapbooks and photo albums, talking to himself, tracing his fingers over images, smiling at times, and then allowing the tears to stream down his cheeks. It seemed obvious that he missed Anne – the only mother he had ever known. Yet, for all the love and caring Anne had given him, John had not made anything worthwhile of his life. He never reciprocated Anne’s affection by helping out in the house or by doing things for her. He did not finish school and became a further burden as a school dropout. Lacking commitment and reliability, he could not hold a job. Having taken one disappointment after another from John, Sonny grew disillusioned and finally put him away as belonging to the dregs of humankind. However, he lived with Anne and Sonny until he got himself involved with a woman in Washington DC when he was in his twenties and got her pregnant with his child. He could not bring himself to marry her and settle down into stable married life. He kept himself aloof from long-term relationships until he traveled to North Carolina when in his thirties and married a woman there and had more children. Yet, even then, the shifty, vacillating streak in his character surfaced and he was unable to hold onto a job for long and was soon on the brink of poverty with several mouths to feed. Weak and easily inflamed, John turned on the people closest to him, got himself arrested for battery and assault, and spent several months in prison. His marriage was a farce and his children disliked him. After sixteen years, in 1992, he decided to break ties with North Carolina and get back to Washington DC. Now, as John sat lost amidst the memories, I could almost feel sorry for him.

I had agreed to rent two monstrous forty-foot dumpsters as an incentive to move things along but I had not inquired the price beforehand. I was, thus, flabbergasted when I got the bill. Each dumpster was $450. It took no more than a couple of hours to fill them to the brim with broken down furniture, a rusted up refrigerator, a tired and worn out stove, faded and torn clothes.I was paying almost a thousand dollars just for trash removal!Oh, well, I thought. It had to be done anyway. Apart from paying for the dumpsters, I was determined to make myself scarce and to let Tracy and John handle the clearing. I didn’t want to intrude on their privacy. Letting go of the past, unraveling memories was such a personal thing. The only humane thing was to leave them alone.

After the house was emptied of trash, I began the renovation process in earnest. It started with a bang, literally. It was 5.30 and the late evening sun was filtering in through the windows.Blam!Blam! The blast of a double-barrel gun pierced the relative quiet of the sunset hour. The men kept on working as if gunshots were part of a normal workday. I stared out the window, my nerves tingling with a rush if anxiety. A

police cruiser came by and parked across the road. I moved away form view. The best thing was to stay away from it all.

My thoughts slipped back to Southern Avenue, the notorious line of demarcation between Maryland and the District of Columbia. In the past, drug dealers and punks would gather in this area furtively, and handle their dealings in stealth and silence. They were always alert to cruisers passing by. When suspicions were aroused and the police turn up to investigate, the drug dealers simply cross the border from DC to Maryland or vice versa. This worked amazingly well for the bad guys and there was precious little that law enforcement could do but to stare in utter amazement. Sometimes the drug dealers would unceremoniously run into a wooded area or through a footpath that snaked between brick houses. After all, they knew all the shortcuts even better than the cops. They knew the art of self-preservation like the palm of their hands. They knew the places where the lights were out, which houses were vacant, and which blocks were rarely patrolled by the police. And the footpath was littered with debris as if a tornado had rolled through and picked up everything in its path. Empty bottles of Richards Wild Irish Rose, malt liquor bottles and folded bottle caps used to cook heroin. An empty $10 bag of crack cocaine was tossed carelessly nearby. The drug dealers took over the border community like a monstrous grip on a piece of fragile ceramic dish. There was a time that the footpaths were the quickest and most convenient connection between DC and Maryland. Now it was too dangerous to transit it even in broad daylight.

As I moved away from the window, I was greeted by a choking cloud of dust. It was as if a tornado swept through, and I calmly waited for a few minutes for it to blow over and for the cloud to settle. I stood by and watched John repeatedly bashing a sledge hammer against the wall, his face a caked mask in a thick mat of gray and brown. As I stood at the door, he continued as if he didn’t see me. Then I called his name a couple of times. Finally he turned to look at me and smiled from ear to ear. He glanced down at his watch. We were supposed to go to Home Depot that evening, but I figured—what the heck—I would join him. I had a tough day at work and smashing the heavy sledge hammer against the brittle plaster and plywood was amazingly therapeutic.

What is "RUNIN ANACOSTIA"

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The purpose of this Web-book is to provide a portrait of life in the community east of the Anacostia River, often referred by Locals as Ward 8.

This portrait is a narrative non-fiction and is true to life with the exception of some name and character changes to protect individuals' privacy.

The life story of our main character, Sonny Williams, is true based on observations and interviews that I conducted.

In this book, I am combining two distinct but mutually linked sections that have similar themes and messages:

1) My observations and experiences in DC obtained through interactions with my contractors while renovating my fixer-upper on 500 Lebaum Street. (For ease of use, these chapters physically reside in another site:www.runinmaverick.blogspot.com but are available on this blog via the link list provided on the right-hand column.)

While renovating the house, I befriended several of my contractors who provide me a first-hand view of Ward 8 as well as their suggestions on how to improve the neighborhood.

2) The life story of Sonny Williams, the main character of the story who purchased 500 Lebaum Street in 1968 and sold it to me via his daughter as a power of attorney, 35 years later.

When Sonny and Anne purchased their newlywed home, the area in Congress Heights was lively and vibrant. Then came the gangs and the strip clubs, heroin and crack and the once idyllic community went downhill fast.

Through Sonny's voice, I describe his observations and explanations of how Ward 8 turned from neighborly to downright dangerous in a matter of several years.

How to Read

The best way to read this web-book is via the link list that is provided on the right-hand column of the blog. These links are synched together via two separate blogs (My Story and Sonny's Story)

Do I have to follow the Chapters chonologically?

Although it is recommended to read the Web-book by the sequence provided on the link list, you are more than welcome to randomly browse the modules below to sample and try out certain chapters or certain topics that interest you.

What makes this Web-Book different?

1) The "RUNIN" format -- a logical and effective new way to better understand and frame the content. Click here for more information on what "RUNIN" means and stands for.

2) The use of Social Media Widgets provide a more broader and in-depth background information delivering context, education and understanding.

YouTube of old news reports

Google Earth and images

Old Headlines

Wikipedia Widgets

Podcasts of Chapter materials as well as sound effects and narratives spaced strategically throughout the chapters that provide context and understanding

Links of Relevant News Stories

Snap Shots providing contextual content info of all hyperlinks

Timelines

Graphs

Word Pictures from Wordle

Comments and Reactions from Readers

Etc.

Why This Approach?

Because I believe that reading should be interactive, messages should be framed and learning should be visualized.

Living and Breathing Web-Book

As of Jan 1, 2009, I am working on Chapt 30. When the Web-book is completed by the end of 2010, there will be approximately 100 chapters available. However the Web-Book is content-rich and message-driven, so you are highly encouraged to start reading today.

Do you have other RUNIN projects?

Yes, I am working on several. The links are provided via the drop down bar to your right. However, this is the only Web-Book that I'm currently working on.

Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoy the Web-book. Please let me know if you have any questions or inputs.

Chapter 21 The Bottom

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Click here to Listen to the audio file while you read

As stomachs growled in incongruous beat, the ragged gang stopped at a McDonalds outlet, famished and feeble. I bought Jimmy a Big Mac with an extra handful of ketchup and Jerry a fish sandwich with cheese and extra lettuce. Now I had two contented passengers munching noisily to express their satisfaction. All they probably needed now was their bottle. Then they would be really living the Anacostia High Life.

On the way back home we took a rough and dusty shortcut across Wheeler Road. Jimmy was familiar with the area nearWheeler Road historically called “The Bottoms.” This name originated from the fact that the area was not part of Bellevue or Congress Heights, but was located at the bottom of the 7^thStreet hill.

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The name Congress Heights, on the other hand, was derived from the community's setting perched elegantly on top of a hill offering a splendid and unhindered view of downtown DC. Paradoxically, despite the ideal location and pristine view,the name carried negative connotations. This area boasted what was probably the worst public housing in the city: Valley Green. In 1961, more than 300 apartment units rose from the decaying dirt lots, with the hope and aspiration for a better, more wholesome life for the oppressed and impoverished.

Though the buildings were built with high standards, trash and sanitation had become an unexpected luxury.

The kind of deprived, poverty-riddled community that was housed there was a fertile breeding ground for every kind of vice imaginable. The area was deemed Danang dangerous and the drug situation skyrocketed to the point that even 7D (the Metropolitan Police Department serving the most impoverished Ward) were afraid to come out when called. Often times police cruisers would get pelted by kids throwing rocks from apartment buildings. The cops, on the other hand did not give up. They decided to be resourceful in busting the drug dealers.They hid inside PEPCO trucks, ambulances, ice cream trucks, whatever it took, to make a bust.

“Valley Green was known to have a pervert who would sit inside his van and holler out at young girls walking to see friends and offer them money to go behind the building," Jerry said. "It took a long time for the cops to arrest the man. I hope he is rotting in his cell for the remainder of his f..... life.”

Jimmy lost his earlier moroseness and joined in enthusiastically, “And there were gangs, one prominent one was called “Valley Green”. Their turf was on Varney Street from Wheeler to the Greater Southeast hospital. Their rivalry with Ballou and Condon Terrace was legendary. It all started with a dumb beef and it got worse and worse until some punk got shot.”

(For more info, please read the 1996 NYT story "Monument to Decay" re: Valley Green)

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The notorious Ballou High School

As memories flooded in, Jimmy became livelier. “Sometimes there would be gang fights with the gangs from Condon Terrace or Trenton Park. And I know that the gang from Condon Terrace is still standing and tough. They are almost as tough as the Anacostia gang known as Choppa City—this group has been known to attack the metrobuses.”

As the violence grew to unmanageable levels, the city fathers had to urgently shut down the housing scheme in the mid-1990s. When Valley Green closed, a lot of the winos and the dregs of society scurried up the hill to Congress Heights. As if a ghostly image of the past, I could see an echo of it all today. Dirty-looking, shabbily dressed men sat outside liquor stores, scratching their disheveled, grimy hair, smoking, playing dominoes, loitering around and getting in people’s way.

In complete contrast to the housing provided earlier, the Valley Green project was replaced by the Wheeler Creek housing complex which comprised of $100K town homes and several single family homes.

Built in 2002, it was a Hope VI private, public venture and a proud model for Washington DC that had become its gold standard. It was an image-building project, with the goal of Hope VI being to change the physical shape of public housing by demolishing severely distressed projects. So it happened that ugly, tawdry high rise buildings and barrack-style apartments became things of the past and got duly replaced with garden-style apartments and town houses that changed the ambience of the surroundings.

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Wheeler Road was notorious for its drug deals as well.Jimmy seemed knowledgeable about the goings on. He said, “I remember a time, when these folks and fiends would just smoke weed in the open air so much -- we were virtually free from police intervention. Hell, I was one of them. But I never got messed up on the hard dope. Until..”

“What? Hard dope?” I asked innocently.

“Hell, heroin, PCP, weed," Jimmy replied in a matter of fact way. “These were the serious dopers who made real money and hired an army to protect them. They didn’t sell just to anyone on the street and they were true business people, organized crime, you might say.”

Jerry was eager to add his own memories. “Eventually the cops busted them. I remember cuz Pops and I remember the Feds coming down like SWAT charging in to boot their asses during a huge sting on Oakwood Street back in the 70s.”

And, for a while Lebaum Street and the environs had returned to a semblance of normalcy. Yet, it was only a short reprieve. Crack cocaine hit the area in the mid-80’s and there was no way to escape the mire of addictive narcotics. Unlike dope, crack was cheap, easy to obtain, and available even to women and children. Pinch a little of it with your thumb and get a nickel, two nickels or a dime’s worth of affordable coke. It was an open field for all, no longer limited to the hardcore, and as expected, spread in the community like wildfire. With little concern among city authorities and the Federal Government, the situation simply got out of control. Although PCP, Heroin and cocaine were used occasionally, they were not popular with the blacks as they were well beyond the range they could afford. The distribution was usually handled by big time dealers and being a downer, a couple of hits and you had enough for the whole day.

Having got back to the house and the repairs, we decided to do a quick walkthrough as a meaningful way to wrap up for the day. Jimmy explained how it important it was to lay out the floor plan and to measure everything to the “T.” I was somewhat surprised by his astuteness. “Carpentry and construction are like a chess game. You need patience, planning and concentration. You can’t just go for the easy option. You have to go for what’s beyond and you have to get a feel for what’s happening on the board.” I could do little else but nod in assent.

I glanced out of the window. Dusk had turned to inky blue and the yellow lights of neighborhood houses glowed from here and there. A feeling of weariness flung itself on me. A week’s hard work was getting to us all. “Let’s go out,” I suggested. “I don’t particularly care where, someplace local, someplace that serves cocktail that is made strong, not the watered-kind shit, and some place we could meet people and have a good time.” Jerry was not enamored of the idea. He pleaded tiredness and wanted to go home; besides he had to watch Tracy’s son, Donald.

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So, in the end, it was only Jimmy and me. We locked up the house, got into my truck and drove along with the windows rolled down, past the squalid areas of Congress Heights on 15^thstreet known locally as the Washington Highlands.

Filled wing to wing with 4-storyed, garden-style apartment buildings, they were decrepit, rat-infested and needed to be condemned immediately. A pregnant mother, carrying a baby and dragging two more kids by the hand, looked harried in the lamp light as we passed by. A couple of alcoholics in tattered clothing slouched on a tree stump, sipping from their brown paper bags and staring mindlessly at the roaring traffic.

There were a cluster of young men across the street by a large oak tree apparently dealing. They had their scouts out who were observing us as we drove by. They noticed the blue truck and the out-of-state license plate and they looked me straight in the eye. That was it. This was the proverbial trigger that sent Jimmy on his diatribe. He hated White Supremacy not because he thought they were racist but because they were suppressing the poor people.

“The powerful muckety mucks in the nation’s capital have all given up on the poor folk east of the river. They have allowed teenage pregnancy to get out of hand, disease and drugs are rampant, there are limited services and programs for kids after school. So what do they do? They have no role models. So they look up to the hard-core, hard drug brother to serve as their role models. Nobody loves them but these ex-cons will take them into their arms. What do you think will happen? This is an easy ticket to the life of hard drugs and crime.”

Jimmy was not allowing me a word edgeways. I had to fight for his attention. “Why do you point the finger at our nation’s leaders? Don’t you think they can each help themselves out of their situation?”

“Sure, we are all accountable for our actions and inactions. However, the government is fully aware that there is abject poverty just a stone’s throw from the nation’s capital. Yet they continue to turn a blind eye to the problem. If they wanted to do something about it, they would have by now,” Jimmy gushed with passion. “And it’s not just the whites. The black leaders have also turned away from us, especially when they come to office and become powerful and influential. The current mayor is one of them, Yale educated and all. If they cared for us, they wouldn’t issue a permit to have a liquor store in every corner.”

I gave his words some thought and felt some surprise. “I thought the problem in this area was drugs. Drugs is the true menace isn’t it?”

“Sure is. It is not just the drug but the selling, marketing and consumption that puts money into a tout’s pockets. Overnight, by the hood’s standards, they become wealthy and they become popular cuz all of a sudden they are wearing nice jeans and a nice jacket.”

I nodded in understanding “So the choice is personal. The kids choose to use drugs and their parents have allowed them to get out of hand.”

Getting out of hand was indeed what it was. Teenaged kids, bleary-eyed, aggressive manner and drugs. That was the be all and end all of their lives. I didn’t blame Jerry for his anger. I let him get it out of his system and listened patiently. “ They send troops to Afghanistan and Iraq. Why can’t they send the National Guard and get the drugs out once and for all? This is not Al Qaida.”

It appeared unfortunate that the Feds chose not to take this option. The black men thus got caught in a web of social relations, economic conditions and political predicaments that lent bleak prospects to their future. Unemployment among black men had reached epidemic proportions. About half of the young black males had no work experience. They did not attend school. Suicide hit sky high. More men had died of suicide in one year, than the number of black men who were killed in Vietnam.

References:

(1) Photo of Wheeler Estates taken by Richard Layman (www.urbanplacesandspaces.blogspot.com)

Noteworthy Stories:

New York Times, "Monument to Decay; Toll is Even Greater in Forgotten Anacostia," Don Terry with Karen De Witt, July 26, 1996

Washington Post, "Ballou Slaying Rooted in Territorial Rivalry," Sylvia Moreno and Justin Blum, Feb 9, 2004

This story is about how a feud that started after a Barry Farm youth stole a coat from a teenager in Condon Terrace resulted in a shooting in a Ballou HS cafeteria.

Chapter 20 Living in the City

2010-01-02T13:22:00.000-08:00

It was Friday evening. Whew! I heaved a sigh of relief. Outside, in the basking DC warmth, the shadows had lengthened and purple dusk splayed the skies to the west over the Iwo Jima Memorial.

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After a fairly unnerving week filled with nail-biting moments of unbearable tension at the Pentagon, I felt almost lighthearted to know the weekend was clearly within my scope.

As I cleaned up my desk for the weekend, I felt a pinge of sorrow for the chronic overtime workers and gofers who hovered impatiently at their cubicles checking email or tweaking those custom animated powerpoint slides for the upteempth time. Many were consummate professionals: deft communicators and the quintessential powerpoint rangers -- a derogatory nickname issued to those who were supposedly more adept at navigating slides than navigating shoal water. My co-workers and senior colleagues looked busy but I could see their eyes habitually darting to the clock on the wall that ticked relentlessly, hoping their Captains and Senior GS's would soon depart the pattern. The phones rang endlessly, they barked orders here and there, and papers were strewn across the tables like we were standing trial. So immersed were they in their work, they did not appear to realize the day had already ended. So us low-level subordinates faced the daily dilemma of whether or not to "bail" before our bosses, and in the five-sided puzzle palace, doing so would become another"Cuban Missile crisis."

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As I watched and overheard the tension-filled discussions among the senior officers, I felt charged with a sense of duty, even though my thoughts were already tuned into my Friday evening program of attending to my fixer project after work. These were dangerous times and we were a nation at war, with Congress passing the Authorization to Utilize Military Force (AUMF) after the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. At this moment, though, the impact of 9/11 had receded to the background and the news of the hour was the US invasion of Iraq. The US had flexed its military muscle for the world to see, with spine-tingling air attacks that rocked Baghdad. This week we had watched in bemused wonderment, US ground troops in Iraq, the media ingeniously embedded with the troops, able to gain first hand exposure and broadcast first rate coverage back home in real time. Even Geraldo Rivera by drawing lines in the sand was able to provide details of their position and plans to attack Baghdad. There was no turning back now. It was already May 2003. President George W. Bush, onboard the USS Abraham Lincoln, had just declared the end of major combat operations, terminating the Baath Party’s rule and removing Saddam Hussein from office. Yet, the end of major combat operations did not mean peace had returned to Iraq. The country was marked by violent conflict between US-led soldiers and insurgents. The guerrillas were using suicide bombers, roadside bombs, improvised explosive devices and rocket propelled grenades to create a near civil-war situation, and the threat to our troops waspalpable.

I watched on the ominous bank of TV screens the courage of our soldiers on foreign soil. I felt a sense of isolation from the dynamics of the war while I sat in the safe confines of one of the most fortified buildings in the world, with the Kevlar-coated beams and reinforced-concrete walls, retrofitted with 2-inch thick, bullet-proof windows.My office in the B ring of the of the Pentagon had only received moderate collateral damage when American Airlines Flight 77 flew into the E Ring of the 4^th Corridor on 9/11. At that solemn moment I was on station onboard the venerable super carrier USS John C. Stennis off the coast of San Diego, totally unaware and oblivious of what was happening at home.

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Stennis was homeported in North Island NAS, San Diego

As colleagues who were working in the Pentagon told me, our offices had survived the attack itself, only filling up with acrid smoke and debris that led to structural damage. Thankfully, no one had been hurt – these were my friends, shipmates, and fellow Public Affairs Officers.

Deliberately switching my thoughts to the impending weekend, I allowed myself to think of the grimy, sweaty, back-breaking work that lay ahead in the renovating process. Just thinking about it got me frustrated. We were way behind schedule and every task was getting done at a snail’s pace. What was precariously worse, I was not yet legally entitled to raise a concern. My name was still not on the deed, and technically, any work that we did could be considered a head start or a dead loss depending on whether I could purchase the house in the end. I spoke with Tracy and her agent this morning about the technical issues of ownership. Neither sounded overjoyed that the proposed settlement date had come and gone without a firm commitment from me. I could sense undercurrents of doubt and uncertainty as they considered different options. My thoughts refused to meander into areas that could spell doom for me. I intensely wanted to get involved in the financing because the broker was agreenhorn and was oblivious to the intricacies of closing on a loan. Yet, the broker had been my friend for the last year, and I was reluctant to hurt her feelings.

The more I thought about my situation, the more reckless it seemed to become. I suddenly stopped in my tracks as I walked to my Ford Ranger. What was I doing? Did it really make sense to pursue the deal? The house was located in an alien neighborhood which gave me a menacing and hostile feeling. I had to work cheek by jowl with contractors who were strangers to me and about whose skills I had not the foggiest notion or interest in learning. I was going to spend colossal amounts of money without batting an eyelid on a house that I may never own. Would I be living proof that a fool and his money are easily parted? Who would have the last laugh, I wondered. Would it be me or they? Would I be the foolish dreamer or a patient, judicious strategist?

These thoughts swirled in my brain as I drove to Anacostia. I was thankful to see the roads were uncongested, considering that it was still rush hour on Friday.

The beltway I-395 South afforded a speedy drive and before long I was on South Capitol Street. I felt a sudden need to get my bearings of the area. I slowed down and pulled to a side. Dusk had given way to star-spangled inky black skies. Washington by night. My shackled spirits broke loose and soared toward the expansive view of the Capitol, the majesty of its pure outline a brilliant white in the night light. The Washington Monument stood sentinel, the spotlights enhancing the dramatic effect of the column rising gracefully to meet the night amidst the rustle of the national flags surrounding it. I gazed across the green acres of the Anacostia Park, a hushed blanket of darkness now, and the historic area, once called Uniontown. Few people are aware that Anacostia Park extends over 1200 acres with hundreds of acres available for soccer fields, picnicking, basketball, tennis, and other family activity. I had visions of my son, Colin, playing among the colorful summer butterflies that feed on wetland plants preserved at Kenilworth Park, the Aquatic Gardens and Kenilworth Marsh, which are part of the Anacostia Park.

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South Capitol St Bridge (aka Frederick Douglass Bridge)

I sped up the hill to Congress Heights and before long I saw the lights glowing at 500 Lebaum Street. Surely Jerry and Jimmy would have done a good job. I parked my Ford Ranger on the road and walked in. Disappointment clouded my mind like the billowing cloud of dust that greeted me as I opened the back door. The progress was not impressive by any stretch of the imagination. I coughed loudly, then held my breath for the dust to settle. I groped my way in and found Jerry bashing a sledge hammer against the wall, his face and hair caked in a thick mixture of chalky gray and brown dust. After the stress at work, I had a sudden urge to bash the heavy sledge hammer against the brittle plaster myself, even though a tiny voice in my head whispered I had to make a trip to Home Depot. I plucked the tool out of Jerry’s hands and was soon raising thick fanning clouds of plaster dust. I tried to imagine senior officers and co-workers who irritated me, as I bashed the hammer with all my might against the brittle wall. As it crumbled effortlessly, lightheadedness enveloped me. The therapeutic value of the task was apparent as my frustration slipped away. Totally engrossed in the task, I forgot the flight of time and just managed to get to Home Depot in Maryland before they closed for the day. I bought up items needed for the drywall, carrying them with Jimmy, puffing and panting under their collective weight.

1968: Arnachy

2010-01-02T10:56:00.000-08:00

Chapter 24

It was Thurs, April 4 1968. Sonny was still working at the Wheeler Road High’s Ice Cream store, looking forward to another card party the next weekend. It was a balmy spring day and things were relatively quiet. Suddenly, there appeared to be a commotion outside. Sonny’s ears pricked up. Did a kid get hurt? Was there an accident? He peered out the window and saw people, old and young, rushing out onto the sidewalks with transistor radios in their hands, listening intently, expressions of anger and utter despair on their faces.

Sonny turned on the TV, and stood speechless, horrified. What! Oh, Dear Lord. Dr Martin Luther King, shot! “This just in -- Dr. Martin Luther King had just been shot by a sniper’s bullet at Loraine Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee,” Walter Cronkite announced.

Sonny’s memories rushed back to a bright and peaceful day on August 28, 1963. He had taken a bus to to downtown and strolled the three mind-numbing miles to the Reflecting Pool to stand in reverence and awe for several hours to hear Dr. King’s memorable “I have a dream” speech. From the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, King delivered the fiery and monumental speech to over 200,000 supporters. Sonny was captivated by the powerful message and Dr. King had transformed the memorial into his own pulpit. The words echoed and reverberated in Sonny’s mind. “And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.”

Later that evening, after the news was out that Dr. King had died, things got very dark in DC literally and figuratively. Mr. Stokely Carmichael, Chairman of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, asked stores in the entire area to close out of respect for the dead leader. As a committed Black separatist, Carmichael had denounced Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., as an “Uncle Tom” and began advocating armed black militancy as the favored means to promote civil rights.

Carmichael’s request soon descended into rioting with willful destruction of property, looting and arson. The unrest was most blatant at the intersection of 14th and U Street NW, the center of a major commercial area in Washington’s black community.

Despite this, the next morning, on Friday, April 5th, Sonny opened up shop not knowing what would transpire that day. The brewing unrest had yet to migrate across the river to Congress Heights and Bellevue. Yet the tension and apprehension were clearly escalating. Sonny hoped and prayed the unrest would stay clearly west of the Anacostia River. But by the afternoon, the crowds, dominated by the youth, ventured out in hordes. Stores were still open, windows were still intact, and display signs were still illuminated. Yet the feeling of foreboding was thick as a blanket. The agitation and hostility mirrored on the faces spelled vengeance. The news from the transistor radios blared out details of the violence that had taken siege of virtually the entire city.

Soon, the angry mobs migrated across the river. They first formed in Anacostia and pressed south, a steady stream advancing towards the neighborhood community of Congress Heights where Sonny lived and pressed on towards Bellevue and Wheeler Road, where Sonny worked.

Initially the unrest consisted of loitering and yelling by the drug and liquor stores and clothing department stores. Then there was littering. Newspapers and torn magazines were strewn everywhere, empty soda cans lay bruised and crushed, and trash cans were turned over, spilling the stench of rotting food in the air. Hatred simmered below the surface as crowds got off the city buses, some coming from Prince George’s County. The angry mobs appeared to grow more violent as they stomped down the roads.

By now a light rain was falling steadily but it did nothing to quell the disorder. The silent rage had turned gradually noisy, with relentless shouting, yelling and running. Things appeared to be getting completely out of control. Still no signs of the police or the National Guard – they were busy focusing their efforts on U Street and 14th and the rest of the city on fire on the other side of the river.

The rage burst into sizzling explosion in a split second. One man, out of control, slammed his fist through a storefront glass door. The glass shattered into tiny fragments, his fist came out bloody and bruised. Another man came behind him and finished up the work with a baseball bat. Meanwhile a mob had gathered around him, some slipping into the store, running right to the cash register. A young man came out with a bag of chips and a soda with a big grin on his face, as if he had just won the lottery.

“Way to go,” someone called out to him.

Youth invaded the stores in scores, taking any and everything they could get their hand on. Hangers overflowing with clothes, radios big and small, even heavy TV sets. A middle-aged woman carried off a case of liquor. A girl in her twenties reached into one of the store windows and came out with some cooking pots and utensils. The mood of the crowd had become bitter and destructive. Windows were being broken on all sides of the intersection. Display signage was ripped out of storefront entrances. It was as if life had lost meaning for the rioters. One could sense the heartbreaking desolation and despair.

Amidst all the violence, the High’s Ice Cream store on the corner of Wheeler Road and 12th, was left virtually untouched, although a small group of reckless teenagers stood outside with bats in hand and looks of wild vengeance etched on their faces. Because the local folks loved Sonny and remembered the many times he stayed up late playing cards , they felt that he was one of them. And as long as he was there, they would not harm him or touch his store.

By now, the whole commercial corridor was damaged and looted. Sonny could hear an angry raucous crowd outside, and he watched smoke emanating from the liquor store across the street. His eyes were still glued to the TV, and he watched in disbelief as virtually every commercial building on H Street was burning, some completely to the ground. The rioters became so emboldened, they started attacking firefighters with bottles and rocks. Crowds as large as 20,000 overwhelmed DC, west of Anacostia. The National Guardsmen adorned in helmets and bullet proof vests, sped up and down U Street and Georgia Ave. But the eastern side, told a different story. There, there were only a few Metropolitan DC police officers present, who became quickly overwhelmed by the relentless surge of mobs. As the looting got out of control, the rioters got more brazen. Hundreds were inside the little department store on the corner and were taking everything they could get their hands on, and destroying anything that was affixed to the building.

At any moment, the violence could spill into High’s Ice Cream. In desperation, Sonny called Mr. Hundley at home.

Mr. Hundley was horrified. “Sonny what are you still doing there? It’s become a war zone. You know they burned our store on U Street. Get out right now!” Mr. Hundley ordered.

A violent explosion sliced the conversation. Sonny looked out the window and saw that the department store was engulfed in fire.

“No, boss, I think I should stay. I just want to make sure that your store is in good hands.”

“Who else is there?” Hundley asked.

“Just me and Frances Lewis. (Frances was his employee) We’re OK. No one is messing with us,” Sonny assured him.

“Like hell you will. Get Frances in your car immediately. Lock up and go home!”

“But boss, as long as I’m here, the rioters are not going to break in. The very moment I leave, all hell will break loose—I know it. I can call a ride for Frances but I’ll stay to watch the store.”

Mr. Hundley would have none of it. “If I lose you Sonny, I lose more than a store. I lose an enterprise. Now get the hell out of there, before I have to come there myself to drag you out. ”

“But Mr. Hundley, the people here told me that as long as I’m here, they will not mess with the store or hurt me or Frances.”

Mr. Hundley’s tone became firm. “Look, Sonny, this is no longer a suggestion. This is a direct order from your superior. It is like downtown Saigon at war, and lives are at stake. You were in the service. You understand what a direct order means.”

The sky was filled with smoke and flames and it seemed like the whole world was on fire. The crowds milling outside the High’s Ice Cream store began increasing, and the guys looked meaner and more malicious. Their patience was beginning to wear thin and they were holding back with difficulty. In glint in their eyes gave Sonny a clear message – go now or face the consequences of staying back.

Reluctantly, Sonny closed shop at 7:30pm. The sound of police and fire sirens filled the air, but at a distance. Sonny walked with Frances to his Chevy, and drove down Wheeler Avenue, avoiding the crowds blocking the streets. The rioters recognized Sonny and let him pass, then started creeping towards the store.

Frances Lewis, Sonny’s assistant at the store was in her early twenties, married with three small kids. She lived with her family in northeast Washington DC, but her marriage had much to be desired. This day, as on others, Sonny dropped Frances off at home in his bright yellow and green 66 Studebaker Speedster.

Afterwards, Sonny arrived safely home by 8:00 pm. Ann was home and exhausted by watching the tragic news. She wanted to go to sleep early because she knew she had to go to work the next day. She was concerned how her patients would be handling the news. Sonny tried to comfort her as best as he could, but he himself felt restless and uneasy.

As he tossed and turned in the darkness, the phone rang. Sonny looked at the time. 9.30. Who could it be? Mr. Hundley? The voice on the other end of the line was unmistakable. It was Louise, one of Sonny’s favorite customers.

Louise was obviously distressed. “Mr. Williams, they done broke into your store. They’re all the way inside and getting their hands into the ice cream and everything else they can reach.”

Sonny was immediately concerned. “Anybody hurt?”

“No. Nobody’s hurt.”

Sonny breathed a sigh of relief. “Well OK. Guess I can’t do nothing about it now.”

Sonny did not say so to Louise, but he was glad he had hidden the money that was in the cash register, and he hoped the rioters would not find it.

Then Sonny calls Hundley. “Hi, boss. Got some good news and bad news.”

Mr. Hundley listened in silence as Sonny briefed him on the situation. Then he said gravely, “Well, I’m sure glad you and Frances got home safe. We’ll swing by tomorrow and assess the damages.”

Sonny felt despondent. All his hard work had gone up in flames. He was back to square one with having to reorganize everything from scratch.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang again. “Mr. Williams, they done set it on fire.”

Sonny was shocked speechless. He had just stocked up supplies for the week. He had gotten milk and diapers for the little babies and fresh baked bread for the young and old. Now where would the community go to feed their children. He felt helpless, desperately concerned.

Sonny couldn’t sleep that night. He lay awake on his bed. He could hear the sirens blaring, feel the heat scorching. He went outside a couple of times and looked out at the night sky. He could see fire burning and a haze of sulphur and smoke miles away yet seemed so close. He wanted to run, to rescue his store. But he knew it was hope against hope. By now Highs Ice Cream store on the corner of Wheeler and Mississippi was likely burned down to ashes – all his work, all his love, all his livelihood.

At the crack of dawn, Sonny finally got up and got in the car. Didn’t bother to brush his teeth, didn’t bother to shave. He drove like he had a long way to go; he did because minutes ticked like eternity. It was chilly and the atmosphere was somber, the violence had lost its vigor as the wee hours had come and gone. He could see smoke still rising in the distance. When he arrived at Wheeler Road and Mississippi Avenue, the faces of the National Guardsmen showed weariness anddespair. Barricades were set up on the street. Some places with free standing walls resembled the destruction in Normandy – places that Sonny never got to see in the Army. Now he would see it once and for all. Two National Guardsmen in a jeep were blocking traffic and not allowing people up the hill. Sonny told them that he was the store manager and showed them his ID.

“It’s not structurally safe. The building could collapse at anytime,” the guardsman warned. Sonny then showed the Guardsman his military ID card. It was expired but it was good enough to get waved in.

Sonny had to catch his breath. No amount of preparation could have readied him for the sight of utter chaos and destruction. He thought about the thousands of hours he logged driving trucks and how he had wanted to run an ice cream store to spend more time at home. Then Sonny stepped in, eyes wide open --stunned by the extent of destruction. Every single item of grocery was looted, even the cash register was ripped from the counter. The décor was all but completely burned out; even the chill boxes were completely torn apart He had to recover the last deposit he had put away. He remembered he had carried it down to the basement. As he walked down the steps, he noticed that about two or three inches of water had covered the basement floor. He placed a milk crate just below the center beam of the building at the exact location he remembered having hidden the money. Lo and behold, the money, all $500 of it, was still up there, dry and intact, wrapped safely in an Army field jacket.

However, there was no way to open the store. Too much damage and too much unrest to take a chance. Sonny was forced to stay home for about a week.

During the months thereafter, Mr. Hundley had Sonny managing the High’s Ice Cream stores at Walker Place South East and down Central Avenue just east of Addison South East. At each of these places, Sonny helped to get the service smoothened out and the customers pacified and satisfied. Mr. Hundley had assessed Sonny’s skills as a troubleshooter and intended High’s to achieve maximum benefit from them.

One morning Mr. Hundley called him. “Are you familiar with High’s on South Capitol Street?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“OK, meet me tomorrow morning at 0800.”

Sonny and Mr. Hundley together met with the white manager, at the parking lot of the South Capitol Street store.

Mr. Hundley did not beat about the bush. He told the manager, “Mr. Williams will be taking over your store. I am transferring you up town to another store.”

Sonny was really going places. After Monroe North East, Wheeler Road, Walker Place and Central Avenue, now it was South Capitol and Atlantic South East.

The next week, Sonny and Frances started working in the store on South Capitol and Atlantic St SE. The working relationship between Sonny and Frances had thrived through three High’s locations. It was a platonic relationship where Frances looked up to Sonny not just as a boss, but as an older brother. Neither of them realized the gradual change of their relationship from friendship to intimacy. Sonny was the quintessential workaholic. After all, his store was not just his job, it was his life, his everything. And his employees, he treated like family. He was now seeing a lot more of Frances than Ann. The realization exploded one summer night, when Sonny stayed late to stock the shelves. Frances was beside him helping him; after all he was her ride. They were packing the shelves and conversing on a comfortable topic – the children and how they were doing in school. She got close to him handed him the goods as he stacked them neatly one by one on the shelves working from the very top. The next moment, when Sonny came down the steps, Frances suddenly felt dizzy, felt a whirling sensation like a carnival ride. She drew in her breath then closed her eyes. Then she started to fall, fall as if someone was there to catch her. Sonny was there. His arms extended, gently reaching out to touch her. Then he couldn’t resist, started to caress her hair, brush her skin soft like whipped butter. Then he felt the burn, deep from within, the urge to feel, the urge to kiss, the urge to lust. Then he made his move—his lips next to her--first her neck, then her ears, then her eyes soft like shadow, finally her lips, warm and full. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Sonny wanted it all to stop. Images of Ann raced through his mind. Of Ann patiently waiting and staying up for her loved one until he got home. He thought of the fact that he was Frances’ supervisor, that she trusted him like he was her brother. But In that moment of desire, he thrust it all away, thrust it for something new, something fresh, something compassionate. At that moment, all he could think of was this warm, passionate woman in his arms and how much they wanted each other. The next thing he knew, he was tearing off her blouse and kissing her breasts. He swept her down on the floor beside the canned goods, the goods that just a moment before they were stacking away, the goods that meant a lot to the young mother and child, the goods that at this moment stood in the way. As they made love among the cans of food, memories of Ms. K jumping on top of Sonny when he was 19 years old driving the bus to the distance, flashed in his mind. He had waited so many years, now a week seemed like eternity. Then he thought about the affair of Bill Withington down the road on Portland Street. How the women would gossip and how even the men would scorn. How Bill’s wife was so dedicated, watched the kids, cleaned the house, up, down, every nook and cranny. How Bill would be out almost every night on King Street in a different bar, with a different woman each night it seemed. How Bill W. would take his date to the back seat of his 1960 Chevy Bel Air and make love with her all throughout the night. Make her howl through the night as he kissed that lip from the bottom up. How his neighbors would turn the blind and look down in disgust. How he would sneak in through the backdoor with a bottle of Smirnoff in hand. The next Sunday, you would see Bill and Gloria in church. Wouldn’t say a thing to them except “Hi, how are your kids.” Wouldn’t look at the discorn in her face, wouldn’t even care to look anymore. And Sonny felt sad, felt like he needed to say something, do something, hold a hand or lend a ear. But in the end it was none of his business. He always wanted to know how it felt to cheat. He had done it before in the truckstops and motels but in a sense that was different – there was no affection, it was a one-night fling out of town and out of sight.

As the hot summer days flew by, Sonny’s romance with Frances grew stronger., He was distracted by her nearness, and was constantly aroused by his feelings for her. He grasped every opportunity he could, to make love to her. When he went home to Ann in the night, he found her preoccupied with her career and busy caring for the three patients who livedwith them. Even though he was crazily infatuated with Frances, he knew he loved Ann dearly. She was the mother of his kids, it was a completely different kind of love and he felt very little remorse. .

Then during the Christmas holidays, when they were starting to pick up a seasonal rush, Sonny hired another helper named Norma. For Sonny, there were now two desirable women vying for his attention, not one. Eventually, jealousy would make its appearance. One night, after Sonny dropped Norma home from work, Frances became livid as she got out from the back seat. “Bye-bye, you dumb fool! Are you going to screw her like you screwed me earlier today? ” She stomped toward her house in a fury. She did not return to work, and Sonny maintained his pride and did not call her to plead with her to come back.

Since Frances’ abrupt departure, Norma tried to fit into her shoes but failed miserably because of her tardiness. Some time later, Sonny fired her as she proved utterly unsatisfactory.

The Sixties, it seemed, were the years of permissibility and promiscuity, when extramarital love affairs were considered acceptable, and marital fidelity took a back seat. Along with the abandonment of conservatism there was also a departure from what was considered decent in society. The Woodstock Music and Art Fair, with topless women frolicking in the mud and smoking pot, was a historic event held in the rural town of Bethel, New York for four days in 1969 which symbolized the “hippie era” of the 1960s At that time, there was no stigma of STDs or HIV/AIDS. Preceding the era of women’s rights, the concept of sexual harassment was virtually unheard of, and there were more substantial issues such as civil rights to wrangle over, rather than sexual relations with a subordinate or coworker. Even in Congress Heights, stories abound of women’s liberalism and female topless parties.

Meanwhile, life took a different turn for Sonny, when he managed the Seven Eleven store as a franchisee in 1972. At his very last High’s Ice Cream store, one spring day, a well-dressed gentleman in a two-piece suit approached Sonny and asked him if he was interested in being a manager for a Seven Eleven store. The man himself was a manager at another Seven Eleven in NW DC. Sonny took him aside to discuss the proposal and thereafter agreed to go out the next day and check out the location. When Sonny saw the store on Benning Road, and observed in what bad shape it was, he blatantly rejected the offer.

T“Wait a minute,” the gentlemen insisted. “ I have a brand new location opening up on Sheriff Road and Belham Drive. Do you want to take a look?

So, Sonny went along with him and checked out the neighborhood. There appeared to be many truckers going to the Safeway warehouse. Sonny was still not convinced. He wanted some time to ponder over the proposal and also to discuss it with Ann. He drove Ann by there and they checked out the neighborhood once more and he stepped back to allow Ann to decide. She did not take long to make up her mind and the next day Sonny was ready to write a $3,000 check to Seven Eleven to purchase the franchise. Then he informed his decision to Mr. Hundley, Manager for Highs Ice Cream. Mr. Hundley was stunned, to say the least and he begged Sonny to stay. After five years, five stores and a destructive fire. But Sonny seemed firm in his decision to move on. He said that for the past 5 years, he had been overworked and underpaid. Mr. Hundley offered him a raise. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hundley,. it’s way too late,” said Sonny.

But things were by no means hunky dory. Sonny was plunged into a tough, stressful situation from the start. Even for a brand new store, he couldn’t find a decent woman to work the cash register. He wished he still had Frances with him. Not for the romance, although that was good, too. He needed her to run the store. One day, a pretty young woman named Louise Hilton applied for the cashier’s position. She seemed very attractive and Sonny was tempted to hire her. Images of Frances ran through his mind. He was hopeful. Even as this issue sorted itself out, Sonny was bothered by dishonest employees who were stealing from the store. $10 here $20 there. They were also indisciplined workers, with tardy attendance or unexplained absences. In the end, Sonny was compelled to cover for them and this job started wearing him out. He regretted having left his relatively easy job at High’s. He had a good thing going and he had left it for uncertainty. After a year, he felt he could not endure any more. He quit Seven Eleven.

What would he do? Sonny was a good truck driver and he loved that job. He would drive trucks for a living. Sonny had a good job as manager of truck drivers and made about $20,000 per annum which was a decent salary in the late 1960s. Ann had a steady job at St Elizabeths as a dietician. They owned a home and two cars, one of which was a Chrysler. Sonny was living a regular middle-class American life in far southeast DC.

Yet, the riots had utterly devastated DC’s inner city economy, and for years, the commercial district of U Street never fully recovered. Millions of dollars worth of property had been damaged, which included many commercial establishments and homes. With the loss of businesses, thousands of jobs were lost and insurance rates soared.

As Sonny reflected on the history of the area, the situation seemed as poignant as it was arresting.

Washington DC used to be a small, sleepy town until the war. After World War II, a huge influx of day laborers and federal government workers flowed into DC – working class families nearby from Hampton, Virginia and the Carolinas and as far south as Georgia and Alabama and as far north as New York. Families who came looking for a better job, for a better life for better Constitutional privileges.

They settled throughout the city – the middle class mostly in garden-style apartment buildings or if they could afford it, in quaint, brick-front single family homes in the northwest quadrant and the lower income in the tenements and slums of southwest, by the waterfront.

With the District relentlessly trying to rebuild its diminished image in places like Adams-Morgan, the Southwest Waterfront, and other traditional black neighborhoods, the lower income residents became the casualty, and got shoved into the less socially mobile Anacostia.

With the passing of the anti-tenement law in southwest along with the changes in the zoning laws in the far southeast stretches of Congress Heights and Anacostia, this once sleepy town became inexorably divided into two distinct parts; one area housed those who had the means to escape their locality, the other housed those who wished they could. Over the years, the poor oppressed DC residents on one side of the 14th Street corridor do not cross over to the more affluent areas because they tacitly accept this division as a cultural reality.

In the 1920s, Anacostia was rural; it accounted for only 5% of the total city population, yet possessed 40% of the District's vacant land. However, Anacostia's population saw a 56% growth rate from 1920-26. Yet during that time, only four apartment buildings were constructed there, compared to 1,820 detached and row houses. Clearly, Anacostia was a place intended for homeowners.

As Anacostia's population grew by 50%, when the District as a whole experienced a mere 6% population rise due to the movement of blacks into formerly white neighborhoods, and relocation from the more expensive central city to the relatively cheaper and more spacious environs in Anacostia. However, the expansion of the federal government, urban renewal projects elsewhere in the city, and public housing always gave a boost to such movement. At the same time, zoning changes in Anacostia led to the construction of several apartment buildings, subsidized public housing to accommodate displaced low-income families. Among the largest such apartment buildings was the Frederick Douglas Housing on Alabama Avenue with 448 units and Valley Green and Skytown on Wheeler Road with 330 units.

Besides the lower-income Blacks moving to the far southeast, DC was experiencing another type of demographic shift. In 1950, the Washington, DC population had hit 802,000, but in the decades that followed, it declined considerably, the result of an exodus to the suburbs that was typical of older cities in many parts of the country. As the years passed, the area became overwhelmingly black, mostly because the white population sought out new neighborhoods to the north in Montgomery County, Maryland, to the southwest in Arlington and Fairfax counties in Virginia and to the southeast in Charles and Calvert Counties in Southern Maryland – places that typically excluded African Americans.

Most of this population decline was attributed to "white flight" following the desegregation of the city's school system in the wake of 1954's Brown v. Board of Education. Furthermore, coupled with the development of freeways and suburbs, Washington became a predominantly black city, with about 200,000 blacks moving into the city in the 1950s. One freeway, especially, the Suitland Parkway, built on swamp land to provide quick access for foreign dignitaries flying into Andrews Air Force Base into the city. The sad truth is that the freeway, as practical as it was, severely divided the city becoming more segregated and compartmentalized.

Meanwhile the segregation of schools and busing had a huge impact on DC’s demographic shift. Within ten years of the Brown decision, the schools were 90% black; Anacostia's white population plummeted from 82% in 1950 to only 37% white in 1967. On the flip side, where Washington DC had historically been 25% African American, it climbed to 70% black. As the suburbs around the District began to develop and white residents left in droves, many small shops closed and the shop owners followed their customers to the suburbs.

What was more, the hundred thousand or so whites moving out, subtly disrupted the internal power structure of the black community. The low income Blacks were considered the black equivalent of poor white trash. Many of them lived in neighborhoods that struggled in grinding poverty and crime since the late 1960s, when thousands of poor families were relocated to public housing from other parts of the District. This move sent many black and white middle-class families fleeing to the suburbs like northern Virginia and southern Maryland. This was the first suburban migration wave.

Since then, there has been a second suburban migration wave, with African-American families moving out of DC to sleepy suburbs like Prince George's County (PG county). This has led to striking diversity in once overwhelmingly white suburbs. PG County, for instance, 84% white in 1970 to only 29% white today. Currently, 69% of PG County residents are African Americans, and it is one of the few suburban counties that are majority black. It was ironical that, white families, who relocated to the suburbs to get away from the uncongenial atmosphere of living among African Americans, were forced to move again, this time to distant Calvert County. It seemed strange that it should be so, as Calvert County, in 1970, was racially diverse, with 37% of its residents being African-American. However, with the second white flight, Calvert County became markedly less diverse and, today has only 12% blacks in the community. One blatant sign of the transformation is that in the past, Calvert County was a Democratic stronghold, while today, it is solidly Republican.

As these migration waves washed over the demographics of Washington DC, the city population became increasingly black, until the 1980s. Yet, lately, a change can be detected . For instance, in 1980, where the Washington population was 70% African American; today it is down to 59%. The white population has marginally increased to 31%, but the greatest gains have been among other racial and ethnic groups.

An enterprising restaurateur named Wilson opened a soul-food restaurant, the Florida Avenue Grill, an often-crowded restaurant, in 1944, on the corner of Florida Avenue and 11th Street, in Northwest Washington. Eighteen years ago, when Wilosn’s son, Lacey Wilson Jr., began working at the Grill full time, the neighborhood was saturated with well-kept houses and well-fed, happy children. Today, the Grill stands alone in an otherwise vacant lot. In the short time since the District was granted home rule in 1974, Washington went from the promised land to no-man's-land.

"Most of the families who lived here have moved out to Maryland," says Wilson, himself a refugee to "the peace and quiet" of suburban Virginia. Those who stayed in the neighborhood, according to Wilson, are trapped in houses that have lost 30% of their value in the last eight years.

Thus, the story of Anacostia is a story of urban renewal and the expansion of bureaucracy on one side of the river, and the creation of racialized public housing ghettos on the other. The (indirect) role of the federal government in the creation of ghettos elsewhere in the country through loans, the Housing Acts of 1949 and 1954, and subsidies for infrastructure improvements connecting city to suburb has been well documented by Arnold Hirsch, George Lipsitz, Douglas Massey, and Nancy Denton among others. They show that the federal government provided the funds and the necessary legislation for local authorities to create racialized ghettos.

The NCHA and private developers constructed 1,300 units of subsidized public housing in the 1950s and 60s for residents displaced by highway and other development projects in the city and 5,800 families were on the waiting list for public housing in D.C. in 1965. Yet, unfortunately, public facilities did not keep pace with the glut of apartment construction in Anacostia. Inadequate health care facilities in the 1970s forced residents to make arduous trips across the river to the D.C. General Hospital and public health clinics; Anacostia schools in 1970 were filled 83% over capacity; and the Anacostia subway station was among the lowest priority projects during Metro construction during the 1970s. Local residents pleaded with Metro officials to review this decision in light of the lack of work opportunities in Anacostia; fewer direct bus routes to the District, compared with other outlying areas; the topography and street design of Anacostia, which made extensive bus service impractical; and the fact that it would serve 160,000 people. In 1972 the Anacostia Economic Development Corporation challenged Metro's plans to bypass the community entirely and provide direct service to Suitland, Maryland. Although the Anacostia station was retained, it remained one of the last to be built in the initial stages of Metro construction. Rather than renovate buildings like the Congress Park Apartments that comprised 684 apartments in 80 buildings, was built in 1950 and abandoned less than twenty years later, private developers and the National Capital Housing Authority continued to build shabby public housing.

The explosion of apartment construction in Anacostia far exceeded the need for public housing in the 1960s. In 1970, in the Anacostia/Barry's Farm area, one third of the total housing was less than 10-years old garden apartments, which translated into a significant number of foreclosed and abandoned properties. By 1970, the vacancy rate in Anacostia was 4.5%, compared with the District rate of 2.8%. The low income African Americans started moving into Anacostia in droves when the city razed all the tenements and low income housing in Southwest DC and built coops and condos.

Subsequently, the District started housing projects in Anacostia like there was no tomorrow. When the low income people came into the scene, the utility services abruptly stopped. The schools, the trash, the utilities, jobs—they all went downhill and practically disappeared as if the area across the Anacostia River was another country with separate borders and the people spoke an alien language.

Four years later, in 1968, virtually all the shops in Anacostia and many on the other side of the river, were destroyed, during the riots that followed Dr. Martin Luther King’s assassination. Black people were outraged that the city did not close shops in honor of Dr. King, like they did during President Kennedy’s death. Most of these shops were located at Nichols Ave. Ironically, 12 years later, the street was renamed MLK but it took many many years after that for the area to recover both economically and socially. The tragedy is that Dr King had succeeded in life and like Malcolm X was gunned down. Such deaths of high profile public figures are deeply ingrained in the psyches of the black male population. To them, Dr King’s death symbolized the fact that no man in Anacostia was safe.

In this situation, Sonny and Anne were pioneers in seeking out a life in Anacostia. In the early 1960s, middle income blacks started moving into the area. They, like Sonny and Anne, were in search of the American dream. Buy their own home, raise kids, work for a steady, secure government job and retire by age 50. Sonny had already worked for the government as a member of the 3rd Armored Calvary in the U.S. Army, and now, he was an entrepreneur. He had survived a riot and taken a hit with the loss of his Seven Eleven. But Sonny would recover. But by 1990, he retired and wanted to stay home with Anne. By that time, the kids were in high school. John the eldest son was living in North Carolina with his own family.

Meantime, 1990 was the heyday for crime in Anacostia. The area turned so rough that even the police were hesitant to make their rounds. Not even the safe confines of a squad car was a sanctuary from all the madness. No one in their right minds ventured outside after dark. Sonny witnessed firsthand the social horror that was so entrenched in inner-city Anacostia.

The community was known as the murder capital of the world. Night after night, the news media in DC painted ugly pictures of a homicide-ridden city caught in the desperate clutches of depression, death and decay. From the Freeway Phantom murders.

First there was heroin. Heroin was organized crime and it was the big boys. But they didn’t deal with the woman or child.

Chapter 23 Sonny and the Ladies

2009-12-31T07:35:00.000-08:00

One night, Sonny was transporting fresh produce from Miami to New York, with his co-driver, Dave Jewel. It had been a busy day on the highway, with traffic crawling at a snail’s pace. Finally, after eight hours of non-stop driving, exhausted and hungry as the sea, they stopped in Brunswick, Georgia, to get dinner. Even though they had a little more ground to cover before calling it a day and spending the night at a wayside truck stop. Sonny’s instincts warned him to be alert and to be careful. In this part of the country, the Jim Crow laws were the way of life. These laws were state and local laws implemented in the US south and Border States during 1876 and 1965. Legally, black Americans were supposed to receive “separate but equal” status, but in reality, this got translated to discrimination and much less-than-equal treatment to blacks. These laws required that public schools, public places and public transportation have separate facilities for whites and blacks. It seemed so unjust and unreasonable. Yet, Sonny did not let these restrictions affect him or hamper his attitude to life. Being a peace-loving man, he often went out of his way to avoid conflict. There were, for instance, several times that he stopped to eat in the Deep South. Sonny’s first task, when reaching a small town, was to inquire where the colored people ate. When there were no eateries for blacks, Sonny was forced to step into “Whites Only” eating places. He recalls humiliating experiences trying to buy food at “Whites Only” restaurants, when those were the only ones in existence in the area

Late one afternoon, driving through Georgia, Sonny came to a small town. He had not eaten since a late night snack in Richmond, Virginia, so his hunger was intense as a sub-saharan drought. Sonny first searched for restaurants that served colored people, but to no avail. He had little choice. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but the hunger pangs were so overwhelming, that he had lost his sense of reasoning. He drove right into a parking lot filled with Buick Le Sabres and Chevrolet Belairs. But this didn’t intimidate him. He hopped out of the cab and walked right in, completely ignoring the sign that read “Whites Only. No Colored Allowed”.

As Sonny tried to step inside, he was firmly pushed aside.

“Can you read nigga boy?”

Sonny stared face to face at a man with eyes that looked like death warmed over. Hadn’t seen that look since the state trooper pulled him over in Warner Robbins or his drill sergeant at Fort Meade, so mean the Boots would call him “Killer”.

The man grabbed Sonny by his collar and started to yank him out.

“Let him go, “ yelled a man from behind the counter. “We’ll feed him

Sonny turned to see an unassuming Black man wearing a black cap, white shirt and dark tie. “Man’s hungry. Can’t you tell. Have him go outside and come in through the back door. We’ve got some ham and turkey leftovers from lunch yesterday. We’ve done made enough turkey chowder for tonight’s special. No sense throwing good food away.”

Sonny walked out and around towards the kitchen entrance at the back. He walked into the dimly-lit kitchen and stood there, unsure of what to do. Remnants of food, food shavings and other debris could be seen on the dirty tables and the unswept floor. The stale odors were fast dampening his desire for food. Sonny stood aside waiting, while the waitress rushed in and out of the kitchen, serving the white customers in the front dining area. Finally, after about 20 minutes, she came back to the kitchen, looked at Sonny and asked, “So, you want food? There is some turkey pie over yonder.” Sonny looked at the messed up congealed food with distaste. The waitress observed his expression with indifference. “Up to you. Take it or leave it.” The blatant discrimination stung badly, but Sonny was determined not to be provoked. He bought the food and walked out in silence. Yet, whenever Sonny drove south, he was on the lookout for eating houses for blacks. He would rather drive an extra hour than to spend two dealing with frustration and humiliation.

The next day, Sonny was once more at the wheel, and famished from hours upon hours of trucking. Coming to a halt in Macon at the first traffic light, Sonny could see out of the corner of his eye, an elderly black man limping along going somewhere but nowhere fast.

The black man held a cane and on the other dragged a bag of groceries.

Sonny rolled down his window. “Good afternoon sir. Need a lift?”

The man smiled and shook his head slightly. “I certainly would but your rig is too big to take me home. I’ll just find a bench and take the load off for a minute or two before I continue on. I’ll be OK son. Now go on and leave an old man alone.”

“You sure, pops”? I might be driving an 18-wheeler, but I know how to squeeze this rig into some of the tightest spots this side of the Mississippi. By the way, we’ve been driving day and night, and we havent’ stopped for food. Where in God's Country can we please find a warm, creamy bowl of soup and some pieces of bread to chew on?"

The man smiled brightly. He knew exactly what Sonny was talking about. Knew it so well that it brought him tears to his eyes. “The colored folks’ section is on the other side of town, a few miles down the road,” he said as he lifted his cane and pointed in that direction.

“Well hop onboard sir. We’re heading into town cuz that’s the only place a man of color can get a home cooked meal without slipping through the back kitchen door of some greasy spoon. So we might as well take you home so we can at least eat like we’re close to home.”

”Alright, if you insist,” the old man replied.

Jewel jumped out to lend him a hand and Sonny grabbed the bag of groceries. “Man, you’ve got enough food in here to feed a football team for a whole week.”

Soon, Sonny had steered his rig through all those narrow streets and arrived on the other side of town. The man asked to be dropped off a block away from his house, but Sonny insisted on taking him directly home. So Sonny parked the rig a block away and walked the elderly man to his front door. He rang the bell and waited patiently. Within a minute, a middle aged woman gave Sonny a suspicious look but then immediately was glad to see her father.

“There you are, sir. Thanks for the directions. Take care of that knee you hear,” Sonny waved goodbye and walked away. He had not felt this good since he helped out the two elderly ladies on a icy winter day finding a way to bring them fuel oil when their boiler had run dry and everyone else had given up.

Sonny drove his rig further outside of the main thoroughfare because he didn’t want to obstruct traffic. He found a shady spot to park a few blocks away and both men strode casually across the field to the restaurant tucked cozily away amongst humble homefronts and oak trees. As soon as, Sonny and Jewel walked in, they were pleasantly surprised by the elegant décor and the warm atmosphere. There were a few people sipping coffee, reading the local weekly and swapping stories about their community. The setting reminded Sonny of a diner he would visit in Laurel, MD., when he was stationed in Fort Meade. It looked almost identical except this time there were no men in uniform, not even a police officer or a postman.

Sonny took the first table closest to the window that afforded him a view of his truck. As he sat down, his attention was immediately diverted by a different view. It had been such a long time since he had seen someone so young, so fresh so beautiful.

It may have been the color of her skin – chocolate hue with a flush of brown. Her bright round eyes, her long flowing hair, her voluptuous breast. All of a sudden, Sonny felt on top of the world. Felt young again – like he was still training boots for the 82nd, like he was still was boxing Curtis Rowe for the boxing championship in Panama.

“Good afternoon gentlemen. Welcome to Joe’s Diner. My name is Daisy. Can I get you something to drink, perhaps a pitcher of ice cold water or some sweet tea, sun tea or lemonade?”

“Nice to meet you. My name is Sonny and this is my friend Jewel. We have been on the road for practically the whole week, running up and down the Eastern Seaboard like we're some lawless bandits, and I swear, I haven’t laid eyes on anyone or anything as sweet and luscious as you.”

The young woman blushed. “Why thank you,” she said, trying her best to keep a straight face. “Tea, water or lemonade today. It’s fresh and homemade.”

”Sonny was mesmerized by Daisy’s bright smile and her full lips that unveiled a wide row of almost flawless white teeth.

“Wow, doesn’t get much better than that. Tea sweetheart with an extra dash of sugar please.”

She couldn’t help but smile as she felt the look – Deep and sincere penetrating deep into a place thin and clear, a place that no one had aroused since her father died, since her sister got married, since her boyfriend left for a better life in New York City, promised to write but never did.

“You’re mighty flattering, but you might be saying that to every female you come across, at every diner, every truck stop from Boston to Miami. ” Her voice shifted a serious tone as she handed over the menus. Take your time with these Hon. Know you’re hungry so we want to feed you real good.”

“What do you recommend?” Sonny asked.

“The fried catfish is on special and extra crispy. The pork ribs are extra juicy. Can I recommend a side of fried okra or collard greens?”

Sonny shook his head. “The specials look great. But I’ve got an appetite for steak and eggs and perhaps a hearty serving of grits,” Sonny sounded wistful and his eyes glowed softly at her.

Daisy shook her head vigorously. “You’ve been on the road too long, must have lost track of time. Don’t you know it’s dinner time now sweetie.”

“Ain’t no matter. Breakfast goes down good anytime of the day or night, especially when you’ve been driving through the entire night. It’s whatever the stomach says it wants, and right now I know exactly what it’s telling me,”

“I’ll second that. We’ve been eating steak and eggs during the wee hours of the morning, so I could definitely go for something hearty but not too heavy,” Jewel said.

“Well I normally wouldn’t do this for just anybody. But my trucker customers from out of town--now that is different. I’ll talk to the chef and see what we can do back there to special order your dinners exactly the way you like it.”

“Much obliged, sweet Daisy. You’re definitely making this trip to Joe’s Diner ‘s in Macon, Georgia worthwhile.”

The order took a while to prepare. The ice from the cold glass of tea started to melt, the glass sweating at the touch. Almost half an hour later, Daisy finally appeared with the food. Walking right behind her was another young waitress.. Daisy placed the dishes on the table and extended her hand in the direction of her friend. “Gentlemen, I would like you to meet my sidekick an best friend, Jeannette. We went to high school together and we both live just a couple doors away, not too far from this diner, in fact.”

Sonny rose from his seat, extending his hand. “Very nice to meet you . You’re just as pretty and sweet as your friend. I’m Sonny and this is my co-pilot, Jewel.”

Lynette put the dishes down and gave her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, too. When you guys wanted to order breakfast at dinner time, this caught us completely by surprise. But we’re here to please. We had to chase down a few chickens, shake loose a couple eggs, and skin a few potatoes, but in the end, we were able to manage. Then Daisy called me and said that she sure could use a hand. So here I am gentlemen – Lynette Brown at your service.

Sonny appeared mesmerized by the collective charm of the two females. “Well we’re really glad you’re here Lynette, you sure have one the prettiest hands this side of the Mason Dixon line.”

Lynette blushed. “How kind of you Mr. Sonny.” She carried on conversationally as she served them, “So I really admire your rig. I heard the loud roar of the big rig coming down the road earlier today and looked out the window and saw you and Jewel driving into town like you was the 3^rd Calvary or something.”

Sonny chuckled. “Absolutely. I’m glad you got a chance to steal a glimpse. This eighteen wheeler of mine is as strong as Pittsburgh steel and as tough as New York City.. She’s been up and down the Eastern Seaboard all the way north to Pershal, Maine, where it gets below freezing by Halloween and down the coast through DC and all the way south to the tippy end of Key West – God’s Country. ”

Lynette stared in fascination. “Wow, I bet your rig is real powerful.”

“Yes her big engines do rumble and she can definitely coast as smooth as a V-8 on melted butter.”

“Would sure love to see her sometime,” Daisy added.

Sonny pounced at the opportunity. “Well what time do you girls get off?”

Daisy replied with an equally innocent expression on her face. “Well, Mondays are usually pretty slow, so we might be closing up shortly after you guys hit the road.”

Sonny pounded his fist on the flimsy table, the salt and pepper shakers spilled over. “Well what could be easier than that Ladies? , After dinner, we’ll treat ourselves to some of your homemade pecan pie. We’ll stick around while you girls clean up and finish up. ”

“What did you have in mind?” Daisy asked.

“Jewel and I can give you a personal tour and a ride of your lives on my 18-wheeler,” Sonny replied.

Daisy suddenly looked uncertain. “Weeell........ I really don’t know. I mean, we really don’t know you. Most truck drivers we know are kind of gross and mean.”

“What do you mean?” Jewel asked indignantly.

“I’ve seen truck drivers pick their nose on the table then lick their fingers afterwards like they were eating fried chicken,” Daisy shuddered. “We got the impression that you are all like that – Slimebags.”

“Nah, we’re not like the rest of them truckers. Jewel and I, we’re decent human beings.”

“Most of the time them truckers talk trash and say something like this, ‘Hey, if I was 20 years younger, I would take you home with me and make you feel so good that you’ll never go back.’”

A crack of laughter. Then Sonny added on a serious note, “Well, I ain’t that old, but I am not trying to be fresh, either. We sure am proud of our truck and we want you to see it for yourself, if you know what I mean.”

Sonny settled the bill and left the girls a copious tip.

As Daisy and Lynette cleared the table, their excitement was barely concealed. “Wow, we can’t wait. Let’s clean up, so we can go.”

Not long afterwards, the four of them hopped aboard Sonny’s rig. He proudly showed the girls the four spoke wood and leather steering wheel, the horn chain, the CB radio and all the instruments and gauges on the dashboard, enjoying the rapt expressions on their faces. He let Daisy step on the clutch and the brake. He allowed Lynette to turn the steering wheel. She loved the feel of the leather against her palm.

“I could be a trucker,” Daisy said.

“You would be a mighty fine trucker, Daisy. But even the best truckers need directions every now and then, so you’ll have to learn how to operate the CB radio.

Sonny flipped on channel 19, the Truckers Channel. “Ok, Daisy, I want you to come on and say ‘Breaker, breaker’,” Sonny said. “Always listen to what the other party has to say and always be polite when on the air.”

Daisy hesitated for a moment then picked up the receiver. “Breaker, Breaker.”

There was a long pause. Suddenly some random static.

“Breaker, breaker, what’s your handle?” the radio crackled.

“Your name,” Sonny whispered to her ear. “Tell him your name. Say your name is Silver Britches. Ask him if there’s any Smokies around.”

“This is Silver Britches. Umm, any Smokies in the area?” A shout of laughter from the back. Daily managed her best to keep a straight face but let it all go as soon as she released the mike.

“Daisy, this is Benny. There’s a Smokey Bear five miles south on Macon Highway. exit 10. Be careful, he’s catching all the speedsters as they enter their homestretch.”

”Ten four, Thank you Benny. checking out now.”

“Wow, that sure was exciting. Thank you for the opportunity.”

“You’re sure welcome. You’re a natural at this Daisy.”

“And this trucker gave you some valuable information that would be critical if you were hauling a load,” Jewel said.

“Yes, maybe one day. If I ever get out of here, serving customers and making tea,” Daisy replied.

Daisy and Lynette exchanged glances. “What ‘s next? Perhaps we can all go to my place for some drinks,” Daisy offered.

Sonny was relieved. “Sounds like a fantastic idea,” he replied, turning to Jewel, who nodded in agreement, showing absolute excitement and pleasure.

Sonny drove to Daisy’s house as she directed him. He parked the rig a couple blocks away and pulled in slowly his engines on idle. They walked quietly at first, almost on tip-toes, but then began to giggle with a burst of laughter here and there. The neighbors looked through windows, heard the gentle roar of the truck, the couples holding hands. Thought they were whispering but now everyone knew. Even Uncle Jack ,as he looked out from his back bedroom window.

As soon as they entered the house, everyone plopped down cozily in a couch in a darkened room laughing their hearts out.

“So this is quite a lovely place. We are really fortunate that you invited us here,” Sonny said as he looked around the living room, admiring the array of beautiful landscapes in watercolor paintings and other décor adding color on the wall.

“Yes, it’s because of Uncle Jack,” Daisy replied.

“What you mean?”

“We saw you two drive Uncle Jack into town and acted like such a gentleman that you even walked him all the way home.

“Yeah, Uncle Jack is not just family, he’s the local war hero. He served his country as an infantryman in Germany during World War I. So our hope is to return the favor and Sonny since you served in the Army, you know what I’m talking about.”

Sonny smiled and looked into her eyes. War hero during the First world war – what a significant accomplishment. Sonny had served but he had never gone overseas; the only one trip outside the US was to Puerto Rico for the boxing championship.

Lynette opened up a bottle of Whiskey and within minutes the pungent aroma of Jack Daniels permeated the air. They drank hard, swilled down the entire contents of the bottle as if it was raspberry juice.

It tasted great. It had been a long time since he drank this hard. And now with the company of two beautiful woman and a night of rest and not having to drive all night or having to sleep in the back of the truck—nothing could be better.

Then the lights went out.

It didn’t take long for Sonny to find Daisy’s hand on his lap. Didn’t take long before Sonny felt the soothing touch of Daisy’s full, warm lips all over his rough, unshaven face. Her fingers brushed like butterfly wings over his face Then is lips touched her hair, so warm and unruly to his shoulders. Her sweet fragance invaded his heart and smelled like fresh flowers, light as a spring rain.

It became awfully quiet and seemed almost an infinity. Sonny turned around and noticed they were now alone. From upstairs, suddenly a rhythmic back and forth sound of bedsprings creaking, headboard banging.

Daisy ran upstairs. She pushed open the door to her bedroom and was aghast at the sight of two naked bodies wrapped tightly into one, not even pausing to see who had come in, not even caring for that matter.

“That’s not fair,” Daisy fumed. “This is my house. My bed. My mattress. Now get out!”

“Never mind, we can make do with the sofa downstairs,” Sonny insisted.

Suddenly, Daisy rushed towards the bed, almost tripping on a pair of shoes that was lying on the floor and started pushing hard against the two bodies until they were completely off the mattress. A loud thunk on the floor.

“Give me a hand!” she yelled as she pulled the mattress off the bed. “Stop it!” Lynette whimpered. Then almost immediately they continued without missing a beat, but this time on the wooden floor and a comforter that Daisy was kind enough to leave behind. Sonny couldn’t help but smile to see the petite girl floundering as she struggled with the mattress down the stairs,,and in no time, they had a makeshift bed in the living room. Sonny’s passion for the woman overwhelmed him. Earlier, he had felt exhausted to the bones. Now his weariness was replaced by heightened sexual desire. He felt a twinge of guilt as he thought of Anne waiting patiently for him at home. But for tonight he would erase her from his mind, wipe her from his subconscious. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that he spent a lot of time on the road and was lonely. He was being dishonest, but it was part of doing business. The job brought good money, fed he kids and he liked working for Phillip. That was enough for now. There was no more explaining or rationalizing.

However, disillusionment came soon enough for Sonny.

Chapt 22 Sonny Meets Jim Crow

2009-12-30T23:33:00.000-08:00

Oklahoma City, OK, 1939

Sonny’s days at Exxon were coming to an end, and he knew that if he didn’t act soon enough, his bills would continue to stack up with red ink written all over them. Normally, he would walk right by the bulletin boards outside the locker room at work, on the way to the breakroom, or on the way for his daily run. But not today. He had a fairly light schedule ahead, and a flyer on the wall caught his eye. “Driver Needed” it read in bold, obstrusive letters. “Work for Owner Operator” it continued. “Work Immediately”. Sonny’s eyes lit up.

Though this was new and risky business, it appealed to his entrepreneurial spirit, his love of taking risks. It sounded fun and exciting and reminded him of the time, he drove street cars up and down the streets of Baltimore, seeing new faces and making friends along the way.

Sonny intuitively felt this was a good opportunity to test his capabilities. In addition, he was rather disillusioned with the lack of appreciation for hardworking employees in large businesses. He would take a dive an agree to drive the rig for the owner, deliver large loads in short periods and receive a sizeable percentage of the revenue. Perhaps, one day, he would have his own rig, Sonny thought dreamily. Then he could spend more time at home helping Anne watch the house and take care of the kids and the St E’s patients that were like family.

A week later, Sonny began working for Phillip, a black entrepreneur. Sonny found him an affable person and immediately trusted him with his family’s name. Sonny’s job took him from the sunny Keys to the beautiful Maine coastlines and back to Washington DC. He enjoyed traveling, which stimulated his sense of adventure and heightened his awareness of the atmosphere and culture of new places. He worked with a sense of dedication and drove many hours all through the night.His religious economizing paid off with the receipt of a handsome turnover which he presented to Phillip over the few months he worked for him. Sonny was smoking. He made a profit of at least 15 cents per mile. Sonny also benefited through higher remuneration that made a significant difference towardspaying off his mortgage. The biggest drawback of the job, however, was the strain it placed on his marriage, for Sonny and Anne were compelled to spend many days and many more nights away from each other. While Anne toiled hard taking care of the St E’s patients single-handedly,

Sonny logged long hours on the road -- it all started to take a toll on their relationship, on their marriage, on their well being.
Wherever he drove, Sonny heard rile and revolting stories of runaway discrimination all over the Deep South, and and towards the northern edges of Richmond, VA. Sonny hoped that there would never be a day when he would himself become a victim of harsh racial discrimination that was not prevalent in the Army.

He saw too much separation at dining establishments, washrooms, public transportation; there were even separate water coolers.

Sonny could not believe such discrimination was mandated by the state governments.

From Wikipedia: "Jim Crow Laws"
The Jim Crow laws were state and local laws in the United States enacted between 1876 and 1965. They mandated de jure racial segregation in all public facilities, with a supposedly "separate but equal" status forblack Americans. In reality, this led to treatment and accommodations that were usually inferior to those provided for white Americans, systematizing a number of economic, educational and social disadvantages.
Some examples of Jim Crow laws are the segregation of public schools, public places and public transportation, and the segregation of restrooms and restaurants for whites and blacks. The U.S. military was also segregated. These Jim Crow Laws were separate from the 1800-66 Black Codes, which had also restricted the civil rights and civil liberties of African Americans. State-sponsored school segregation was declared unconstitutional by the Supreme Court of the United States in 1954 in Brown v. Board of Education. Generally, the remaining Jim Crow laws were overruled by the Civil Rights Act of 1964^[1] and the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

It had been a grueling day of hard work. Sonny had just hauled a truckload of furniture and Serta mattresses at a local warehouse, and he was more than ready to finally sleep soundly under his own comforter next to the woman he loved.

With no load to carry he was planning to drive straight home to be back in DC by sunset. Sonny had just left town and was cruising easily on the highway, when he saw in the rear view mirror, a state trooper advancing on him, sirens blasting as if the Governor was in town.

That’s weird, Sonny thought. He quickly glanced at the dashboard. Cruising at a comfortable 45 mph, he was well within speed limits. The trooper couldn’t be stopping him. Nothing seemed to be happening on the road either -- everything seemed in order. He pulled over to let the trooper pass him. Incredibly, the trooper pulled right behind him and when he got out of his cruiser, Sonny could see from his rear view mirror, a tall, lanky man wearing a wide-brimmed hat hanging low just over his eyebrows. Sonny rolled down the window.

“Good Morning sir. What seems to be the problem, officer?”

“You were speeding—going 60 in a 45 mph zone.”

“I’m afraid, this is a huge mistake. Don’t think I was going any faster than 40 since I left Warner Robbins.”

The officer gazed hard at Sonny. His eyes strained upwards under his thick eyebrows. “Get out,” he shouted. His eyes all of a sudden turned dark and sinister.

Sonny stepped out and gently closed the door behind him.

“What are you carrying in here,” the officer asked. “Anything I should know?”

”Nothing officer. I just offloaded my entire load—all the furniture I carried down from upstate New York and now I’m heading back home to DC to spend some quality time with family.”

The officer’s expression was one of utter disbelief. “By the way, you were speeding, I could tell you were definitely on the way home. Has it been that long since you’ve had a piece of ass? But let me see for myself whether or not you’re going home with a full load of whatever you’re carrying or whether you’re going home empty handed.”

Sonny was surprised at this turn of events, but he remained unperturbed. He opened the back of the rig and allowed the officer inside, showing him an empty rig that only had piles and piles of furniture pads and skins, straps and a bucket full of tie downs.

The officer surveyed the scene. He went over to the piles of pads, kicked them hard and said brazenly, “I believe I could use some of these.” He then grabbed the best-looking pads, opened the trunk of his cruiser and shoved them all in.

What next, Sonny thought. Did the officer see all he needed to see. Would he be allowed to go? He waited patiently as the officer seemed to contemplate the next step.

He then beckoned Sonny and pointed to the back seat of his cruiser. “Get in,” he shouted.

Oh, Lawd, what is this now, Sonny thought. This doesn’t look good at all. He wasn’t under arrest, yet he would be under the custody of a police officer who was at racist as it gets. What was the offense? Did he even dare to ask?

Sonny got in and wondered what would happen next. As he sat down, gruesome scenes raced through his mind. Particularly, the memory of Medgar Evers, an African American civil rights activist, gunned down just outside his Mississippi home.

Or the images of the three civil rights workers who journeyed to Mississippi to investigate the murder but became tragic victims instead.

Photography of Medgar Evers' funeral (1963)

He wouldn’t hurt me. There are too many truckers out on the road today. Besides, it’s broad daylight. Sonny was too engrossed with fear that it took him a while to notice what was lying next to him -- a mint Remington 12-gauge shotgun, semi-automatic with a gold trigger.

He had handled one of these before, in the Army at the shooting range. His good friend in the infantry had his own personal gun and would show Sonny how to take it apart and clean it like it was his own pride and joy. A primitive and instinctual part of him wanted to pick it up and feel the cold steel on his hand. Wanted to look inside the bore and see how clean it was. But then reality set in. He was no longer in Ft. Bragg with the 82^nd Airborne.

View Larger MapHe was just outside Warner Robbins, Georgia, in the custody of a Smoky Bear who would enjoy nothing more than to put him behind bars.

He thought about his boss, Phillip, who was relying on him to bring back the workhorse that meant more to him than a roof over his head. Of Anne and his newborn kids who relied on his income to put food on the table and to pay the utilities and the house payments. He couldn’t do any of these inside a cold, musty, Georgia prison cell. Or worse, shot and dead and lying on the side of a backwoods road while buzzards circled above and cars ocassionally zipped by like you were dead possum roadkill or something.

A cold fear swept through him as he stared speechlessly at the officer as he wrote the ticket, taking his time as if there were no other traffic on the road and Sonny was his one prized kill. As the minutes ticked on, Sonny became more and more apprehensive. Wondered if he would ever see Anne again. Finally, the officer lifted his head and gave Sonny an icy stare.

“What’s a nigger boy like you driving such a fast rig like this. It sure is fast, but is it hot as in hot wheel, hot?”

Sonny looked aghast. This couldn’t be happening to him. “No way officer, the rig belongs to my associate, Phillip Johnson. I’ve got the Title and all the requisite paperwork inside my glove compartment. Would you like to see for yourself?”

The officer stared at Sonny incredulously. “Well, my, we’ve got here a smart ass niggar who also knows how to read. Don’t show me no dumbass title. You best instead listen closely and read what I’m about to hand you – that is if you value your life.”

Sonny looked long and hard at the piece of paper in front of his eyes. $25 was the only figure that popped up, the only thing that caught his attention.

“But, you know what? Since you’re going back to DC, there’s no sense in me issuing this ticket today. Why don’t you just give me $50 cash right now and I’ll rip up this ticket to little bitty pieces. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll even mix it with my fresh Virginia tobacco and smoke it in my pipe. That way you don’t have to come back to God’s country just to show up for court. And you’ll be guaranteed not to spend a night in jail.”

Sonny sighed. “I’ll see how much I got.” He had fifty dollars! That was nearly all the money he had to his name.

Sonny reached for his wallet, counted up his money. Two fives, a ten and 10 singles -- “$25 is all I got to offer. Plus, I need a little money to top off the fuel tank and perhaps a cup of coffee and a sandwich.”

The officer looked at Sonny with indifference and suddenly noticed his bright, shiny watch. “Let me see that,” he yelled.

Sonny took off his watch and handed it reluctantly to the officer.

“Nice watch, I see it’s a Benrus, gold, waterproof.”

“Well it does tell time,” Sonny replied. “It’s 17 jewels and it’s taken me to over a dozen states and back without ever missing a beat. “

“I tell you what. Why don’t I keep this watch. I see it means a lot to you. When you get back to DC, send me the money and I’ll return the watch. That a deal?”

“But officer, this is my vintage Benrus,” Sonny pleaded. “It is a special gift from my mother when I joined the Army. It’s reliable and trustworthy and took me to muster on time throughout my tours at Ft Meade and Ft Bragg. Anything but my Benrus, officer, please.”

Did you serve in Korea?”

“No sir. I wanted to go, but I stayed home and trained others to go instead. I joined in 48, straight out of high school and got out in 53, after Truman gave everyone another year of service.”

“Well, I tell you what. I’ve never been nice to a nigger, but I do have respect for any man who serves our country and is willing to put his life on line for what this country stands for.”

The officer rubbed the face of the watch then rubbed his chin methodically. He silently admired the beautifully etched dial, the gold face with antique finish and the dark leather band.

“Alright Mister. You served my country. You paid your dues. You go home. But don’t let me ever catch you in this neck of the woods again unless you want to become a permanent resident of the jail house or you’re coming back to pay your dues.”

“Thank you very much sir. You've been extremely kind and gracious. God Bless You and your family! From the bottom of my heart, I sincerely appreciate you letting me go and also keep my prized watch.”

Sonny swore never to visit Warner Robbins again, even if he had to drive an extra 100 miles to return home. In the end, the officer appealed to patriotism and turned nominally sympathetic. But it was a close call and any option including going to locked up or getting shot up were distinct and real possibilities -- terrifying enough for Sonny to never ever come back.

References

Oklahoma City, OK, 1939, Courtesy of Wikipedia, Photograph by Russell Lee,