Turf War?

Dear Diary,

After a few months of being retired, I went back to work for a two week stint at one of my city’s public housing projects’ recreation centers in town. Their former recreation leader was a part-time DJ and had the kids do little other than listen to hip hop music and street dancing. The children were used to no structure, or discipline. A few of the older kids who knew me from before were sympathetic to my plight and commented, "Longest two weeks ever, huh, Mr. Tom?" Yup! For example: one evening, while on the asphalt basketball court (the only play area available), a teenage boy was on site visiting his girlfriend and called one of the kids he was behaving like a punk. The object of this unwanted attention was Waymond, of brothers Waymond, Raymond, and Daymond. Waymond’s nine-year- old sister defending her brother told our visitor to, "Go fuck yourself.” The teen was so stunned, he looked at me and said, "Is this what you have to put up with every day?"I nodded, and he said, “Oh, come here and let me give you a hug." This came from a sixteen-year-old street wise boy. Honestly, I thought his response to me was pretty funny and that he truly felt that way. It was kind of sweet though, I suppose. Later, during a running game, three kids tripped and fell hard, onto the asphalt court and all hell broke loose. Everyone on the court started taunting, laughing, and making fun of them for falling and crying. All of this while two girls and a boy wailed in pain. One of the girls fell so hard, she fractured her arm and blooded up her knee badly. No matter to the other kids. It wasn't them, so screw you. When I stepped in to stop their taunting, I was berated by a six-year-old when I told him and the others they were behaving like punks. Calling someone a punk in the projects is the ultimate put-down. He yelled back at me, "I ain't no punk.” He continued shouting and pointing at me, “You’re a punk, you’re a punk, you’re a punk..."

“Okay, then,” I thought. I am arguing with a six year old. I stopped. The boy’s sister told me he has anger issues. “At six?” I let her know his anger issues weren't my problem, and maybe she ought to check with her mom about them. A few evenings later, this same six-year-old chased a crying six-year-old girl onto the basketball court and had raised a large welt on her stomach after he smacked her with a thick three foot plastic strap he’d found, who knows where. This scene triggered the other children to form a posse and give chase to the offending six year old to advise him exactly how the public housing justice system functions; all of this before I even had a chance to make it over to the little girl who was injured. The boy, of course, ran and the entire group (about thirty kids) gave chase. Meanwhile, the six-year-old thug’s sister began screaming at everyone to, "Leave my brother alone!"

Another girl responded, "Shut the fuck up. NaeNae".

Well, I thought, this should be an interesting night. The boy escaped, ran home, and told his mom that Raymond (of Waymond, Raymond, and Daymond) had hit him. This was a lie, but it is the way the public housing legal defense team responds to the in-house justice system when charged with an offense. The prosecution countered this charge by stating that Raymond was merely trying to take the plastic strap from the six-year-old to prevent him from hitting anyone else. Case closed, for the moment. Later that same night, I learned that the two families have had bad blood between them in the past, and the mother of the six-year- old threatened to call the police on Raymond and press charges. I stepped in and went to the six-year-old’s mom to explain to her what really happened. This helped, some. She was still upset that the other children intervened before giving me a chance to handle the issue. However, the law of the jungle takes precedents over common sense. In between all of this, the six-year-old’s grandparents just happened to arrive on site from Los Angeles, to visit. They immediately inserted themselves into the fray. Grandpa reeked of booze and Grandma told me she was a psychiatrist, thanked me for being so calm, and knew I could only do so much, and I had my hands full. “Really,” I thought. “Thanks, I hadn't noticed.”

This was just what I needed; to be patronized by a crazy grandmother and drunken grandfather. After I got the mother calmed down, Grandmother and loopy Grandfather decided it would be best if they went over to Raymond's home and confronted his mom to clear the air, so to speak. “Well, terrific,” I thought, “That should really help.”

I caught up with them just as they and the entire crowd of children and parents got to Raymond’s house. It was like the villagers hunting down Frankenstein with torches in hand. I literally put myself in between everyone and explained, again, this time to drunken Grandpa and Grandma what their grandson had done and what happened. At this point, when Grandpa found out the boy had hit a little girl, he turned his anger on him and insisted the boy apologize to the little girl. The boy refused. Grandpa continued to order him to apologize until the kid was in tears and ready to pass out. More screaming ensued between them, and I had one of my sane teens take the injured little girl home to get her away from the yelling. I made sure she explained to the injured girl’s mother what had happen. After advising the adults we were done, I ordered them and the crowd of bystanders to go home, the drama was over, adding that it would be a good idea for them to stay inside for the rest of the night. I told the kids, who were not too shell-shocked from the ordeal, that we were going inside the recreation center the rest of the night and playing foos ball. This finally quieted things down and the crisis was over for this day. I went home that night and had Big Gulp size glasses of wine and vowed never to go back after my two weeks was completed. Too many of these types of situations occur every day. At some point, I won't be able to handle it and all hell will truly break loose.