Master of bad ideas that I am, today I decided to run in a light rain from “my” house by the Battery to the house I hope to have in the ghetto. I figured that it was probably 5 miles away which would be at the outer limit of how far I can jog. And then of course, I would be exhausted and in the ghetto, on foot, as nights falls on a Friday. Genius thinking. But I was excited by it.
Actually, I wanted to know exactly how far it was in distance from this the best neighborhood in town to the absolute worst neighborhood. Worst being subjective, of course. But in terms of being run down, overrun by gangs and so on…the term “worst” would probably come to the minds of many that think of places like America and Nassau Street. Other things may come to mind for those that think of other ghetto landmark streets such as Krack Street and Cool Blow Avenue.
The neighborhood that I am in right now is so good that nobody actually lives there anymore. I’m not kidding, the 7 houses closest to me are completely unoccupied. No grown-ups, no children, no nothing. They are owned by people that live in NYC, Florida, Ohio or by local people looking to sell them, now that their parents are in homes and they can cash out.
Where 40 years ago, there would have been a beehive of activity of kids playing in the streets and riding bikes, now there is nothing but an errie silence. It’s as if tumbleweeds should be blowing down Gibbes Street.
Still, it’s a great neighborhood where, all in all, I feel incredibly safe. OK, lets forget the fact that a crack addict broke into my place last Summer while I was in California, stealing my French vistors wallet, passport and car. Still, it’s a neighborhood, where my former across the street neighbor, a MUSC doctor said upon finding out that I was floating from place to place, “Ohhh, you can stay at my place as long as you need. I’m at my girlfriends every night.”. Did I mention that his house is probably worth $1.5 million? But that’s how much people trust me…”Here take my million dollar home and just relax. Here are the keys to the liquor cabinet and my safety deposit box.”.
As I started my run to the ghetto, I realized two things. I am an incredibly slow runner and I am incredibly content in the neighborhood. Eight years in one safe place will do that. Some of the fondest memories of my life are tied to this place, primarily memories of being with my son, Gabriel. Putting him to bed, watching him sleep, playing paddleball in the house, making him pancakes in the morning and getting him off to school. Really the happiest days of my life have been in that Battery and Colonial Lake neighborhood and I decided to just relax and enjoy my jog to the ghetto.
After only a mile and a quarter, I was on the edge of what I consider a potentially bad neighborhood. I was just on the other side of Calhoun Park where I have thrown frisbees and played with Gabriel about a 1000 times. Although, I would never play “Hide and Seek” with him there because I worried about him potentially being harmed by the homeless.
It was just on this other side of Calhoun that my body started to tense and I realized that I was suddenly more “on-guard”.
I realized that this was just silly and I should relax and enjoy the jog. My body felt fine, hell, I had only gone less than a mile and a half.
My plan was to take Calhoun down to right past the library and then cut into the hood intentionally looking for America Street.
I figured that I must feel confident if I am going to move into a neighborhood. And in my wanderings of the neighborhood, it was probably America Street where I felt least confident. So, why not go on a late Friday evening jog through it? Genius thinking.
There is a rebuilt home owned by the city at 133 America Street but every time I drive by it whether 9 A.M. or midnight, there seems to be so much activity of guys cruising on bikes, flexing on the sidewalks as I pass, burning paper on the road, whatever…that I can’t imagine living on that street.
But somehow, it made sense to me to jog on through.
I figured, if I am polite to everyone I see. Essentially, the exact way that I am everywhere I go…things will be perfect. And I’ll enjoy the jog. At this point, as I cruised past blocks of public housing coming up to what I consider to be the very worst of America Street, I was only 1.7 miles from my $1.5 million dollar guest house.
Even though it was only 1.7 miles, it may as well have been 1.7 million miles. It was dilapidated dwelling after dwelling, people with obvious mental or drug problems mumbling to themselves in the street and a bunch of dudes hanging out.
But in reality, I consider hanging out to be a great thing. Hanging out is how you get to know people, it is how friendships are built, it is how businesses are built, it is how communities are built. And frankly, I felt that I was in a community of people that actually care about each other.
I saw little kids playing while their grandmothers were near-by. I saw teenage girls talking about boys as I jogged oh so slowly. And I said “Hello” to anyone that looked my direction or made eye contact. Because as I jogged through, I felt like just by being there, I belonged there.
This community was like the community I just left, 1.7 miles ago… 40 years in the past. The bones of the homes are the same, Charleston singles, corner stores, bungelows and the like.
There is actual human life taking place on the East Side which is more than you can say for 1 block off the Battery.
As I passed about a dozen guys on the sidewalk of America Street outside a corner beer and soda shop, I nodded and said “Hello” or “Evening Gentlemen” to anyone that was taking particular notice of me a middle aged, incredibly slow white guy on a rainy jog in the ghetto. And to a person, each young man was polite in response. That is, polite until I had passed them by 100 feet when they started saying things like “I know he’s not a fag. But that motherfucker sure acts like a fag.”. Big laughs all around.
Whatever the rest of the commentary was, I missed it because I was on a jog to the home I hope to get on 72 Lee Street.
I jogged straight down America Street, past John and Mattye Jones house. I used to be a partner in comedy with their son, Orlando and I have been in their Charleston house plenty since they bought and renovated it a couple of years ago. Trust me, it is one of the very few renovated houses on America Street and stands out like, well, stands out like a middle aged white guy jogging down America Street on a Friday night.
I jogges past a corner Baptist Church where I attended the funeral for a friend, Teddy Thorne a few years ago. Just past the the church is the city run swimming pool where I have taken Gabriel 2 dozen times. And another 300 feet past that was the little bungelow in the ghetto in which I hope to live. I looked at my pedometer and I had gone almost exactly 2 1/2 miles. I looked all around me and it didn’t look as if I was just in a different neighborhood, it looked as if I was on another planet.
It was deathly quiet because this was the land where the old Cooper River Bridge used to be. Now, it is just 15 acres of vacant land while the city decides what to do with it. Trust me, they will turn it into townhomes and retail to make it the greatest possible tax base.
And there I stood by my little green and red bungalow, my knee suddenly aching after 2 1/2 miles, I wondered “Can I really make this $109,000 bungalow my home?”.
I wandered up the street 180 feet and I talked with a couple of black guys about my age selling shoes on the Meeting Street corner across from the Thunderguard Motorcycle Club. I asked them if they were from the neighborhood and they said that they were. I talked about the people I knew in the neighborhood, The Jones and Thorne’s and Hill’s and Boss from the pool. After about 10 minutes of idle talk, one guy said to me “Why would you move from the Battery to the East Side, that’s crazy?” and I said “Because the people will love me here. An old comedian, living in a hut. I’ll be the most popular man in town.”. He just shook his head and laughed.
The other guy shook his head and said “Man, I wouldn’t live on the East Side.”. And sure enough, it turned out that neither of these guys actually lived on the East Side, they lived in West Ashley and North Charleston respectively.
Hell, these guys aren’t even residents, who are they to tell me how awful the neighborhood is. If it’s so awful, why are they selling shoes there?
All I knew is that after only 2 1/2 miles, I was in a place that is desolute at the moment but I knew that I was in a real community. There’s no reason I can’t build happy memories here. I am home.
