A funny thing happened last weekend when I was in Philadelphia. I was scared. Not scared-scared, but nervous. Being in a city that had over 100 murders before April 1 can do that sometimes. Well, maybe I should qualify that “scared.” As I walked around West, I didn’t actually think anything was going to happen, but I was very conscious of the fact that something could jump off at any moment.
While I was driving around, I kinda reflected on the whole experience a little bit. Number one, I had to concede the fact that a lot of that nervousness is probably due to the fact that I’ve let the numbers gas my head up. I don’t think it was ever this wild when I lived there, but it was never exactly sweet, and I used to stay walking around what some folks might describe as sketchy neighborhoods in the middle of the night. Well actually, some of the places I used to walk around went right past sketchy, right into downright dangerous. But again, I was never scared. Not in some super-tuff I’m-so-bad sense, I’ve just always believed that if I’m supposed to get it, there’s nothing I can do to avoid it. If I’m not supposed to get it, then I won’t. But when I look at the website of the Inquirer and see the staggering number of murders, it’s hard not to be a little nervous. Moreover, the number of murders doesn’t even address the people who got shot and didn’t die. All those people who were shot into being quadriplegic and paraplegic don’t get mentioned in the blurbs. It wasn’t hard to remember the times I saw the silver flash when a stickup happened to the next man as I walked by, or when I heard young boys out there shooting the stop signs on the corner.
At the same time, I had to acknowledge to myself that a lot of my nervousness has to do with the fact that I don’t live in Philly anymore. There’s a degree to which being in a place means knowing the rhythm of that place. Things that look dangerous to an outsider might not even be worth noticing to a resident. Certainly, the fact that where I live now is fairly suburban has dulled my city reflexes somewhat. Who knows, maybe if I still lived in West Philly I would be nervous walking around, but I doubt it. West wasn’t just where I lived, it was home. I even felt fairly comfortable walking around North. (South Philly, on the other hand, I never did really fool with. I went down there to see my boys and that was about it.)
I can’t find the link any more, but I remember reading where one officer hypothesized that the increase in murders is due in part to the fact that the criminals are using larger-caliber weapons. It’s one thing to get shot with a .22. Getting blasted by a .45 is something altogether different - and more deadly.
UPDATE
Maybe I wasn’t as off as I thought I was. According to philly.com , 52nd and Market is the most dangerous corner in the city.
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