Opinion: What It's Like Growing up in a High-Crime Area

One wrong step can change the course of a life

Photo byKoolShooters on Pexels

When I reflect on the neighborhood I grew up in, I feel like something of a statistical anomaly. Erick and Dirty Jamal (there were three Jamals, so we distinguished them each by a describer) grew up to have serious drug problems. Seso, Antoine, and Bad Jamal all went to prison for murder. Elias was charged with manslaughter after killing a man at a bar with a single punch; I don’t know if he was ultimately convicted. Chris was murdered in his living room, in front of his mom and brother. One Josh was homeless the last I heard of him. The other Josh went to prison for statutory rape. His older brother, who we referred to as “Jay Bird,” ended up mentally disabled after taking some bad drugs.

I could go on and on, but you get the picture. I remember when me and Antoine spent almost every day together for a summer. We called him “ski slope” back then because of a distinct scar he had on the top of his head. He and I would pass the time by using a lock pick kit that he somehow came into possession of to break into cars. Most of the cars we went into were just unlocked already, but, much to my surprise, he actually managed to get a car door or two open with that thing. In my teens, I used to sell some small amounts of weed for Chris. He was a funny guy, always joking and laughing. Elias gave me my first black eye when I was 12 years old, but we were always friends after that.

As you can see,I wasn’t entirely removed from the behaviors that led everyone astray. Fortunately, when I talk about breaking into cars (and houses), selling pot, or whatever else we used to get up to, for the most part, it happened very early on in my youth.I was maybe 13 or 14 when Antoine and I went on our short-lived stealing spree, for example.But there was one day that I believe marked a turning point for me.

Around 17 years old,I found myself in a desperate state.My mom had her boyfriend come live with us,and he was suffering from as bad a case of drug addiction as you’ll ever see.He overdosed six times before he came to live with us, and two more times in our house. The second time it happened in the house I performed chest compressions on him until the emergency team arrived.

After he moved in, our home descended into a state of dilapidation. There was filth all over. The things I remember most vividly are the urine from our two dogs that was caked all over the floor, the black mold covering the wall behind the couch, and the gunk running down the side of the kitchen cabinet, from the overflowing grease collector on our countertop George Foreman grill.

I read Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky around this time, and I was ready for my Raskolnikov moment. Just as the main character in that book had risked everything in one crime, for a shot at changing his life, I was determined to do the same.

There was a Target just beyond the wall surrounding my neighborhood.We’d often go there to walk around and get a thing or two — but mostly to get a brief reprieve from the South Florida summer heat.I’d walk by the electronics section nearly salivating. All I saw was thousands and thousands of dollars of products. I thought that, if I could get my hands on some of them and sell them, I could change my life forever.It could be my means to getting out of my current situation and a launchpad for my future endeavors.

I decided that I’d get the most bang for my buck if I could break the protective glass that was housing the smaller electronics, specifically the iPods and iPod Touches. Each one went for hundreds of dollars, and I could carry them all out in a single duffle bag. I was still in high school at the time, andI planned to pull off the theft in the middle of the night, and then take the loot to school the following morning and quickly try to sell it all.

I woke up at 2–3 AM. I had a couple of friends who said they were going to come with me, and they met me outside in the middle of the night, but they all ultimately backed out. I was determined; I went alone. I had a duffle bag, with a hammer in it to break the protective glass. I was covered top to bottom with a mask over my head, a long-sleeve shirt and pants, and gloves on my hands. I didn’t even want to have my skin color visible. Fully equipped and covered, I marched off.

I hopped the wall around my neighborhood into a field. I walked carefully through the overgrown grass and around the places where water had pooled. I reached the wall on the opposite side of the field and jumped over it. Finally, I was behind the store.

I walked up the side of the building until I reached one of the windows. I looked around for a large rock until I found one a little bit bigger than a baseball. I cocked back my arm and hurled it at the glass. Much to my amazement, it bounced right off, leaving only a small mark. I picked it back up and readied myself to throw it again when a vehicle came speeding at me. It was a security truck.

I was already overwhelmed with adrenaline from what I had done so far, and the appearance of the security person was enough to push me over the edge. I took off running back towards my neighborhood, but almost immediately my body felt like it was giving out. I couldn’t even run. I walked the last stretch of the way before reaching the wall, with a pained limp, while the vehicle slowly followed me. Eventually, I made it over the wall and back home, where I lied in bed until it was time to leave for school.

Looking back at it, some people aren’t meant for such things.Watching so many of my friends get charged with crimes, I started to feel like it was inevitable for me at some point. My dad had been to prison, and it felt like a cursed inheritance was coming to me whether or not I wanted it.I felt like cops could smell some culpability on me, and I’ve never felt comfortable around them. I’d have recurring nightmares of being chased by police all throughout my youth.

There are a few things that people who have never been in really dire circumstances simply can’t understand. For one,you don’t know yourself. We get up in the morning, we keep our home clean, we engage in healthy behaviors where we can, we stay within the bounds of the law, etc., but we don’t do these things because we’re good, responsible people. We do them because everyone else does them.If the day should come where you find yourself surrounded by people engaging in every sort of barbaric and depraved behavior imaginable, you’ll soon become barbaric and depraved yourself. And once the need hits — a need to escape your situation or pacify a rumbling stomach — any sense of “self” as you know it will burn away.

The second thing is thatcriminality can become part of a culture. When the only people you see doing any better for themselves are those going outside of the law, it’s only a matter of time until you try it for yourself.If you live in a high-crime area, the police act like they’re an occupying army. Everything conspires to make you see yourself as a criminal.

I never got arrested for the crimes I did commit as a kid, but I got searched without cause another time. I got charged with a crime I didn’t commit as well; the charge was later dismissed by the district attorney’s office. I’ve had a cop pull a gun on me just to intimidate me, yelling at me that I was a “b*tch” and a “p*ssy.” I wasn’t even under suspicion of committing a crime then, he did it just because he caught us out alone at night. I’ve had the spotlight from the police helicopter shine down on me directly, as the “ghetto bird” scoured the city night after night.

I’ll never feel fully free of that cursed inheritance, but at least I escaped the mindset that leads so many towards it. I’ve moved far away from there, I’ve cut ties with anyone who’s still violating the law, and I do my best to be an upstanding citizen. When I look back on it all, I’m just glad the glass didn’t break.