A Wound Bled Dry

It’s become tough to live in Detroit and in so many other urban centers. Theft, murder and arson have been legitimized by the culture much like jihad is endorsed by Islam. Kids who do well at school are ostracized for wanting to “be like whitey”. The same is true of people wanting to work at regular jobs.

Test scores in New York City public schools have been rising. Yesterday it was reported why. It seems that wrong answers on math tests now receive partial credit. Students are passed through the system without having learned. This makes them either into criminals or welfare recipients. Alternate means of scoring self-image must now be established.

Brutality becomes the new standard. Its rules are simple. Survive by yielding to the strongest element. Safety in numbers. Tribes. Gangs. “Lord of the Flies”. For those who manage to maintain at least some modicum of civilized behavior, the only answer is to leave.
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The 14-year old inner-city gang member - who openly admits to having killed - suddenly, finds himself in the glare of media attention. The shapely young reporter, feigning innocence, asks, "Why do you do it?"

Perhaps more astute than most; perhaps more articulate, he answers simply, "It's the thrill (of it); drama, you know?"

Her expression remains up-beat as he rambles on (now bitterly) about an absent father; a crack-addicted mother; hours, days spent alone in a dirty room without food and only the ever-present TV laugh track for company; adding, that the street was (in essence) the only way out. And that the only way to survive on the street was to be respected.

The point made, she tosses him a final salvo - a technique taught in journalism school, designed to involve the reporter personally in any scoop to generate empathy and thus draw higher ratings. "I take it then, that it would be unwise for me, for instance, to come down to your neighborhood alone, especially at night," she purrs, already with an eye towards her next promotion.

"I wouldn't necessarily think so," he answers directly. "Though that is your fantasy, you wouldn't have much to fear around here. You're not of our culture. We target mainly our own - those in whose faces we are most likely to recognize ourselves. It's ritual suicide. A bullet here amongst us means nothing. It only serves to (once again) access a wound that's long since bled dry."