PART I:
Quote:
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Crestline... You see lots of restored housing there, lots of Saabs, Volvos, BMWs and Prius's in the driveways.
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Crestline is in Mountain Brook, so naturally you'll find see a cornucopia of European-imported rides.
Some of the major thoroughfares of Crestline include Montevallo Rd., Euclid, and Church St. Perhaps you meant Crest
wood or Crestline Park when you were offering your "intown" recs.
Never, never, NEVER confuse the seemingly modest A-frames and indelicately augmented cracker boxes which adorn much of the Crestline neighborhood with anything urban, of the city of Birmingham, of regular folks. It might not be the most posh Mountain Brook, but it's Mtn. Brook nonetheless.
PART II: The previous posts about private, parochial, IB, and public schools in the metro area are pretty much dead on. I would like to commend this forum for doling out good advise to Ms. Fort Payne and her child.
I will add, on this subject, that there are quite a few esteemed private schools in the metro -- some more known than others. From Altamont, to Indian Springs; Briarwood Christian to some Montessori Schools. Quite an array of options.
My personal opinion is that Shelby County might have "good schools" in terms of facilities, socio-economic demographics, and the usual popular criteria; but the homogeneity is mind-numbing and the cultural quotient is virtually nil. Most of the Calera-Chelsea-Alabaster crowd are country-come-to-towners and thus these outlying 'burbs hardly qualifies as a cosmopolitan experience in my book.
PART III: I find it only appropriate to caution Scribbling about a few real life aspects of "intown" Birmingham neighborhoods:
Norwood, College Hills, and Bush Blvd. are 90% low-income, crackhouse-ridden, gang-tagged areas. Lethargy, not industry. Crime, not culture. Skool, not school.
The GHETTO. The HOOD. Wrong Side o' the Tracks.
The remaining 10% constitute (1) gays, (2) daring urban pioneers, and (3) professional (predominately black) families paying respect to their roots by returning to to live amongst their own -- gallantly attempting to turn their old stomping grounds into something decent by a oddly conflicted combination of angry martyrdom and noble leadership-by-example ("black guilt").
Other than the aforementioned three groups, any drug-free, employed, sane individual never considers living in these areas unless said individual is smitten with silly romanticism of "the gritty urban life" or suffering from "white guilt."
Much like their counterparts, whites stricken by a guilt complex often enjoy diving into the trenches of a socio-cultural revolution -- which they delude themselves of precipitating with their bold maneuvers (but which never come to pass, not because one person cannot effect a ripple of hope, but because the individual never gets around to SACRIFICING -- indeed placing their entire being in the line of fire.) T'would be too costly.
Hey, I'm livin' the URBAN LIFE! Look at me! I care about the downtrodden, the victims! I'm different. I CARE, therefore I shouldn't have to DO...
Often, these whites are blinded by naivete: they long for peace, harmony, and all that pie-in-the-sky mumbo-jumbo. They think that despite the billions of kindhearted souls who have walked this earth, that they will be THE ONES to finally bring peace and goodwill to men.
My gesture is significant. The suburbanites will look at me and be inspired...
No they won't; they don't even notice. Unless you scream it in their face. Only then they'll discredit you as crazy and worse: YOU'RE the enemy. Persona non grata. Hope you like livin' in the ghetto, dude. 'Cause that'll be your lot in life! You can't go home again.
And the first time shots ring in the dead of night, the guilty white ghettoite leaps out of bed, grabs his trusty flak jacket which he procured for moments like this, and dives under the bed.
He would of course never think of throwing himself out into the street to take a bullet for somebody.
I'll live to fight another day...
Guilty whiteys decry racism and advocate affirmative action at every step, yet they never fail to slink back to their hamlets-o-privilege for a little extra spending money from the 'rents, new tires for their '78 Impala (Lexus under the hood), for a home cooked meal.
Better get the square meals and cash handouts quickly, 'cause, like I said, at some point you lose credibility back home and become anathema.
These selfless martyrs-for-the-social cause... these Change Agents... these Equality-obsessed loons never seem to turn down the bequethment of property or a trust gift. They never say no to a higher wage. As long as their address is 101 MLK Drive, Baghdad, Alabama, their conceit is legit.
They live a very covertly material lifestyle in an ostensibly dilapidated shanty in the bowels of the 'hood. Only inside: flat screen TVs, the newest gadgetry, the best medication obtained from their top-flight health care and prescription plans, name brand clothing
sans visible labels... Everything moved inside with great discretion. Placement is key: nothing visible from the outside through the windows. On the fridge, a post-it: "Always remember to smile at the neighbors. Show no fear, show no fear."
These homeys look askance at me sometimes, but they just don't know me yet... I'll show 'em. I'll show 'em I'm here to help. No fear... No fear...
Bullsh1t Klaus. The only thing you're showin' is a big fat friggin' target. If you make it out of this deal without bodily harm or major property damage or loss it will me a miracle. And the charade you'll be playing to keep all comers at bay -- to put up the po' man front -- will exhaust you in the end. Constant compartmentalization and rationalization in your life... you won't even know who you are in about a six months.
These guilt-complected, urban whiteys cultivate a rakish appearance -- not so much a fashion statement; rather a self-defense measure. They attempt to walk and talk the part -- mixin' in a little Slang with their university-bred English -- Slanglish?? (By the way, you think the natives don't know sh1t from shinola?)
They eschew all things bourgeoisie and even alternative. Thumbing their nose at the 'burbanites, midtowners, downtowners, even the bohos -- everyone. It becomes Them versus The World. They, and their fellow ghettoites, versus The World. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to them, the ghetto is fomenting a 'hood versus invader line in the sand. And they'll never know the nature of the low whispers behind those crack smoke-filled cinder block walls...
Angry, martyring, ghetto-lovin' whiteys: the most hardcore of contrarians. They don their living rooms with likenesses of Marx and Che Guevara. They drink cheap liquor with their Lean Cuisines and side of chitterlings; they attend Obama rallies
en masse clamoring for Change! Equality! Change! and Equality! They smoke swisher sweets between yoga sessions. They won't vote for Hillary if she gets the nomination. And by the way, they refrain from acting locally within grass roots political contexts -- t'would be too small time. Not enough of a spectacle.
Things guilty whites NEVER do in the interest of "Change & Equality" and promoting REAL change in everyday lives of the rank and file 'hood denizens (i.e., their neighbors): give them access to their resources, privately fund some of them to be educated, go door to door inviting folks to their block party.
Instead, they leverage their personal resources towards personal gains and macro-political "movements";
They donate funds ostentatiously to tax-deductible shelters whereby others profit but a whit from their acts of "charity," while they themselves make gains in grandiosity, tax deductions, and are able to beat their metrosexually shaven chests FROM THEIR (tin) ROOFTOPS!;
They throw a block party for their like-minded ghetto-loving friends and all the curious hordes (and perhaps a cherry-picked handful of their most benign Section 8 neighbors)...
They move all their valuables offsite prior to the shindig, call the local precinct well in advance -- keeping the law on high alert for their little soiree -- and the next day, they call in to the local paper and effuse poetically:
We razed the walls of racism...
We brought all sides of the tracks together. All aboard the Getalong Express!...
We all held hands around the BBQ pit and rapped Kumbayah...
***
Now before y'all accuse me for speaking out of school, for launching "irresponsible" cybertribes having not recently laid a tread upon the mean streets of which I speak, you should know that I recently reconnoitered several gritty B'ham neighborhoods to see what the hubbub was all about -- a scientific venture to try and
see what you all are seeing! I was prepared to discover that postings such as urbups' rave-ups about the burgeoning gentility of Norwood were accurate and hopeful epistles from the urban frontier.
Unfortunately, I was underwhelmed with the so-called "improvements" and downright afraid for my life on a few occasions. I would arrive alive, but not without some real scares. And of course, it would be my duty to report my story.
The following are a couple of my harrowing experiences:
1.)
Driving through Norwood:
As I meandered up the Boulevard, back down, and up again, my first impression was
WHERE are all these BEAUTIFUL mansions and stately homes I keep hearing about?! There were some large domiciles, yes. I wouldn't call them "stately"; simply old. But old just means old -- it doesn't necessarily connote quality. Oozing character? Not particularly. The bones of the well-devised Nor-hood layout (the tree-lined streets, the sinewy boulevard cutting through an interesting grid, the juxtaposition of flats and supple hills) -- very nice. But the houses? I'm not getting it. The parks? What parks? There's a neutral ground that could be converted to a decent park/ running track. But if this area was ever fully revitalized, I don't know if I'd want kids or even adults running back and forth across the boulevard through traffic to access the park. But I digress. This post is really about the Norwood residents.
Oh my God, the residents!
On a few passes through the boulevard, I saw old black men and women sitting on their decrepit porches, often clothed in their jammies (in mid-afternoon). I saw several old black men schlepping around aimlessly. I couldn't decide if they were homeless nomads, escapees from an asylum, or simply geriatric wanderers. I saw the occasional Aunt Jemima -- head becurled and glistening in a Technicolor array of plastic and steel. I saw a couple of Sambos running after a ball in the street.
Shouldn't you boys be in school for Crissakes? Wait. I think I heard they recently closed down the Norwood School.
Most of the Boulevard's front porches were outfitted like outdoor living rooms in need of a spring cleanin': upholstered sofas, La-Z-Boys, incongruous displays of junk, plants, clotheslines, kegs of beer, you know, "eclectic and interesting" aesthetics. ('Course, if I tried to pull that off, I'd be labeled "Po' White Trash with no taste.")
I saw more than a few old junkers on blocks in the front yards or in side alleys between houses. It reminded me of the Jeff Foxworthy lines about "You know you're a redneck if..." Which prompted me to wonder: Do rednecks in trailer parks = residents of urban ghettos?
I saw some of the most crude-yet-aesthetically deplorable engineering for satellite dishes... I saw MAYBE five houses that I would knock on the door and walk into if invited without wearing a Hazmat suit.
I saw busted-out windows by the scores. I saw too many obviously vacant homes. I saw more yards than not with overgrown weeds and general unkemptness.
And I was riding through Norwood Boulevard -- the supposed Crown Jewel of Historic Norwood. All I knew was,
I'm in the ghetto.
So I decided to cut up through some of the minor arteries and compare. On 15th Ave N. I slowed in preparation to go around a few vehicles which were peculiarly idling in the middle of the road. As I passed, I noticed several black youth craning their heads out of automobiles, yakking with several other black youth standing out on the edge of a yard. When one of them glimpsed my late model truck, he squinted and shot a steely glance into my car window, made eye contact with me, then sneered.
The posse turned all eyes on me and stared me down. I kept my cool and kept on moving like a good little cracker, and when I'd finally made it around the scene, I watched through my rearview mirror. The young turks didn't resume their conversation until I was out of view.
I continued to scour the streets, careful not to backtrack. Careful not to appear to be "cruising." It was obvious so many of the street people were on the lookout for drug seekers. I'd seen this type behavior before, and it concerned me.
Still, I harbored hope that I would find that which has been so gushed about on this forum. I wanted this study exhaustive. And I wanted to see the good in this 'hood.
It was on one of the 30's, between 13th and 15th where I saw it:
A large abandoned house with major-league L.A.-style gang tagging. I'm talkin' bout tagged to the gills! I instantly recognized the ominous symbology: the Star of David, the pitchfork, the crossing-out of other symbols and numerals... As a former resident of San Francisco and Southern California, I am all-too-familiar with Crips and MS-13 earmarks. And lemme tell ya, this house was most certainly a home base for something nefarious.
I slowed to take in the scene -- head on a swivel, cautiously proceeding over the hill, and beginning to scope for an escape route to the interstate and back to Oz. I cut my head to the right, scanning the hillside across the street from Casa de Thug. I faintly made out a few black teens in a porch swing. Just as I was moving on from this block, I noticed an individual leaping form a stairwell and jogging down the grassy slope towards my vehicle, pointing. I stepped on it and shot off into "the clear."
As I broached 12th Ave N., a couple of screaming-siren cop cars were in the process of pulling over an El Camino turning off of 12th and heading up the hill from whence I'd come.
I hit the interstate and vamoosed.
2.)
Driving through Bush Blvd.
The very next afternoon I decided to cruise the oft-heralded Bush Blvd. area, which I hadn't seen in years -- not since my days of working summers at the B'ham-Southern Campus and attending Legion Field for Alabama games. Considering the sketchy encounters I'd had the previous day, I started to wonder if I was cruisin' for a bruisin'.
Maybe I'd read too much City-Data and I was developing a Pollyanna complex.
I turned onto Bush Blvd. from the interstate side and made my way up the slight grade. At first blush, I'm thinking,
Looks a lot nicer than Norwood: better architecture, better grooming of lawns, most homes graced with a human touch, overall, Bush "feels" better than Norwood...
I wasn't seeing any people out and about -- which was probably a positive, considering the suspicious street-roamers and riff-raff I saw on the streets of Norwood. (Am I judging books by their cover? Yes. Shoot me.)
Could it be that Bush Blvd. is a happy little cloister abutting a happy little college and somehow immune to the grime and crime of the infamous and seamy 'hoods over in Ensley, across the interstate, points south and north and west, and basically SURROUNDING this cute little Bush-BSC corridor?
As I'm climbing towards Graymont, I consider that B'ham-Southern College has maintained a formidable iron fence -- replete with guardhouses -- which has sequestered its idyllic setting away from the surrounding neighborhood for as long as I can remember. There must have been a reason for that; there must remain compelling reasons to maintain a veritable fortress over on The Hilltop.
I'm beginning to grow circumspect, beginning to wonder if the apparent gentrification of this particular boulevard is an urban anomaly: a quaint residential drag in the vortex of a sprawling ghetto abutting a quaint, fortified college in the middle of a sprawling ghetto.
I cross Graymont, take a lap around the perimeter of BSC -- noticing mostly blighted apartments and homes, cheap off-brand take-out food, and liquor stores. Nothing to see here.
So I U-turn, cross back over Graymont, and start heading down Bush. Somewhere around the numbered turn-off streets, I get a hankering to whip in and see if some fine handiwork and gentility has bled over from Beautiful Bush Blvd.
I hang a Louie, and immediately slam on the brakes. *EEEEEEEEEEECCCCCKKK!*
Get out of the street you God Damn idiot!
This dude is standing slap in the middle of the street, arms akimbo, a sh1t-eating grin. He's almost been mowed down, yet there he stands: smirking up a blue streak, and there's his buddy standing over to the side, snickering stupidly. I try backing up, and going around the dude. He starts face-guarding my truck like he's trying to deny Michael Jordan the ball for a game-winning shot.
After juking and jiving, I manage to break free. Now I'm riding up 5th Ave. W. a little jittery and anxious to hyperspace outta here. I guess when I was checking my britches to see what that wet streak was runnin' down my leg I missed my familiar Graymont hook-up for the familiar route out of Dodge. I ended up at Rickwood Field. I hadn't been down this way since the Barons last played at this historic diamond.
This particular section of town is nothing short of blighted. Fortunately, I was able to bob and weave out of the labyrinthine grid and without further incident. Without puncturing a tire in the trash-strewn streets. Without being accosted or carjacked by the Welfare Kings and Queens.
My conclusions: It is an entirely romantic, idealized notion that life in the likes of Norwood and West B'ham is good and somewhat safe. Imagine how bad it must be, if, on a few jags through the neighborhoods I saw enough sketchiness with which to compose a six page screed. And I haven't even mentioned my missions into the seedy underbelly of East Lake, up into scary Inglenook, and a hair-raising episode out near Legion Field and College Hills.
People, take it from someone well-travelled. I have lived in San Francisco, Southern California, New Orleans, and visited many of America's major urban areas. Birmingham's city limits might be pound-for-pound the most blighted, unlivable, and downright dangerous city -- bar none. I say this not having visited Detroit, Gary, IN, and East St. Louis. I'm sure they're quite grisly and probably worse.
I would recommend living in the loft district or a high-rise downtown, most parts of Southside, some parts of Crestwood, and any of the mountain/ridge communities such as Altamont, Forest Park, Redmont, etc. Maybe some areas out near Roebuck. But 'hoods such as Norwood and Bush Blvd. are crime-ridden, sloth-plagued, ignorance-perpetuating hellholes which should never be tread upon, much less lived in by any right-thinking individual.
I understand that these sentiments run contrary to my previous jeremiads about the state of B'ham as a viable, vibrant city. I have lamented that the Over the Mountain crowd refuses to tread upon B'ham concrete as a rule of thumb. A Catch-22 conundrum, for sure: how can you revitalize a city without bringing people into it -- tourists, businesses, and residents? How can you lure people down without first revitalizing it?
I don't profess to have the answers. I only aim to point out the realities. I will say that the solution probably involves a methodical, incremental revitalization of neighborhoods, whereby critical mass might be achieved and thus the 'hoods can be "turned."
I envisage that science and religion will solve this socio-economic, urban conundrum: Isaac Newton himself will descend from the sooty skies over Tarrant, turn the bad apples to good; the bad will cease to spoil the surrounding bunch. Hell will freeze over. The divine will intervene and launch an avalanche of happy little snowballs from heaven. The snowball effect will take effect and the Gates over Norwood will open up and we'll all be sucked from our baggy britches.
St. Peter will be revealed to be Midas, he'll turn all white teeth to gold, all gold teeth to myrrh, all crack rocks to yet more happy snowballs comprising another snowstorm of rapturous proportions. He'll turn all ink-tattoos into living creatures and all the purple dragons, fiery Phoenixes, and likenesses of Momma will pave our way high into the misty bliss -- instead of roses paving our way, little red hearts plucked from badonkadonks.
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