water, or if they became hysterical I could throw water in their face. I also kept a bottle of Irish whiskey in the office, and Erin Macklin and I were using the water glasses to sip some of the Irish whiskey while we talked.
“A little kid,” she said, “goes to the store. He has to cross somebody else’s turf. Means he has to sneak. In a car he has to crouch down. The amount of energy they have to expend simply to survive… ” She paused and looked down into her whiskey. She swirled it slightly in the bottom of the water glass.
“They live in anxiety,” she said. “If they wear the wrong color hat; if their leather jacket is desirable, or their sneakers; if they have a gold chain that someone wants; they are in danger. One out of four young men in the inner city dies violently. These kids are in a war. They have combat fatigue.”
“And they’re mad,” I said.
I had shut the overhead light off, and the room was lit like film noir, with my desk lamp and the ambient light from the streets casting elongated vertical shadows against the top of my office walls and spilling their long black shapes onto my ceiling. I felt like Charlie Chan.
“Yes,” she said. “They are very angry. And the only thing they can do with that anger, pretty much, is to harm each other over trivial matters.”
She took in some of her whiskey. She sat still for a moment and let it work.
“Something has to matter,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly right.”
“Are there turf issues?” I said.
“Sure, but a lot of the extreme violence grows out of small issues between individuals. Who dissed who. Who looked at my girl, who stepped on my sneaker.”
“Something’s got to matter.”
“You get it, don’t you,” she said. “I didn’t expect you would. I figured you’d be different.”
“It has always seemed to me that there’s some sort of inverse ratio between social structure and, what… honor codes? Maybe a little highfaluting for the issue at hand, but I can’t think of better.”
“By honor do you mean inner-directed behavior? Because these kids are not inner directed.”
“No, I know they’re not. I guess I mean that nature hates a vacuum. If there are no things which are important, then things are assigned importance arbitrarily and defended at great risk. Because the risk validates the importance.”
Erin Macklin sat back in her chair a little. She was holding her whiskey glass in both hands in her lap. She looked at my face as if she were reading directions.
“You’re not just talking about these kids, are you?” she said.
“Any of them got families?” I said. “Besides the gang?”
“Not always, but sometimes,” she said. Outside a siren whooped: fire, ambulance, cops. If you live in any city you hear sirens all the time. And you pay no attention. It’s an environmental sound. Like wind and birdsong in the country. Neither of us reacted.
“Often the families are dysfunctional because of dope or booze or pathology. Sometimes they are abusive, the kind you see on television. But some times they are Utopian-my kid can do no wrong. My kid is fine. The other ones are bad. It’s the myth by which the parent reassures herself, or occasionally himself, that everything is okay. And of course it isn’t and the pressure on the kid to be the source, so to speak, of `okayness’ for the family adds to his stress and drives him to the gang. Sometimes the kid is the family caretaker. He’s the one putting food on the table-usually from dealing drugs-nobody asks him where he got the money. He’s valued for it.” She raised her glass with both hands from her lap and drank some more of the whiskey.
“If you’re dealing,” she said, “you have to be down with the gang where you’re dealing.”
I stood and went around my desk and poured a little more whiskey into her glass. She made no protest. She had settled back into her chair a little; she seemed in a reverie as she talked
“A little kid,” she said, “goes to the store. He has to cross somebody else’s turf. Means he has to sneak. In a car he has to crouch down. The amount of energy they have to expend simply to survive… ” She paused and looked down into her whiskey. She swirled it slightly in the bottom of the water glass.
“They live in anxiety,” she said. “If they wear the wrong color hat; if their leather jacket is desirable, or their sneakers; if they have a gold chain that someone wants; they are in danger. One out of four young men in the inner city dies violently. These kids are in a war. They have combat fatigue.”
“And they’re mad,” I said.
I had shut the overhead light off, and the room was lit like film noir, with my desk lamp and the ambient light from the streets casting elongated vertical shadows against the top of my office walls and spilling their long black shapes onto my ceiling. I felt like Charlie Chan.
“Yes,” she said. “They are very angry. And the only thing they can do with that anger, pretty much, is to harm each other over trivial matters.”
She took in some of her whiskey. She sat still for a moment and let it work.
“Something has to matter,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly right.”
“Are there turf issues?” I said.
“Sure, but a lot of the extreme violence grows out of small issues between individuals. Who dissed who. Who looked at my girl, who stepped on my sneaker.”
“Something’s got to matter.”
“You get it, don’t you,” she said. “I didn’t expect you would. I figured you’d be different.”
“It has always seemed to me that there’s some sort of inverse ratio between social structure and, what… honor codes? Maybe a little highfaluting for the issue at hand, but I can’t think of better.”
“By honor do you mean inner-directed behavior? Because these kids are not inner directed.”
“No, I know they’re not. I guess I mean that nature hates a vacuum. If there are no things which are important, then things are assigned importance arbitrarily and defended at great risk. Because the risk validates the importance.”
Erin Macklin sat back in her chair a little. She was holding her whiskey glass in both hands in her lap. She looked at my face as if she were reading directions.
“You’re not just talking about these kids, are you?” she said.
“Any of them got families?” I said. “Besides the gang?”
“Not always, but sometimes,” she said. Outside a siren whooped: fire, ambulance, cops. If you live in any city you hear sirens all the time. And you pay no attention. It’s an environmental sound. Like wind and birdsong in the country. Neither of us reacted.
“Often the families are dysfunctional because of dope or booze or pathology. Sometimes they are abusive, the kind you see on television. But some times they are Utopian-my kid can do no wrong. My kid is fine. The other ones are bad. It’s the myth by which the parent reassures herself, or occasionally himself, that everything is okay. And of course it isn’t and the pressure on the kid to be the source, so to speak, of `okayness’ for the family adds to his stress and drives him to the gang. Sometimes the kid is the family caretaker. He’s the one putting food on the table-usually from dealing drugs-nobody asks him where he got the money. He’s valued for it.” She raised her glass with both hands from her lap and drank some more of the whiskey.
“If you’re dealing,” she said, “you have to be down with the gang where you’re dealing.”
I stood and went around my desk and poured a little more whiskey into her glass. She made no protest. She had settled back into her chair a little; she seemed in a reverie as she talked
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