Since the Freddie Gray Police Misconduct Hearings last Wednesday, and the news that there will be multiple trials for the police officers on an individual basis, which means a white man might be acquitted, the people of Harm City are of one mind, that there will be another riot and that there will also be a simultaneous purge of businesses and of whites caught out of doors. We are all now well aware that the authorities will do absolutely nothing to protect citizens or businesses and will dedicated %100 of their resources to protecting the police and government personnel and facilities.

What has occurred in this environment is heartening.

Young thug types now rarely harass me, where they did so with impunity when the police were dutifully cruising. The bad ones I have run across have launched a straight up attack on sight rather than stalk me. This does provide a more readable situation. I am weary of making sense of it. Plumb the logic of this if you will.

Men, both white and black, who walk past me on the street, now behave as if we are citizens of some long dead America, in which we both belonged, and were glad to acknowledge one another.

Non-predatory black youths no longer swagger past me pretending to be thugs in order to keep up some kind of appearance, but make a wide circle around me, usually walking out into the street, where before I was generally expected to give way.

What this amounts to is a more lethal, more polite, wild west type of setting, which is much more conducive to real life and the maintenance of the soul than were the social mechanics of our collective pre-purge delusion off a policed community.

Weak predators no longer engage in bluffs.

Strong predators show their hand more readily.

The weak do not pretend to strength

Men seek alliance at a glance, with a nod and a “good morning,” knowing that we share the same enemies.

For the Labor Day holiday I was in three different mixed race neighborhoods and found everyone to be amicable, especially the adults.

Families of middle class and working class whites had picnics right next door to their black neighbors, who did the same and exchanged recipes over wire fences.

A young Korean lady, knitting on her patio, waved at me as if she were thrilled to have me walk by her yard. She must have been right off the plane from Pusan.

A few streets over, white adults relaxing in their yard became the focus of neglected black children, whose parents were universally unseen, with lone grandparents keeping watch from their porches. When one lives and works in mixed race neighborhoods as a white adult, you are stricken with the fact that children from age two to five are being raised by eight-year-olds, and that these younger children almost always seek the attention and approval of those strange white adults who seem to care. One four-year-old, named after a Ravens wide receiver, who has since been traded to another team, moved his game of hide and seek over to a white neighbor’s car when she pulled into her driveway, so that he might be blessed by the smile of an adult.

As my soon-to-be brother-in-law drove my sister and I through my neighborhood on the way to a cookout, four fireman were standing on the corner with flags and a boot. Terry waved to them and the muscular white fireman dodged through traffic to receive their donation as the three black fireman—older and heavier—waved, smiled and said thanks.

At a city bar I sat with three white men and a dozen mixed gender blacks. One of the white men was a thief selling stolen snacks to the white bar tender. I was greeted and hugged by two of the black women, and nodded to a few of the men, who discussed holiday recipes. As people left everyone at the bar reminded them to be safe and to be careful heading home, knowing that we have a common enemy that preys upon us more along age lines than racial lines.

At one cookout, as we tossed corn-filled bags into slanted boards in a game that combines the elements of horseshoes and shuffleboard, three young black boys next door looked on with interest. As the rest of the partygoers went inside for cake and ice cream I stayed behind, pretending to snooze in a lawn chair to listen in on the conversation.

Standing boy: “That bean bag game is cool—we should get a game like that.”

Middle boy: “It must be so nice to have a dad to play with.”

Oldest boy: “The heck with that. We can make a game like that with cardboard and bags of marbles from the dollar store.”

Here’s to hoping those three boys do not get sucked into the liberal vortex of racial hatred. Hate is the weapon of the elite, the tool of the Right in my father’s time and the tool of the Left in mine. Who will wield the hate when my grandson comes of age?

On the eve of what may likely be another effort by the white liberal media to fan the flames of race war in Baltimore, I’m not seeing as much flammable human material as the media priesthood would have us believe. Surely there will be enough entitled racist foot soldiers to set another 154 fires at least, to empty another four dozen pharmacies and liquor stores, terrorizing more of their fellow blacks than anyone.

What I do not see are locals ready to engage in such activity.

What seems to be in the offering is a pull out of police toward the media-induced centers of unrest, followed by an influx of professional criminals patrolling in threes, fours and fives, armed with bats and gas cans for intimidation and crow bars for access to unprotected businesses. I am certain that there will be improved criminal methods, which I will be fascinated to learn of in the wake of the next CNN after party. I am also suspicious that the sanctioned criminals of law enforcement will show less creative adaptations than the unsanctioned criminals they oppose.

For now the outlying regions of Baltimore City and the adjacent areas of Baltimore County seem like an oceanfront community on the eve of a hurricane that is too close for evacuation, enjoying the calm before the storm.