“Back in the mid-nineties, when I was living with my mom and stepfather, we moved from East Baltimore around Hopkins—which was way too violent to live in—over to Harford and Twenty-fifth. But it was bad over there too, even though you could see the Courthouse. Those Cherry Hill boys would be up in their beefing—fussing with the local thugs. My step brother was killed by drug dealers. That set my stepfather off. We called him Dad. He really tried, really cared. He would say hello to the thugs and drug dealers on his way down to the store, but when he saw them dealing he would get on the phone and implicate us. We were so afraid we would get shot or burned up over this—and did eventually move out into the county.

“One time he was out on the porch with the cordless phone yelling to the 911 operator so the drug dealers could hear, giving their descriptions. Oh my God, we were terrified!”

[This was between 94-98, when a house full of women at Erdman and Edison were executed by the Hugo Boyz—a crew that operated out of this neighborhood just below Harford and Hugo, where the corner house still looks like a gated asylum—and during which time I collected most of the stories that appear in When You’re Food. ]

“My heroes were The Knockers. The Knockers is what we called them, because they came in plain clothes and knocked them hoodlums in the head. They were black narcotics officers. They got this one boy that was dealing drugs in front of our house. When he swallowed his dope, they used a pen and put it down his throat to make him gag. Then, when he threw it up, they walked around holding his product up, telling everyone around that he was charging double what the same thing sold for in West Baltimore, and that it was poor quality and he was just a chump, had been run out of the Westside for selling low-quality stuff.

“I stayed in sports and music in school to stay out of trouble. Then the gangs took over the schools so we had to move to the county, where they are taking over the schools now. The entire time on Harford and twenty-fifth, the only time I felt safe outside on the porch was when The Knockers, came, whooping ass, knocking heads and taking thugs away. Now, I’m working three jobs and living with my grandmother, ten darn miles out of the city, where she has lived her entire eighty years—and here they come, like roaches on the bus, the thugs, with their guns and bullshit to drive us out again.”

[As I checked these notes from my conversation with Tia on the way back into town, the Valentino Crew was not out in force at Northern and Harford. They were all scattered, glaring at the single black cop that stood there with his arms crossed, scaring off their customers. I saw two deals being made back in the neighborhood, but the civilians could at least use the buses for so long as he stuck around.]