by Jan Haldipur
“Thirsty Thursdays”
In the southwest Bronx, “positive” outcomes are too frequently defined by whether a person is able to leave. For Glenda, this came in the form of Richard moving out of the neighborhood. For Leslie, this came in the form of a change in her Section 8 housing voucher, a document that helps make housing more affordable for low-income families, allowing her and her son, Albert, to leave the neighborhood and move north to Westchester County. In recent years, as conflicts between local crews have escalated, the police have clamped down especially hard on the neighborhood. In the three years I spent talking to residents of the southwest Bronx, several large white New York Police Department observation towers sprouted up in the area for weeks at a time. Officers would also execute raids on particular blocks and buildings, using the program known as Operation Clean Halls as a means to enter privately owned buildings and implement a form of what is known as “vertical policing.”
On the block where Leslie and Glenda lived, this resulted in a weekly event known locally as “Thirsty Thursdays.” On Thursdays, particularly during the warmer months, police would descend on their block, typically in the mid- to late afternoon, and carry out “shakedowns” of the young men. As Todd described what happened, “They run up in here like an army, man. Coming up here with paddy wagons right up in the middle of here . . . you see they check to see if the gate is open and will drive right through the middle of here and start bothering people.” A van would be parked nearby, and neighborhood boys were carted off to be booked on petty charges ranging from truancy to open-container violations or trespassing.
According to Leslie, these “scare” tactics are often used to badger people like her son Albert into giving them information about what goes on in the neighborhood. This can prove to be risky and even potentially dangerous for teenagers who may be labeled as informants or cooperators by their peers. For parents like Leslie, these tactics can prove both financially costly and physically taxing. During one of our conversations, Leslie and Glenda discussed the ramifications of a recent interaction with police:
Leslie: It’s these stupid “disorderly conducts”—what does that even mean? That, or trespassing or loitering in they own building! A few weeks ago I was sitting on my fire escape. I do that sometimes, especially when it’s hot out. And so I see Albert, my nephew, and George [another neighborhood teenager] just sitting there hanging out and talking to each other. Doing absolutely nothing. Next thing I know, the police walk up in there and are giving Albert a ticket for disorderly conduct. They said there was a call that he was gambling and shooting dice! I’m telling you, they wasn’t doing nothing! So now we have a $120 ticket! I’m just sick and tired of going to the courthouse. It’s already been six or seven times this year. That’s crazy! But of course I’m going to challenge it. It’s not right.
Glenda: You have to understand, it’s hot out and a lot of people can’t afford A/Cs like that so we go outside. Outside in the courtyard is where we go to escape the heat and so if the police don’t like that, what are we supposed to do?
As Glenda emphasizes, this form of policing infringes upon local residents ability to find a place to stand. Given the dearth of neighborhood resources, young men in the neighborhood try to find solace in nearby public spaces, but are continually discouraged from doing so. In hot summer months, with electricity costs soaring, getting access to common spaces in and around their own buildings often proves even more challenging. Now that her son has gotten a costly ticket, Leslie must now shoulder the burden of either paying it off (and thereby acknowledging his guilt) or trying to contest the charges. The latter decision could prove extremely frustrating and time consuming and may result in other financial consequences in the form of a loss of wages.
On the block where Leslie and Glenda live, benign everyday activities often take on an entirely new meaning for residents. Glenda described an incident involving her youngest son, Cliff, which occurred a few years ago:
My youngest, Cliff, is 14 and was with his friend who was riding his bike on the sidewalk right around here. So the officer tells his friend that he can’t do that and told him he’s going to write him a ticket, so, you know, my boy just starts laughing. I mean, it’s just silly the officer felt he had to do that. Next thing you know, they got my son in the back of a cop car. He had his cell phone on him, so he calls me and I hear him whispering, “Mommy, come get me.” When I get there, they talking about they going to write him a ticket. I’m like, “For what? Laughing?” I’m not going anywhere. That’s my son. Let him go. And the crazy thing is the boy he was with who was riding the bike in the first place didn’t even get a ticket!
Through such repeated interactions, parents like Leslie, Glenda, and Todd have been conditioned to expect this type of treatment from police, although they shy away from accepting it as a norm.
Aggressive Policing and the Transition into Adulthood
It is raining outside as Glenda and I sit across from each other on a sectional couch in her living room. An open window allows for a light breeze on this humid June afternoon. Outside, we can hear trains whiz by on the Metro North track less than 50 yards from the building. “I’m saying no,” Glenda says, pausing to let a train pass, “my son shouldn’t have to feel like this is normal. I don’t care where you live at. This is not normal.”
Yet for so many parents this sort of police contact has become the norm. Similar to how many of their children have come to understand police in their lives, parents have adopted an implicit acceptance of their presence and even begun to equip their offspring with strategies on how to deal with unwelcome police encounters. In the wake of high-profile police killings, black families nationwide have increasingly begun having this form of conversation, sometimes referred to as “the talk.”2 For some, the experiences of their children represented their first introduction to this type of policing. For others, this understanding was carefully cultivated through years of personally experiencing aggressive police tactics or observing close family members experience it.
Lance, a young father from the area, explained to a friend, Joey, how these norms are passed down from one generation to another:
Lance: I got a daughter. Luckily I don’t got a son. But what I think it does to little kids coming up—in they mind it becomes regular. Like when they get older, cops stopping them, they gonna remember when they was little they always seen that. It’s not going to be out of the norm for them.
Joey: Yeah, like it gives you that assumption . . . that’s why a lot of niggas think like that now. Like growing up, I used to see my older brother getting clapped up [handcuffed] for stuff like that . . . so it gave you that assumption that all cops were dickheads. As I got older I realized that there were some good cops out there, but my first assumption growing up was that this cop stopping me is going to mess up my night.
Fathering the Dispossessed
Raheem is about 6’1, with light brown skin. He typically wears a knitted hat tipped to the side and perched on the top of his shoulder-length dreads. He is 27 years old and currently on probation supervision for an assault charge stemming from an incident on a subway a few years ago.
Raheem openly talks about the mostly minor transgressions from his youth, of which there are many. In his teens, he found himself selling small amounts of weed, crack, and angel dust to make extra money. At the age of 15 he was arrested for the first time and processed at “the Tombs,” as the Manhattan Detention Complex is known. “Going through the system for the first time wasn’t pretty, because I didn’t know what to expect,” he recalled. “You hear everybody telling them stories, like, back in the day, ‘You know jail is rough!’ So, I’m going in there like . . . it wasn’t a good experience, I don’t like it at all, because now I’m in the system, so now anything that pops up, I’m there.”
Fortunately, none of Raheem’s convictions resulted in anything worse than a misdemeanor, thus not adversely affecting his employment prospects. At the age of 21, he had his fi
rst child, a daughter, Serena, which he saw as a turning point in his young life. As Raheem reflects, “I had to fall back.” He now has a job in construction, and is working to obtain his GED.
While for most of his teenage years he identified himself as a “hustler,” his priority has shifted to being a decent father. He and his longtime girlfriend, Sharon, preside over a full house. Six children currently live with them, two from her previous relationship as well as the four children they share. Raheem’s eldest daughter lives with her mother.
Despite his age, Raheem seems to understand the gravity of his situation. He is acutely aware of the financial responsibility, which can occasionally seem overwhelming, associated with a family of this size. Still, he insists, he abstains from selling marijuana to supplement his income, as he once did, due largely to his most recent arrest. He was initially sentenced to do a 6–5 split (six months in jail followed by five years’ probation), but ended up with a 3–3 (three months in jail, followed by three years’ probation). As Raheem describes the punishment, “Hard as hell! Hard as hell, man! That’s the only bid I did. It wasn’t nothing, but just, not seeing my kids every day, hearing they voice, just being out in the world, period. Freedom is everything.”
Like many of the men involved with the criminal justice system who I spent time with during this project, Raheem is aware of how the police may perceive him and he adjusts his behavior accordingly. He reports having been frisked more than ten times a year from the age of 15 onward, with harassment peaking between the ages of 18 and 23. As Raheem notes, “That was a rougher time for me . . . but as I got older, I’d say it slowed down after I turned 25. I started noticing the pattern, like, hold on, I gotta change something because what I’m doing is not working.”
For Raheem, seemingly ordinary day-to-day activities in public spaces can become cumbersome. He realizes how his own missteps have shaped his current situation and is unwilling to accept a similar fate for his children. While he has grown accustomed to police harassment, he is adamantly opposed to his children, particularly his daughters, experiencing the same thing, often going to great lengths to shield them from it.
He described a particularly harrowing interaction with the police that took place a few months earlier:
I’m walking with my daughters and my older cousin and they [the police] just hopped out. I got my kids and my groceries and they just threw me on the wall with my kids right there! So I’m like, what’s going on, and he’s like, “Oh, well, you just fit the description” or whatever. This happened right there near 167 and Jerome. So, I’m like, what’s the description? You can’t tell me the description, but I fit the description and I look like everybody else that’s walking down the street!?
I was pissed off because you don’t have no type of consideration. I’m sitting here holding my daughter’s hand with groceries . . . and not just one child, I had three children with me, three daughters. And now my daughters are looking at me like, “Poppy, what’s going on?” I’m like, don’t worry about it. They ain’t got nothing else better to do.
With his children watching, Raheem was made to feel embarrassed and vulnerable by the police. He worries that incidents like this will not only affect his children’s impression of their father but also shape the way they perceive the justice system as a whole. Psychologists have identified this indirect punishment as a form of “vicarious victimization,” whereby relatives may experience many of the same symptoms of anxiety and depression as the victims.3 As Raheem puts it, “I don’t want my children growing up thinking that’s the way of life.”
Although he followed a much different trajectory than Raheem, Rudy, a Puerto Rican father who lives in the neighborhood, shares many of the same challenges. At 36, he is a former Marine who currently works as a superintendent at a building in lower Manhattan. As part of his job, he was given a studio apartment in Union Square, but he chose to remain in the Bronx. While space certainly factored into his decision, he was also reluctant to leave the neighborhood he has called home since he was in the third grade.
Rudy is the father of an eight-year-old boy, Carlos. As Rudy’s son gets older, his patience with the neighborhood has seemingly begun to wane. According to him, the area has changed a great deal over the past few years, making him less eager to raise children there. Several factors are responsible for this, namely community safety and a police presence he sees as ineffective.
Although he is careful not to romanticize the way things were, he insists that there was some semblance of order and decency in the past, something he feels no longer exists:
It was more of a hierarchy, man. I’m not saying it was a good thing to do, but at least there was an order, you know what I’m saying? Back then you didn’t have these problems . . . personally, with me growing up, I’m not going to go to an OG or an older dude and fucking disrespect him, because I was gonna get slapped, you know what I’m saying? Because either he slaps me, or my older brother slaps me, or my uncle slaps me. I was gonna get slapped from somebody! [Laughs] I was gonna get slapped or cocotazo [hit hard on the head], kicking my ass, like get the fuck outta here. Now you don’t have that. There’s no chain of command no more. There’s no hierarchy no more, it’s just to each his own.
Having spent so much time in the neighborhood, Rudy is well aware of how his community operates. He prides himself on his ability to negotiate different local groups, although he understands how police may perceive this:
Rudy: I’ve been frisked many times. I’m not the type of dude to be out there selling drugs, but at the same time, I know a lot of people. So, I could be talking to you today, and two minutes later I’m talking to some dude that sells crack or sells dust or something. The cops come and they’re, you know what I’m saying, they’re going to throw everybody against the wall and they’re going to put you in certain categories, even though you’re not in that category. You know, I probably make more money than you do. I probably have a job, and I got a family. Just because I’m talking to this guy, you treat me the same way. I don’t think that’s cool.
Jan: In the past year, how often do you think you’ve been frisked?
Rudy: Altogether, it has to have been more than 10 times. In that area there, since last February until now, in that area alone, it must have been like six times. And one time, I was just coming from my job. I mean, you could tell certain people from other people. I mean, I got tools on my belt, I got a bag, you know, dude, I’m coming from work. They want to know what’s in my bag, so I oblige, you know. They take all my shit out, put it on top of the car. You know, my papers are flying everywhere, they don’t give a fuck. They see I don’t have anything and then they open up my Leatherman Tool and he says he can take me to jail for that, I’m like, “Dude, it’s a tool. I’m a superintendent to a condominium in Manhattan. You know, I can have you call ten people right now, so you can verify that.” And he still threatened he was going to take me to jail.
Incidents like this continue to negatively color Rudy’s view of the neighborhood. Despite his age and visible work gear, police persisted in searching him. He is unwavering in his desire that his son not experience the same form of harassment, and feels strongly that his chances of not being stopped will be better in a different environment. Statistics support the salience of geography in New York City. In 2011, the year when documented stops reached its highest point, the 42nd Precinct, where Rudy lives, recorded 12,414 stops, or 15.6 percent of the population in the area.4 Comparatively, the 13th Precinct in lower Manhattan, which encompasses the Union Square neighborhood where Rudy is slated to move, reported 5,252 stops, or 5.6 percent of the population in the area.5 Unlike some of his friends on the block, Rudy’s financial situation is stable enough to be able to orchestrate a move out of the neighborhood. He has already asked his boss to alert him when a two-bedroom apartment becomes available in the Union Square building. Fed up, Rudy elaborates:
Sometimes I just feel like cramming my whole family into that studio and just st
aying in Manhattan because I feel so much safer in Manhattan. The Bronx is shit, man. . . . [My son] he’s eight years old now . . . and, you know, sometimes I just glance at him and I think to myself, Jesus, the shit that he’s going to be exposed to is just insane. That’s why I came up with the plan, he’s not going to be in the Bronx. He’s not going to grow up in the Bronx. By the time he hits 12 years old, he’s not going to be here. There’s no fucking way he’s going to grow up and see this.
New Beginnings
Trevor, an African American man who works as a plumber, and his girlfriend, Kym, a Puerto Rican woman who works an office job in Manhattan, are relative newcomers to the neighborhood. Trevor originally hails from the Baychester Houses, a public housing complex in the North Bronx, but has more recently lived in upstate New York. Kym grew up in the Wakefield section of the borough. She originally settled in the southwest Bronx about three years ago in part because of more affordable rent but also because of its proximity to the college in upper Manhattan where she is a student. Trevor joined her last year, and they share a modest one-bedroom walk-up unit a few feet from a busy thoroughfare.