Essay: We let you kids

Welcome, friends. Monday, I posted an essay about how I came to be blogging for PW, and the feedback was pretty much all positive — yay! — and, you know, puppydogs and rainbows and all that jazz.

I’m going to be doing more of them, hopefully three a week to start, but we’ll see where the creative process takes me. I really enjoy doing these, and if you have feedback, either e-mail me or post in the comments — I’d obviously appreciate it.

And so, today’s little story is about me, and West Philly and my middle-class insecurity. I’d be interested to hear your responses, if you think I’m just being a little too much of a product of my Penn education or, you know, if you think I’m just a big tool. Whatever your reaction, I hope you enjoy. After the jump.

I must begin with a description of my belongings. I have on my person thousands of dollars of consumer culture-created merchandise: a laptop ($2,500), an iPod ($300), a laptop case ($40), a bag ($65), acell phone ($200), a new coat ($200) and a $50 watch. Sounds extravagant, but I look pretty normal.

I’m walking through West Philadelphia in the dark. Though it’s only about 7:45, it’s already dark and about the time I reach 47th Street I begin to get worried. I’m simply heading from a friend’s apartment to the Palestra to watch Penn play basketball. Why should I be worried?

I spent four years at Penn and I never felt scared. Okay, I spent three years in the dorms and Penn is a bubble all its own. But I went on runs in West Philadelphia all the time and aside from “Run, Forest, Run” jokes — which, by the way, never get old (thanks, residents of Philadelphia) — I never encountered anything but friendly people.

For four years, every fall, crime would go up. It was a ritual: the students would return to school in West Philly and some locals rob them. My senior year a Drexel student was stabbed by two guys, one of whom was described by police as a soldier stationed in Germany home on leave. But even when a member of the armed forces mugged a local student, I was never really afraid.

And so, here I am, leaving a friend’s house, walking down Baltimore Avenue, and I’m nervous. It starts when a guy walks past me and says: “We let you kids come to school here and I don’t know why.” I’m not sure what he means. Maybe he met a snotty Penn kid earlier on his walk. (It’s always the Penn kids.)

But I wanted to scream at him. I spent four years here, patronized local businesses, was friendly to everyone and I get yelled at simply for being a student. I’m not even a student anymore, but with my bag I look like one. And you know what? Ninety-nine percent of my friends never do anything wrong either, aside from maybe being a little too loud once in a while.

Sure, I get it, Penn kids are jerks. (This could also read, “College kids are jerks.”) Whatever. But for some reason this stupid offhand comment from this random guy has me thinking. It’s made me realize where I am. Am I out of place? Am I going to get mugged? This year there’s been more robberies than usual on campus, and it hasn’t really subsided all that much, according to my old campus paper. A lot of the robberies are committed by 13-to-16 year olds, which — when I’m safe in my cubicle poking fun at news stories — is pretty easy to laugh about.

I might laugh, too, if a 13-year-old with a BB gun mugged me, assuming I knew it was a BB gun. But if a 13-year-old did try to mug me, I probably wouldn’t take the time to see what his weapon looked like. Plus who wants to get shot even with a BB gun? As much as I thought I felt comfortable in these familiar neighborhoods, maybe I’m not.

As I pass the guy, all I could think about are all the expensive items on my person. If he so much as looked at me hard he could probably get a whole lot of nice free shit. Am I really safe? I have every right to be afraid, don’t I? And I have every right to be here, just walking down the street, not harming anybody, carrying my inconspicuous bag.

But now all I could think about is what I’m feeling about the people around me. Am I overreacting? Could a 13-year-old really even mug me? As I get to 43rd Street, I worry: What if someone starts walking toward me? I haven’t crossed the street to avoid anyone since the third grade (and that was to avoid a bully who liked to beat on little kids). I feel a similar fear now, even though there’s no one within sight of me.

I’m confronting my fears. I’m confronting my prejudices. I’m thinking and worrying and feeling ashamed for being scared. But somehow I also realize that what I’m feeling is good. Overwrought as it may sound, I can only overcome my prejudices by confronting them. Right?

All of this is spinning through my head as I reach 43rd. As I look at my watch, I realize I need to pick it up or I’m going to be late. I look around and see a cab speeding down Baltimore. I flag it down. I can have this crisis another time. I have a basketball game to catch.