Tug of War at Pep Rally, Author LemonLad1111111, (CC0 1.o Universal Public Dedication)
“For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places” (Eph. 6: 12).
A tug of war began for Aretha’s future. Really, it had been going on from the start. The staff at the group home, Aretha’s school counselors, her social worker, and I, all tried to get her to stay in Lansdale. Aretha, who professed to hate West Philadelphia, ached to return there.
Oh, Aretha denied this, talked about making an idyllic life in the suburbs someday. She could conjure up the vision of a rosy, if distant, future as a business lawyer – a big house with room enough for her entire family. But she chafed at every restriction, fought every measure designed to help her adjust.
Divided Loyalties
Ruth understood. She had seen this many times before. Aretha’s loyalties were divided.
Much as Aretha scorned the area, some part of her felt that West Philadelphia was home.
She was not ungrateful, not unaware that the people around her were trying to help. But Aretha did not feel a part of the white suburb, felt herself floundering at school, longed to return to familiar streets, familiar sights and sounds. The very crickets were foreign to her.
She feared that she had abandoned her family and, in a sense, her cultural roots.
And Aretha worried, I think, that she would not be able to succeed in a white world. To pursue the dream was to place it at risk of being destroyed. Rather than that, Aretha would undermine her own progress.
She was not conscious of doing that, resisted taking responsibility for her actions, much as she might regret them in retrospect. This caused erratic behavior. Read more…
Penn’s Landing, Philadelphia, PA, Author ajay_suresh, (Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic)
“Open your mouth for the mute, for the rights of all who are destitute. Open your mouth, judge righteously, defend the rights of the poor and needy“ (Prov. 31: 8-9).
Aretha and I were in high spirits as we headed across I-95, toward Penn’s Landing. The day was fine. From the overpass, we could see colorful flags in the distance, off to our right.
Just across from Old City, along the Delaware River, Philadelphia’s Penn’s Landing is an entertainment pier which offers a skating rink and maritime museum, access to historic ships, restaurants and sidewalk vendors, along with a variety of ethnic music festivals.
We were laughing and joking. Aretha had promised to introduce me to the Pennsylvania Dutch delicacy known as funnel cake. Funnel cakes are made by pouring batter in a circular pattern into hot oil, then deep frying the batter to a golden brown. They are served hot with powdered sugar.
I did not at first notice the large fountain several hundred yards off to our left. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of what seemed to be two people in the fountain. It soon became obvious the two were having sex in the open.
Aretha had seen the same thing. We grew silent, both at a loss for what to say. Aretha, I think, was mortified that the couple was African American. I was distressed that she should be exposed to something like this in a public place.
The incident illustrates for me the powerful forces to which Aretha’s life was subject, forces both positive and negative.
Zahra
There was Zahra, the house mother I came to know best.
Zahra was an African American woman in her early forties who wore dignity like a mantle. When younger, she had started a child care facility to ensure that African American children were provided a safe place to play, and prepared for the rigors of school.
A Loving Brother
There was, also, Aretha’s older brother.
I sat on the floor at Shantice’s and watched one evening, while he lovingly cut and colored Aretha’s hair. Wielding the scissors with great care, he drew closer to Aretha then backed away again, scanning for the slightest imperfection. With an electric razor, he trimmed the hair at the nape of her neck, then applied a rinse to add luster to the hair.
The process took a full two hours, though her hair at the time was shorter than mine. Read more…
Rain on tarpaper roof, Author W.carter, (CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication)
“…’Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of heaven‘” (Matt. 19: 14).
In December of 2000, I learned that Aretha would be spending Christmas at her older sister’s home in West Philadelphia, but essentially alone because of Shantice’s employment situation. I offered to take Aretha out on the 23rd, and we made plans for that.
Directions in hand, I drove with some trepidation to Shantice’s place in West Philadelphia around 1 PM, expecting to take Aretha to a late lunch or matinee. The address was a row house, across from a vacant lot. I passed it twice, since not all houses in the area had their numbers displayed.
Standing on the small cement stoop, I knocked on the door, and waited. There was no answer. I knocked again, a little louder. Still, no answer.
A passerby, an African American man in his early twenties, hands in the pockets of a hooded sweatshirt, cast me a suspicious, sidelong glance. I began to grow nervous, as well as chilled, checked my watch, and knocked a third time.
This at last evoked a response. Aretha called from an overhead window that she had been asleep, would be down directly. My heart slowed to a normal pace.
Aretha opened the door in her pajamas, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Come on in, outta the cold,” she said, waving me through the door into a dim front room devoid of either furniture or warmth. “We were asleep.”
Tyrell
I noticed for the first time a boy of about four years standing shyly behind Aretha.
“I’ll go get dressed,” Aretha said. She disappeared up a rickety staircase, leaving me in the cold and unlit room with the boy, the blinds drawn.
“Hi,” I said. “My name’s Anna.”
“Hullo,” he volunteered.
“What’s your name?”
“Tyrell.”
“Tyrell. That’s a good name. Are you related to Aretha?”
No answer.
“Is she maybe your aunt?”
“My aunt,” he nodded.
“Is this your house? Do you live here?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a nice house. Do you have your own room?”
“I share,” he almost whispered, using his right foot to draw circles on the floor, all the while gazing up at me, his little brow furrowed in thought. Then, as if he had made a decision, “Would you like to see my truck?”
“Su-u-re,” I replied.
Tyrell pattered off into the darkness, the soles of his pajama-clad feet making a slapping sound on the hard wood floors. In a moment, he returned with a small plastic truck, and began explaining its operation to me. I knelt down beside the boy, the better to see the truck and hear his explanation.
Aretha returned and began her own explanation. She had been left to watch the child, but was under instruction to take him to relatives in North Philadelphia. Aware that I was on my way, the family had told her to ask me to drop the boy off.
I had not expected to assume responsibility for a minor child whose mother I had not yet met, on the word of a teenage girl I was only starting to know.
It was not that this was an inconvenience. I simply could not think what the best thing to do was. I had no car seat for Tyrell. What if I had an accident? What if his mother accused me of kidnap?
There was no phone in the apartment. There were no public phones on the deserted street, no shops nearby that might have a phone.
I had no cell phone in those days, so no way to reach Shantice for confirmation as to her wishes, and no way to reach the aid organization for guidance. There was no one nearby with whom to leave the boy. We three seemed all alone in the world.
I wondered if there was any food in the house for the children. Read more…
Statue of Benjamin Franklin on campus of University of Pennsylvania, Author MatthewMarcucci, (PD)
“For we walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Cor. 5: 7).
“Which is best?” That was Aretha’s constant inquiry – whether as to books, magazines, housing, clothing, schools, or cities.
I tried to explain that “best” was, for many things, a relative term, dependent on the criteria of the individual making the comparison. Aretha would not be satisfied with so mealy-mouthed a response.
For Aretha, the ivy league University of Pennsylvania was the penultimate, her symbol of excellence.
America’s first university, this venerable Philadelphia institution traces its history to a trust established in 1740. Since first purchased by a group which counted among its members Benjamin Franklin, the school grounds have given rise to a highly reputed business school, medical school, and teaching hospital.
Aretha’s goal, often repeated to me, was to attend Penn. Meanwhile, she struggled with high school math and biology.
Aretha’s school difficulties were not at first apparent to me. Aretha did her best to gloss over these, displaying with great pride the English papers on which she did well, carefully omitting mention of the tests she had failed.
The fault was not Aretha’s. Until removed from her mother’s custody, she had attended (when at all) inner city schools plagued by violence, teen pregnancy, and lack of resources. As Aretha said, “You got an ‘A’ just for bein’ present.” It was a reflection of the generation gap that I should be astonished her inner city school had a nursery.
Now in a suburban school, with a stiffer curriculum, Aretha found her grades plummeting. This produced panic in her. Aretha wanted with all her heart to be someone, to do something that mattered to the world. That possibility was rapidly fading before her eyes.
Gently, I suggested tutoring to her. The house mother suggested tutoring to her. Counselors at her school, I am sure, suggested tutoring to her. Aretha resisted. Alone in her room, she would wrestle with the materials, finally throwing her books against the wall in frustration.
This was a girl teased for reading too much. This was a girl articulate in defending others. This was a girl who preferred business magazines to gossip rags. This was a girl who could imagine becoming a lawyer.
It slowly became clear that Aretha had as much chance of attending Penn as she did of walking on the moon. What preyed on my mind was the thought that there were hundreds of thousands like her, if not more. Read more…
Martin Luther King, Jr. – I Have a Dream Speech, Source https://www.flickr.com/, Author David Erickson (CC Attribution 2.0 Generic)
“…there is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcised nor uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave nor free, but Christ is all and in all” (Col. 3: 11).
Our first eighteen months together were rocky.
Again and again, Aretha would cancel visits, often at the last moment, while I was actually en route. She was frequently late, sometimes by hours.
I could not be sure if this was outright disinterest or “testing,” her attempt to gauge whether I was sincere. She always apologized profusely, seemed to enjoy our visits when they did take place.
Again and again, I found her asleep when I arrived, whatever the time of day. Sleep was a coping mechanism for her, a way of shutting out the world. This was troubling despite Aretha’s generally upbeat demeanor, since it suggested depression on her part.
I persevered. She was so obviously worth the effort, intelligent, motivated. Any child would have been worth the effort. But with Aretha, I simply could not give up.
This was due, to some extent, to my own upbringing. Because of family issues, my teen years had been tumultuous. The transition to womanhood had been a painful and haphazard process for me. I still bore the scars, and wanted to smooth the way of a child facing the same transition.
Lilian
Then there was the memory of Lilian. My closest friend throughout high school, Lilian, too had been raised in a working class family. Intelligent, sensitive, funny, and shy, Lilian helped me survive those lonely years.
Lilian had a far greater knowledge of music than I did. Otherwise, we shared the same interests and activities, had the same circle of friends, enjoyed the same jokes, endured the same gym classes.
We might have been twins, separated at birth, except that Lilian was African American.
I was made aware of the importance of that difference when I visited her home for the first time.
While Lilian’s mother went to get cookies and milk for us, I had a chance to look around the modest living room. A photo of Martin Luther King, Jr. clipped from a newspaper caught my eye. Framed and hung in a prominent place on the wall, the photo obviously meant a great deal to the family.
That took me by surprise. Here was a public figure to whom my friend and her family felt a personal connection. Why was this? At our house, we had family photos on every flat surface, but none of public figures – strangers – not even the president.
At age thirteen or fourteen, I was vaguely aware of the Civil Rights Movement, but had no connection to it. Lilian did. Read more…
86th Street Subway Station, New York City, Author Daniel Schwen (GFDL)
“But He saves the needy from the sword, From the mouth of the mighty, And from their hand. So the poor have hope, And injustice shuts her mouth” (Job 5: 15-16).
The poverty in America is not, of course, confined to Philadelphia.
Poverty, Drugs, and Homelessness
I had grown up in a working class neighborhood of the Bronx, a short ten minute drive from the nearest public housing project. The high-rise apartments there were monoliths, devoid of any hint of humanity other than graffiti and the occasional Christmas lights draped from a balcony, twenty stories up.
My parents for years owned a small delicatessen in Harlem. My mother dealt daily with the working poor, barefoot children, prostitutes, drug addicts, and the homeless. It was one of the happiest and most difficult times of her life.
As an adult, a personal injury lawyer, I had interviewed the victims of rape and mayhem in projects with lofty names like the Polo Grounds Houses. The irony was not lost on me.
Children amused themselves by skateboarding against the elevator doors, for the clanging sound that made. A special police squad investigated the paralyses and deaths which resulted when the doors gave way, and children disappeared down the shaft.
Behind the desk of one project manager, I noticed a jar of what seemed to be multi-colored marbles. He pulled the jar forward to reveal empty “crack” cocaine vials. “This is what I’m up against,” he said to me, somberly. “This is just a week’s worth from one of the stairwells.”
The Subway
I rode the subway at all hours. Legless veterans would regularly roll through the train cars, flush with the floor, begging for spare change.
One frail young woman pushed a stroller along, calling out, “Milk for the baby! Milk for the baby!” as she pleaded for coins. Whether the money she collected went to the baby or her drug habit, I do not know.
A scrap of conversation stays with me from those subway rides. Three middle-aged, African American women sat across from me, talking over the roar of the train, one gesturing in an animated fashion. I could not help but overhear her distress. “An Uzi!? I sez to him, ‘An Uzi? Why can’ ya jus’ get a reg’la’ gun?’ ”
Flee or Engage
I had gone into the law for idealistic reasons, believing I could make a difference. This constant barrage of pain and sadness wore on me. Yet I could not turn away.
A high school teacher of mine had said perhaps the most profound thing I ever heard in class. “There will come a time when each of you will have to choose. Either run from the cities or save them.” Flee or engage.
Almost against my will, I found myself running toward the flames. Read more…
Philadelphia City Hall, Author Toniklemm, (CC BY-SA 4.0 International)
“For He will deliver the needy when he cries, The poor also, and him who has no helper” (Ps. 72: 12).
I never expected to fall in love with a city, let alone one not my own.
A Proud New Yorker
I was born and raised in New York City, proud to be the daughter of an immigrant family from Eastern Europe, proud of the hustle and bustle of the city.
I grew up in an Irish/Italian neighborhood in the Bronx, but covered the courts in all seven of New York City’s boroughs and bedroom suburbs.
I loved the cultural aspects of the city — theater, ballet, opera — as well as its diversity. I knew its nooks, crannies, and subway routes, could find my way along its pot-holed streets and traffic clogged highways, more importantly, could locate the municipal parking lots near every courthouse.
I loved the Manhattan skyline, the East River Drive, Central Park. I loved the Palisades Parkway, Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Jones Beach. I loved Fifth Avenue at Christmas, the glitz, the crowds, the pretzel vendors.
Tolerance – New York Style
New Yorkers do not all love one another. For the most part, however, they tolerate one another. Elbow to elbow during a sale at Macy’s or shoulder to shoulder at Ground Zero, they share the crowded island — Hasidic jewelers, Indian cabbies, Greek restaurant owners, Cuban bus boys, and Southampton matrons alike.
A Race Run Everyday
Whatever their race, ethnicity, or point of origin, the vast majority of New Yorkers do not consider the city glamorous. For them, New York is driven, a race run everyday. Taxi horns, ambulance sirens, and gun shots are merely counterpoint in the cacophonous song of a great city.
New York’s Darker Side
The city does have a darker side, make no mistake.
New York has its share of poverty, racial tension, drugs, mob activity, and gang-related violence. Though crime rates have been down in the last few years, rapes and murders are not unusual. New York crowds afford the newcomer anonymity, but anonymity can all too quickly lead to alienation.
By the ‘90s the pace, the congestion, the filth, the crime, most of all the homelessness — the sharp contrast between “haves” and “have nots” — had me longing for a different life. Read more…
Autumn leaves, Author W.carter, (CC BY-SA 4.0 International)
When I let Aretha (not her real name) know that I wanted to do a book on poverty and asked for permission to include aspects of her life in the book, she was enthusiastic. “People are livin’ without heat. Somebody’s gotta do somethin’,” she said.
This is narrative non-fiction. Names have been changed in the interest of privacy. But events like these are playing out daily in cities across America. They reflect tragic statistical realities.
The conclusions reached and solutions proposed constitute my best efforts to understand and respond to heart wrenching situations, many of which I have observed firsthand. Admittedly, those conclusions may be in error; the solutions, inadequate. I implore greater minds to do better.
Despite all this, I have tried to remain faithful to Aretha’s own story. I’ve had no need to exaggerate or embellish that story. Aretha’s valor speaks for itself.
But Aretha’s is just one story of poverty in America. There are, literally, millions. My hope in telling her story is that by personalizing the problem, I may in some small way give voice to those millions.
And that somebody will do something.
“That our daughters may be as pillars, Sculptured in palace style” (Ps. 144: 12).
It was to be a temporary thing, a trial run, really. I had no desire to mentor a teenager – let alone a streetwise girl, from the inner city. Childless, myself, I was not trained or equipped for the challenge.
After all, what could we possibly have in common? And teenagers were notoriously uncommunicative. Family and friends cautioned me not to expect too much from the relationship.
As a lawyer, enamored of books all my life, surely I would bore her to death. Then there was the question of race. My shortcomings – real and imagined – loomed large.
Still, Ruth had convinced me to meet the girl. An experienced social worker, Ruth Hammond headed the volunteer program at a respected children’s relief organization. Grey haired, witness to much suffering and sadness over the years, Ruth said she had a “feeling” the girl and I might click. Read more…
Khirbet Qeiyafa, recognized by the Council for Conservation of Heritage Sites in Israel, Author Abraham Greitzer אברהם גרייצר
(CC BY-SA 4.0 International)
Originating late in the 11th Century BC, the archaeological site known as Khirbet Qeiyafa controls the entrance to Israel’s Elah Valley, and is thought to be the biblical city of Shaarim (“Two Gates”) [1][2].
Shaarim
Shaarim was one of three anchor cities during the early reign of King David, the other two being Jerusalem and Hebron.
The layout of Khirbet Qeiyafa is similar to that of Beersheba, Beth Shemesh, Tell en-Nasbeh, and Tell Beit Mirsim (all in the Kingdom of Judah) [3][4][5][6]. Two defensive walls surround the city, with houses incorporated into these walls.
The age of Khirbet Qeiyafa was established through radiocarbon dating of olive pits found there.
The artifacts uncovered include carved animal bones, pottery, a bronze ax and arrowheads, iron daggers and swords, scarabs, beads, and seals.
Centralized Administration
The scale of construction at Khirbet Qeiyafa suggests conscription of manpower for public works by a central authority.
Numerous storage jars with finger impressions may have been used as a tax collection system, with a certain percentage of agricultural products due the government. While King David is not referenced by name, this, too, suggests a centralized administration. Read more…
Author Man vyi (PD)
There are currently 25 million non-citizens residing in the United States, 11 million of whom are here illegally [1A].
While voting by non-citizens is prohibited in federal elections, only 7 states (AL, AZ, CO, FL, LA, ND, and OH) expressly prohibit non-citizens from voting in state and local elections [1B][2].
DC and certain municipalities in VT, MD, and CA now allow non-citizens to vote in local elections [3]. Only a few distinguish between legal and illegal aliens, for voting purposes.
Political Posturing
By and large, Democrats and Republicans hold opposing views on this topic.
Democrats accuse Republicans of creating a bogeyman to inflame their base. Republicans accuse Democrats of favoring open borders and an expanded electorate in the hope of currying favor with new voters, regardless of consequences.
Arguments in Favor
A. Taxation
“…the United States was founded on the promise of ‘no taxation without representation’ — yet there are some…who are unable to participate in the elections that affect their lives and livelihoods. And yes, most of them pay taxes.”
–Nicholas Goldberg, Assoc. Ed, Los Angeles Times [4A]
Many assume that non-citizens do not pay taxes. However, resident aliens, i.e. those with green cards, are subject to the same tax laws as US citizens [5].
According to the American Immigration Council, even undocumented immigrants pay billions in taxes (including sales, property and income taxes) [6][7].
B. Assimilation
Proponents of non-citizen voting — on the local level, at any rate — argue that it might be viewed as part of the process of becoming assimilated, and ultimately attaining citizen status [4B].
C. Equity
Proponents of non-citizen voting argue that prohibiting non-citizens from voting is discriminatory public policy, since there are substantial barriers to naturalization [8A]. Meanwhile, allowing non-citizens to vote promotes the good of society as a whole [8B]. Read more…
A Lawyer's Prayers 