Dear Friends,

Out on the road, people often ask about the dangers of bringing up our kids in the ghetto. What they have in mind are drugs and violence, but what I fear most is their extended exposure to ignorance and impotence. There are exceptional individuals here to be sure, but the overall culture of this place is overwhelmingly dysfunctional. If it gets to me as a grown man, I wonder, what is it doing to the developing hearts and minds of my children?

Roman at seventeen is much taller and stronger than me, but coming home from his job as a bagger at the local supermarket he often reminds me of a hurt and angry little boy. It isn’t his bosses or the work itself that upsets him; it is the ongoing drama of child neglect, alcoholism, welfare fraud, theft, domestic violence, profanity, illiteracy, incompetence, and almost militant disinterest in doing the right thing, all on public display.

One day he watched a mother scream at her pre-teen girls for getting caught stealing baby formula and toilet paper, as if she hadn’t put them up to it in the first place. A week later, another mother told the cop shielding her 8 year old that she was going to beat the shit out of him as soon as they left, while the crying little boy kept leaning around, calling her a fucking bitch and telling her he wished she was dead. At the end of last month, Roman gained a lot of seniority when ten of his co-workers were caught on tape robbing their registers. At the beginning of this month, he rediscovered the ‘Check Day,’ when obese young women stuff their shopping carts with potato chips, candy, sugar cereals, and soda pop, all paid for with food stamps, while the rest of the neighborhood stocks up on beer and malt liquor. The good news is that, as part of our little fellowship, he knows lots of his customers by name. Actually, that’s the bad news.

Last night after work, Roman walked in, sat down at the dining room table, and told me he thinks people who can’t read, support themselves, or demonstrate any form of competency should be sterilized until those conditions no longer apply. For him, this was not an abstract policy idea, but rather a very personal, very emotional response to the lunacy he sees around him every day. He named the toddlers across the street, never read or talked to, parked in front of the television or left on the front porch for hours on end. He named the kids around the corner, who call at the end of every month looking for food while their mother and her boyfriend smoke and drink away in their rent-free government housing. He named teenaged parents we know who can’t take care of their dogs, let alone their children.

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t love and take care of people who are totally stupid and can’t do anything for themselves,” he told me, “I’m just saying we shouldn’t let people like that reproduce.” Then he asked what I think.

What do I think? Honestly, I think my poor, young, frustrated son is right. I also think that if you lived here for very long, up to your neck in the human wreckage of this toxic ghetto subculture, you might end up agreeing with us. I’m not saying that’s a good thing; I’m saying that’s the danger people ought to be asking about.

Sincerely,
Bart Campolo