On the term "ghetto"....

I am not ashamed to say that I was born and raised in the city of Philadelphia.   I was not living in Chester County.   I was not in Upper Darby.   I was IN Philadelphia.   The address on my house was 5017 Jackson Street.   We lived in a row home.    

Growing up on Jackson Street was a lot of fun.   Well... until I was about in 7th or 8th grade.   The neighborhood was united.   Everyone took care of one another.   However, eventually, things changed and things got ugly.   

This is a picture of me outside my house on my wedding day.   My parents put the house for sale right after we married and it sold immediately.

Now to give a little lesson about where I grew up.... here are some Google earth views.   This is the middle of Jackson Street.   Right outside my front door.   If you were to click this image you would see on the far left corner is the corner store.   Once you cross that street though... you better have had a bullet proof vest on.    Going to the corner store was fine.    No worries there.   Crossing the street however.... not so much.

This is my house I grew up in.   We had a three bedroom home and a "concrete jungle" out back.   At 5015 was our neighbor Jim.   Jim always kept a good eye out on us. 

Now this right here is what is known as the slam zone.   This is to the right of my house.   This was often known as the slam zone because in the winters, if you hauled down Haworth too hard and fast, you were going to slam into something.    If you look closely there is a wall at that corner property.   I used to sit on that wall and hang out with my friends but as I got older, and the neighborhood changed... that wall became off limits.    I was jumped right on that corner before.   It happens.    Three dudes jumped me and slashed my arms up.    They met the wrath of my father and I was never targeted again.

This house is directly across from my childhood home.   I hate seeing the litter on the street because growing up, it wasn't like this.   My "Uncle" Nunzio and "Aunt" Carol lived there.    Along with my "cousin" Joey and Lena.    Note the quotation marks.    Family but not blood.   They kept an eye on us, too.   

For grades 1-8 my parents sent us to Catholic School.   It was the best option and also the safest option.    Here are some photos of Catholic School.

It's sad to me that the neighborhood has changed so much that the school isn't even there anymore.   It was knocked down.   As the neighborhood change, the leadership in the Church became selective and we lost a lot of parishioners.    Our head priest was known for saying that he wasn't in the business of giving out charity.  I had a great education here.    I could walk to school safely.   I had no issues.

However around 1995-1996 is when the city started to turn and each year got a bit more uneasy.    I attended Girls High at Broad and Olney.   This is one way I got to school:

The cool thing about growing up in the city is that there were so many options to get from point a to point b.    Girls High was a magnet school and the bar was high.    Some days I took the 8 express to school.   Some days I took the El.    And some days I just needed some time to myself and I took the 26 home which was a longer ride but I adored the bus driver and he kept me safe.   I was in 10th grade when my driver had to get me off the bus here because a man had come on the bus with a gun and he wasn't sure where that was going to lead.

I always had an emergency quarter so I had to call my dad and let him know I was at Harbison and I wanted to walk home or at least meet him at Wiss for a ride.

As the neighborhood changed and as my body changed, young females were a target.   There was a man who lived up the block from us.    His name was Red.  Big black man.   Every single morning Red would come out and watch me and make sure I got on the 25 or 73 safely to then get on the 8 to get to Girls High.    Red would ask me every single day what my schedule was and sure enough he'd be outside watching and waiting for me to make sure gang bangers and thugs wouldn't mess with me on my walk down the block to my house.    Because like I said.... I could go to my house and I could go to the corner store.... but I should never ever cross the street here:

And while this all sounds so weird or foreign to whomever is reading this... this was a norm for me.

The real sadness came when a kid my age who I grew up with died.   He was running drugs for a while, since we were 11 years old.   He got his life together, found God, and started turning himself into a decent human being.    They didn't like that, and they left his body here:

It was at this point that I was engaged and living at college full time.   I just knew I wanted to be married in Philly and I wanted to walk down my childhood stairs.   Luckily, there was enough respect (and in some ways fear) towards my family that nothing ruined our wedding day or wedding festivities. 

I had a really awesome childhood growing up in the city and for some this is hard to understand because I found so much more good in the city than the bad.    To me, the reality is, there are bad people everywhere but there are also angels among us.   For me, I had my "uncles" watching me.   I had Red.    I had my bus driver.   

When you use the term "ghetto" it can be taken the wrong way.    Be careful with that word.   Growing up in the ghetto, in my opinion, is just what shaped me to be the me I am today.   I learned that there can be crap people and crap situations.    I learned that actions have consequences.   I learned that no one is immune from matters of consequence.    Just because I grew up in the ghetto does not mean I ran drugs, it does not mean I did drugs, it does not mean my morals were loose or my integrity was lost. 

Be careful with your words and judgements, dear friends.   

You have no idea what I've seen and really.... would it matter?    What matters most is kindness.   You get what you give.