“Tallboy’s a member of the Dillard Street Posse.”
“Progress,” I said.
“More than that,” Erin said. “I know him.”
CHAPTER 30
Tallboy wasn’t anywhere we looked for the rest of the day. Erin and I stopped in my office for drink.
“Some of them are only seven or eight years old,” Erin said.
She had half a glass of Irish whiskey which she held in both hands.
“Some of the older gang kids will recruit the wannabes to carry the weapon, or the drugs, even sometimes do the shooting-they’re juveniles. If they’re caught, the penalty is lighter. And the little ones are thrilled. Peer acceptance, peer approval.” She smiled a little and sipped her whiskey. “Upward mobility,” she said.
I nodded. Outside the window the rain was still with us, straight down in the windless darkness, making the pleasant hush hush sound it makes.
“The thing is,” I said, “is that that’s true. The gangs are upward mobility.”
“Oh, certainly,” Erin said. It was obviously so ordinary a part of what she knew that she hadn’t thought that anyone might not know it. “These kids are capitalists. They watch television and they believe it. They have the values they’ve seen on the tube. They think that the Cosby family is reality, and it is so remote from their reality that they find their own life unbearable. The inequity enrages them. It is not arrogance that causes so many explosions of violence, it’s the opposite.”
“Would the term `low self-esteem‘ be useful?” I said.
“Accurate,” Erin said. “But not very useful. None of the things people say on talk shows are very useful. What they see on television is a life entirely different than theirs, and as far as they can see, what makes the difference is money. The way for them to get money is to sell drugs or to steal from people who sell drugs-there isn’t anybody else in their world that has money to stealand since either enterprise is dangerous, the gang offers protection, identity, even a kind of nurturance.”
“Everybody needs some,” I said.
The whiskey was nearly vaporous when I sipped it, less liquid than a kind of warm miasma in the mouth. It was warm in my office, and dry, and in the quiet light the two of us were comfortable.
“Where do you get yours?” I said. “Nurturance?”
She sipped her whiskey again, bending toward the glass a little as she drank. Then she raised her head and smiled at me. “From the kids, I suppose. I guess the gangs provide me meaning and belonging and emotional sustenance.”
“Whatever works,” I said.
We were quiet briefly while the rain fell and the whiskey worked. There was no uneasiness in the silence. Either of us would talk when we had something to say. Neither of us felt the need to talk when we didn’t.
“Do you know Maslow’s hierarchy of needs?” Erin said.
“Don’t even know Maslow,” I said.
“Maslow’s studies indicate that humans have a descending order of fundamental needs: physical fulfillment, food, warmth, that sort of thing; then safety, love, and belonging; and self-esteem. Whoever-or whatever-provides for those needs will command loyalty and love.”
“Which the gangs do.”
“Yes,” Erin said. “They do.”
Again we were quiet. Erin finished her whiskey and held her glass out. I poured her another drink. Me too.
“There’s even a girls’ gang,” Erin said. “Really vicious, hostile.”
“I will make no remark about the female of the species,” I said.
“Ghetto life is sexist in the extreme,” Erin said. “Among the gangs, women are second-class citizens. Good for sex and little else. Maybe it has to do with a matriarchal society. Maybe all sexism does-the struggle between son and mother over son’s freedom. I have no theories on it-I have no theories on anything. I haven’t time.”
She drank again and seemed lost for a moment in thoughts I had no access to.
“You were talking about a female gang,” I said.
Erin shook her head, half
“Progress,” I said.
“More than that,” Erin said. “I know him.”
CHAPTER 30
Tallboy wasn’t anywhere we looked for the rest of the day. Erin and I stopped in my office for drink.
“Some of them are only seven or eight years old,” Erin said.
She had half a glass of Irish whiskey which she held in both hands.
“Some of the older gang kids will recruit the wannabes to carry the weapon, or the drugs, even sometimes do the shooting-they’re juveniles. If they’re caught, the penalty is lighter. And the little ones are thrilled. Peer acceptance, peer approval.” She smiled a little and sipped her whiskey. “Upward mobility,” she said.
I nodded. Outside the window the rain was still with us, straight down in the windless darkness, making the pleasant hush hush sound it makes.
“The thing is,” I said, “is that that’s true. The gangs are upward mobility.”
“Oh, certainly,” Erin said. It was obviously so ordinary a part of what she knew that she hadn’t thought that anyone might not know it. “These kids are capitalists. They watch television and they believe it. They have the values they’ve seen on the tube. They think that the Cosby family is reality, and it is so remote from their reality that they find their own life unbearable. The inequity enrages them. It is not arrogance that causes so many explosions of violence, it’s the opposite.”
“Would the term `low self-esteem‘ be useful?” I said.
“Accurate,” Erin said. “But not very useful. None of the things people say on talk shows are very useful. What they see on television is a life entirely different than theirs, and as far as they can see, what makes the difference is money. The way for them to get money is to sell drugs or to steal from people who sell drugs-there isn’t anybody else in their world that has money to stealand since either enterprise is dangerous, the gang offers protection, identity, even a kind of nurturance.”
“Everybody needs some,” I said.
The whiskey was nearly vaporous when I sipped it, less liquid than a kind of warm miasma in the mouth. It was warm in my office, and dry, and in the quiet light the two of us were comfortable.
“Where do you get yours?” I said. “Nurturance?”
She sipped her whiskey again, bending toward the glass a little as she drank. Then she raised her head and smiled at me. “From the kids, I suppose. I guess the gangs provide me meaning and belonging and emotional sustenance.”
“Whatever works,” I said.
We were quiet briefly while the rain fell and the whiskey worked. There was no uneasiness in the silence. Either of us would talk when we had something to say. Neither of us felt the need to talk when we didn’t.
“Do you know Maslow’s hierarchy of needs?” Erin said.
“Don’t even know Maslow,” I said.
“Maslow’s studies indicate that humans have a descending order of fundamental needs: physical fulfillment, food, warmth, that sort of thing; then safety, love, and belonging; and self-esteem. Whoever-or whatever-provides for those needs will command loyalty and love.”
“Which the gangs do.”
“Yes,” Erin said. “They do.”
Again we were quiet. Erin finished her whiskey and held her glass out. I poured her another drink. Me too.
“There’s even a girls’ gang,” Erin said. “Really vicious, hostile.”
“I will make no remark about the female of the species,” I said.
“Ghetto life is sexist in the extreme,” Erin said. “Among the gangs, women are second-class citizens. Good for sex and little else. Maybe it has to do with a matriarchal society. Maybe all sexism does-the struggle between son and mother over son’s freedom. I have no theories on it-I have no theories on anything. I haven’t time.”
She drank again and seemed lost for a moment in thoughts I had no access to.
“You were talking about a female gang,” I said.
Erin shook her head, half
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