Just remember, people actually live here.

Story:
(Still working on and refining the writing. Here's some unfinished batch for now).
As 9:15 comes and goes (and so does my train outta the city) I begin to worry just a tad and feel that maybe I aught to talk to some people and if not make some friends, then at least figure out what others are planning on doing. I don't want to be the only idiot sitting there being watched by the aforementioned snipers.
Disappointingly, the folks sitting around aren't too talkative, until an older gent by the name of Peter approaches me.
"Say fella, you know of any crash pads around tonight?"
"Uhm, I just missed my train outta here, so I'm sorta in the same position as you, haha! I think people might be staying here all night, or something..."
"Well be careful. They got cops that do nothing but sit around all day just studying crowd control. They'll tell yah it's okay, then at 4am rouse yah up. It's an old cop trick. They used to do it back in the 70's. Don't underestimate the enemy..."
I thank Peter for his words of wisdom and continue asking around. I gather that enough people are staying to make it also worth me doing so. One of those people is Isaac, a happy dude that's happy to be there.
"Fuckin' police, we're showin' 'em maaan!"
We engage in some more small talk bike ride blah blah until someone asks if we want to help carry things, to which I happily agree. I pick something up, then put it down, and watch as some people quickly and efficiently set up a table to give out food. When they're ready, I get in line and start chatting with the people around me about the situation, everything from the National Guards to the rioting.

Isaac appears and adds in, "Yeah man I took an Arizona from there! I was like, the only white guy in the store haha!"
Austin gives him a fist bump. "Arizona man those are legit."
"We gotta take it back, y'know? Every little bit." He says proudly.
I find this pretty interesting.
"Y'know, I actually met the owner of that 7/11. His names Keyer."
"Oh yeah I guess it's owned by Indians or something" Isaac laughs.
"Yeah he's actually a really nice guy. He cares about the community, and employs some immigrants that don't speak a lot of English."
Isaac's face starts to change, "Well 7/11 is like, this big franchise. Baltimore deserves better"
I cut him off "Keyer told me he doesn't actually have any insurance. He had to pay for all the stuff and damage himself."
Isaac is visibly uncomfortable now, flustered even, "Hey you know there were black ladies there that were getting their kids new shoes for the very first time ever by takin' 'em from Payless."
"And I'm sure they deserved 'em. I only talked to Keyer though."
"I guess there's a 7/11 in my neighborhood owned locally by a nice guy named Sa'id. I'd never steal from him..."
"I'd feel like I owed Keyer a dollar if I were you."
"Yeah, maybe I'll go give him a dollar and five cents or something..."
"Hey man, you do what you want. I'm not the police haha!"
Isaac gets out of line, without getting his food.

I'm very impressed by what's served. I suspect it was dumpster dived (I ask discreetly) but the server assures me it was donated by local grocers.
Another person getting food hears and asks, "Oh? What places gave this food?"
"They've asked not to be named..."
Hmm, why is that I wonder?
I try to find someone to chat with while I eat, but the few people I approach aren't too receptive. A happy short girl named Sky suggests I assist her in getting everyone in a large circle. "That's exactly what I want to do! Once I'm done eating!" I see McKayla chillin' with her dog and Keith and go say hello to them. McKayla doesn't want to wait in the line for food, so I offer her the rest of my salad (I knew that would happen, sigh). The salad was delicious though so that spurs her off. Keith isn't much for conversation so I move to join the large circle.
As I stand, I notice that the East side of the Park now has a wall of police armed with riot shields. Some others have also noticed, and their worry becomes palpable. My only worry is my journal. I simply must not lose that.
I sit in the circle and start on my greek yogurt as I chat with my circle mates. They make a big deal about standing instead of sitting, but eventually take a seat beside me. A couple of the Afican-American speakers from before, including the bad-ass dude from the video that was picked up by the humvee, lay down in the middle of the circle. They seem like they're in their element!
I notice to the North side of the park there is now another wall of riot shields. A couple others also notice, and urge people to calm and sit down. Some do, some move to leave. There's a tension in the air now. Someone hands me a bag of spicy Cheetos. Another loud young woman starts the usual chant. This time though, the yeller changes "NO JUSTICE NO PEACE" to "MORE JUSTICE MORE PEACE." I like that better. I scrape away the last bits of my greek yogurt as everyone around me either processes what they aught to be doing, or repeats the call.

Quite suddenly, a man sitting two people away from gets his face slammed into the ground. A man in a white police uniform angrily yells "Ya wanna get arrested!?" And swat members spread out around him, like a hornet nest that just fell off the tree, grabbing, whacking, and restraining anyone they get their hands on. I don't think much, just grab my journal and jump away, less than a yard from the aggressive swat team moving in. The circle of protesters break up, some backing away cautiously, some in a run. City Hall on the West side of the park is barricaded with fences and National Guardsmen, so the only way out is to the South, where the wall of journalist trucks has left an opening. On the other side of the trucks are several officers on horseback, terminating the possibility of taking a left from that exit. The wall of riot shields moves through the park, pushing people towards this exit. As the police team moves some people call the police out on the current brutality. One such individual is met in kind, as he is tackled into a table by that same man in white from before, then dog piled by other police.

On the corner now from the park with several other protesters all sort of unsure whether they aught to take their chances in the city or stay with the others here, I notice McKayla alone with her dog, looking worried.
"Hey! Want some cheetos!?"
"Awe fuck, this is crazy. We weren't even doing anything they're being so rough."
"Yeah this is wild! Hey, I don't know where I'm going at all. Mind if I hang with you for a bit."
"Sure whatever..."
A female police officer is standing near us. "Please, people, for your own safety, go that way down the street!" I thank her for the advice, and tell her I will, then turn to McKayla.
"Ah, yeah. Maybe we should, uhm, go?"
There's some other protesters in the street, hollering at the police who are slowly pouring out from the park now, "WE WON'T GIVE UP! WE WON'T STOP UNTIL THERE'S JUSTICE!!"
McKayla is quite visibly upset, but her and Rockie are unmoving. The man in white appears again from the throngs of police. The hollering protesters are slowly backing away.
"McKayla, let's go..."
She snaps out of her trance and moves, quickly.
Moving up that block, between the city hall and another large building, the man in white walks determinedly towards us with a few fully armored swat members just behind. I notice now they all have zip ties at the ready on their belts.
"YOU CAN'T STOP US! YOU CAN'T SILENCE US!" We're all backing away.
"Oh I can stop you right now. Come here!" Says the man in white, almost mockingly.
Is this for fucking real?
He picks up his pace.
"WE'LL BE BACK TOMORROW!!" The final protester calls as she turns to run.
The police also begin to run. McKayla is freaking out.
I figure the officers want to get the one that was agitating them, "This way!" And I direct her down a different street. My hunch was correct; all the officers ignore us and run after the other, louder protesters.

"Holy shit they were literally chasing us down the street holy shit that's never happened before" McKayla cries.
"Yeah that was awesome!"
"Where do we go? I think Keith is at the harbor..."
"I don't know, there were lots of gaurds stationed there before. Awe jeez this is so exciting!"
She doesn't seem to share my enthusiasm. Some odd looking dudes are coming up the block and approach us.
"Hey guys, what's up?"
"Haaaaa nothin' maaan."
"Hey, want some cheetos? They're spicy."
"Yah okay... cool. So yeah we just got like, kicked out of the harbor..."
"Well hey, don't go that way. They're arresting people over there."
"Awe woah thanks man"
We leave those two and continue down the street. I figure now's a good time to transform from hippie protester to confused athletic traveler. I take off the tie-dye sweater, revealing my winston tech T-Shirt underneath, and untie my hair.
A military Humvee appears ahead of us and pulls onto the street we're walking on. I meet eyes with the driver. Smile and wave. They keep driving. We keep walking.
We then notice some people at a bus stop.
"Hey let's go over there. We can escape on a bus!"
"Are there buses?"
"I don't know, let's ask!"
I determine that there are, indeed, buses, but which bus to take?
I suddenly remember, the airport! That's a safe place to reside, and it's about 7 miles from Victoria's house. No problem for me! McKayla is on the phone, somewhat frantically telling Keith not to go back to City Hall and to meet us where we are, while I talk to the people at the bus stop. They're kind of annoyed I don't know, but when I share the super quick version of my story, they point us in the right direction.
We have to take a rail line to the airport, which is several blocks away.
Keith soon appears and we start the trek to Howard Street.

Despite there being a 10pm curfew, and the time being almost 11pm now, there are still some people in the streets. Most are waiting for some form of public transportation, but a few seem to just be hanging around. One man is sitting upright in his sleeping bag, hands held high to sky, in apparent prayer. I try to chat or tell some stories, but Keith and McKayla don't seem too interested. They're both a bit shaken up. I notice and give up on trying to cheer them up,
"If any police bother us, let me do the talking, okay?"
McKayla agrees, "Yeah that'd be good I don't think I'd be any help in this state I'd yell at them.
"Well, that's probably wouldn't help."
We get to Howard where another nice darkly skin toned man directs us the correct direction. We see the stop, but also the rail train approaching!
"I'll go see if it's the right one!" As I break into a sprint. I run up the winding ramp and get there just in time to see the driver face to face, between the door that he isn't opening. "Does this go to the airport?" I yell?
He stares at me with cold dead eyes for a few uncomfortable seconds, until he nods, then motions to go to the other door. I vault down from the elevated ramp in time to hold the door open for Keith, who was lagging behind McKayla.

On the rail, Keith is scolded by a man clearly under the influence of some substance for holding the door open (I decide not to bail him out). McKayla starts texting to figure out her next move and I begin going through my bag. Hunger finally hits me and I break out the crackers and edamame hummus I'd been saving all day. I offer it to my neighbors but no one wants any. Hm, oh well. I give the bag of cheetos to the man scolding Keith, at which point Keith moves his seat. McKayla and Keith both looked relieved but exhausted. I hear her mention a ride from her dad. Not particularly excited about running 7+ miles in the dark on a main route, I inquire about getting a ride if it's not too much trouble, but McKayla does not express a sufficient enough attitude for me to feel as though I am not imposing, so I say don't worry about it. Her and Keith and Brockie the dog get off the stop before the airport. She yells bye as the doors close. We didn't exchange information, so we probably won't meet again. Wish I didn't forget to give her my blog though.

I freshen up at the airport and prepare for the run. No one is at the information desk so I just go behind it to use the computer. Maybe it's the black shirt, or maybe it's just standing there with confidence 'cause I'm beyond most social "supposed to", but people think I'm the dude that works there. I helped one guy with a question that I happened to know the answer to as I looked at Google maps so I wouldn't get lost. I eat some more crackers for energy and depart into the night.

Running down the highway at 1 am sucks, yet I feel elated. What a day! What a night! What an adventure! The desire to write it all down spurred my legs onward. As I run, thoughts of the people I encountered fill my head. Did Peter ever find a place to stay? What happened to the other protesters chased off by that officer in white? Will Isaac ever repay Keyer that dollar? My brain is processing the information of the evening as much as it can as I run. I notice the are around the airport is quite suburban, with mostly gated little communities, aside from the houses built along the more busy road.
I don't really need to worry about being mugged here.
This is suburbia. The lower-level middle class, but still, there is little to no danger. No one is around. I reflect on the safety of this place, compared to the constant environment of a city that you always have to look over your shoulder in,
whether for some disgruntled cop or deranged hoodlum.
For some over stressed overworked officer having a bad day, or some opportunist criminal.
For some guy just trying to do his job, or for some guy just trying to feed his family.
For people, just trying to live.

I quietly walk into the unlocked door left open for me, and latch it behind me.
I grab some of the delicious trail mix made with raw cacao, fresh coconut shavings, macadamia nuts, and dried goji and mulberries.
I sit down to write about my night of being chased by police.
This is Baltimore.


Story 2:
I sit down on the futon that is to be my bed for the next two nights. My host now is a nice young couple, about my age. Zack is looking at his magic cards while Andrea is preparing me a cheese and cracker platter with organic pickles. I contribute a melon I'd been saving to the moment. Zack, approvingly, hands me a nice bowl filled with green. Andrea mentions the futon has a tempurpedic top. I am going to have a great two days.

After enjoy some good conversation and my light lunch, Zack and I depart into the town. We're in the Northern side of the city now, the nice side. Zack gives me an impressively detailed history lesson of the area. Built my Jewish immigrants who came here to prosper on the cost, they all left with the rest of the middle-upper class from the area and it's now a mixture of young white couples and art college kids (much different than you're normal college kid).

We eventually get to a less clean part of town and find a few cool locals. People have set up some sound stage in just some lot at an intersection and are having a little open-mic. The lot isn't packed but it seems like they just started and people are slowly arriving. I talk to some of these people and get more details about the area, such as with Mike, who tells me about "Graffitti Alley" around the corner and some of the things he's involved with now. I don't get to jot too many notes though, as instead receive a friendly enough warning upon pulling The Journal out,
"Careful writing notes. It's a... weird time for the city. There is lots of expression going on, and people are just kind of weary of journalists. People are on edge, and there's a lot of grief going around."
And he walks off. I don't get anything else he said though, as suddenly I'm drawn to the stage.
A beautiful young African-American woman is now singing, with no background music at all, "Killing me Softly." And she is doing it amazingly. My pen in hand falls to my side, as I take in her words and emotion, trying to imagine the struggles and tribulations she has gone through, living and growing here in this messed up city. Sirens whiz by, as three swat team trucks race down North Ave. Cars rev and go, some blasting music which briefly raises in volume, then fades away with the sound of their tires. A helicopter in the distance. These things give her her music. They are the background to her song. She finishes singing, but the sirens still echo in the distance, now from a new place.

We grab a bite to eat at a cool vegetarian eatery. I'm a bit too open with people about the fact that a plant which is illegal has been burned near my nostrils and small microscopic bits of the airborne burning matter passed through my lungs... Which makes Zack nervous. I apologize. I had not stopped to think about how the environment of Baltimore might affect that sort of perception. His worry is, of course, probably well founded. In every exchange that I have heard, the police here are not to be trifled with. I hope I get the chance to talk with one...

We eat are sandwiches and head out (I get another one to go). Due to proximity, Zack suggests we go and see  the place Mike told bme about now. We head just around the corner where I discover that "Graffitti Alley" is exactly just that. Graffitti is painted, over and over again, 4 stories high up up both walls of the brick buildings. It's a rare art exhibit in Baltimore, but better than most of the murals that I found in Philly. As we walk down the way, some hip-hop trap music is slowly getting louder.
"Where's that music coming from?"
"They do shows here sometimes, I guess." Zack answers.
"Oh yeah? Cool. How do you get i—"
And as we round the corner my question is answered. A table, speaker, and turntables are set up right in the alleyway. There's at least 50 people, including a few children and older folk, but mostly young guys, standing in a sizeable circle, watching people battle each other in dance offs.My jaw drops.
Real. Fucking. Dance. Offs.
Like, holy shit, this is the coolest thing ever. I used to pretend to do this in high school (Good ol' Crab Walk Dance). Now here it is in front of me, the real deal. However, I am no longer some crab walking lanky awkward kid. I am ready.
I turn to Zack, "Dude, if we don't leave right now, I'm gonna dance."
"Uhmmm, I don't know..."
"I'm an amazing dancer. This is, woah. Zack, I have to dance."
"Well, if you really feel you want to."
I join the circle.
Mind you, I was only one of two white guys there, not including Zack.
I start grooving a bit, not trying to steal anyone's thunder.
Somebody notices me though (I kind of stand out) and points at me saying, "Yo let's check this guy out!" He helps me catch a couple more peoples' interest, until enough people back away from me to give me some room.
Boom.
I break it down, hard.
For you see my precious reader, I am an amazing dancer. An amazing dancer that one could only understand with the understanding of what it means to dance, which I will not currently expand upon now.
I do one of my favorite moves (that fits the rhythm of the song of course) the puppet leg. The crowd is wooing and hollering. It's amazing.
The music pumps up. I pump the puppet leg up.
People are yelling and whooping. The song fades and I back out to Zack.
"What'd you think of that?"
"Haha, uhm. Okay, haha. Zack mutters in slight bafflement.
I finish my sandwich while some other dude takes a turn, but the last bite of my vegetarian BLT isn't even down my esophagus yet when take a step back in.
I just get right back in and they're hollering again.
"Oh! You thought it was over! Just when you thought it was over!"
"Yo look out he might be like a blue belt or something!"
"He's stompin'! He's goin' stompin!!!"
"He's doin' the scuzzle!!!"
I'm feeling it so much I barely notice when the stomach cramp hits. The food keeps sloshing around in my stomach though and the pain just worsens.
Ugh, I wasn't prepared.
I decide to call it for now, no need to putter out after this great first impression.
Besides, Zack is with me and I have no idea if he thinks I'm awesome or is terrified of being in this alleyway (and I want to respect his feelings).
I give some dudes some nods and some high fives, a girl hands me a wet towel (she looks impressed), and I leave, saying I'll be back tomorrow.I've found another magical place.
This is Baltimore.


Reflection:
Baltimore's problems run deeper then I can even begin to understand. While on the one hand these problems are definitely nationwide, they are also uniquely Baltimore's as well. I've only been here a few days, but from that outsider's perspective, I'm going to use this space to express some observations and thoughts.

One school of thought is that, "The Police are the Problem." This is a completely understandable point of view. Every story I hear of police encounters are negative, ranging from the completely benign to horror stories. One young white man with dreds was hassled for no reason until he left the area he was in. One young black man's sixteen year old relative was clipped by a bullet. The 83 year old grand mother called the police. The responding officer did not believe the young man, claiming he was shot in the house (which would call for a different sort of investigation/response). The grandmother also insisted he was shot outside. The officer still refused to belive either of them, then decided to demand to see their basement. The grandmother refused, but the officer attempted to descend anyways. The grandmother, worried that the dog down there may bite the officer, moved to physically block the officer. He shoved her out of the way. She suffered some injuries from the fall.
Just imagine that though. You almost get shot in your own neighborhood, so you call the cops, right?
But instead of helping you, they don't believe, then injure your 83 year old grandma.
These stories often come to us through words on the screen.
Black letters with a white background
Maybe a news anchor. Maybe a video.
http://thefreethoughtproject.com/pregnant-women-elderly-baltimore-cops-dark-history-brutality/
But when you talk to people about it. When you hear their hurt, and see the desperation in their eyes, right in front of you, you gain a different understanding of the situation.

Of course, there's another side. The Police Officer's side. People that subscribe to the above side don't often hear this other side, and depending on the reporting no one may. While in Baltimore, there is almost always some siren wailing from some direction, including through most of the night. Helicopters occasionally hover by, moving through the sky with some unknown purpose to the rest of us. Two thirds of the city has been abandoned since the days of prosperity years ago. Blight is everywhere in the ghetto areas and buildings are falling apart on every block. Services are minimal, schools are underfunded, and crime is high. However, this is not some bastion of destitution. The people there have lived in that environment their whole life. It is the sort of life they know. It's what they are taught. The people there are just trying to survive the way they know how, by fighting for it.
I do not pretend to understand what it is like, having come from that world, but perhaps I could at least gain a better understanding if only I would be able to talk to some more people from there.
And that is precisely the problem.
Neither side wants to listen or very much likes the other.
Police, living mostly in the outer areas of Baltimore, the suburbs or beyond, commute from their safe havens into the jungle of the city. They have to deal, day in and day out, through the night. with all manner of crazy issues that the people of Western Baltimore experience and can not reasonably resolve themselves every day. The action is constant. No day or night is boring for a Baltimore cop, that's for sure. Showing up to a call, there's a real possibility that they could become the target of aggression at some point. Throw in the general distrust and hate everyone has for them and that becomes a situation that you would not want to be in.
Now imagine the entire country is watching your every move and lots of people all around either hate you or at least think you can do a better job. How unappreciated does that make you feel? How fed up are you with these people that you have to deal with every day? How stuck are you there, with this constant stress and long hours?

The people the officers may lash out against can not empathize with them, unfortunately. They don't see their struggles. They only see the angry, scared, armed and dangerous policeman that probably doesn't want to be dealing with whatever nonsense had brought them out there in the first place.

In my own dealings with the police, they have occasionally been kind, but depending on what I'm wearing, or what ideas I might be associating myself with at the time, they could be more standoffish to me or downright violent (see above). More often though, police just grunt and look away. They aren't having fun. They are doing their job and it sucks but here they are so just move along, please.
There is currently a very interesting contrast to this. The National Guard. Every guardsmen I've talked to has been super friendly and super nice! Some even gave me some food! Truly, they are peacekeepers here. They do not answer to the police, yet have some level of authority. They are all each armed with a frickin' M4 rifle—no one is gonna mess with them. I wonder, if the cops all took a vacation and their jobs were done by the guard, would things g

See, the relationship between the low-income neighborhoods and the mostly mid-income police officers is like a bad marriage gottequalifin worse. They really never should have been together in the first place. They're just not on the same level. They don't connect. They don't communicate well at all normally, so they can't even sit down to talk about things. Even when they try, someone gets misunderstood, and sometimes that misunderstanding turns to fear. That fear turns to violence. Violence turns to tragedy.

In the end, all the decisions rest on the leadership or the protest movements. If they can truly harness the power of the people, gain momentum and support instead of lose it, and make the correct strategic plays here, they may be able to have enough power that the people in charge will have to listen to them. At that point, if an actual dialogue opens, then maybe some actual good change can happen.
It's a shame that it takes weeks of protests, hundreds and thousands of dollars, and much more than  innocent
Marriage gone bad.
What the ghettos need


Poetry:
I did not write any poetry this week at all! Too much information gathering. There were two stories instead so there yah go!
I need the poetry to be good here or what's the point?
Once I feel I've learned enough, the poetry will come...
For now just read "The Courtyard" again. Even though it's more reflective of Philadelphia, it's very relevant here and you probably didn't figure out what it's actually about. Go read it again!


Pictures:

I didn't take this picture, it's from a news website, but I was in this store and spoke with the owner, Keyer. A friendly and kind man, who despite being shaken by the robbery, remained quite positive, especially in his care towards his community.

Families walked together. Most people were having a pretty good time!

 

Parents walked hand in hand with their children. A stark contrast to the news reports I've seen.

A lot of people showed up.

 

Cavalry. They mostly just stood around.

As one man put it, "People are starving. Why can't they put any of the money paying these cops to sit around and do nothing into feeding people?"

National Guard and Police are ready to defend the Police Station here.

I kept wondering, why do the National Guard even have those M4 rifles?

Are they gonna use 'em?

The protest marched through some bad neighborhoods.
I was able to see the blight and desolation of these areas.
I'm glad I don't live there. I can only imagine the desperation of the people that do.
And the mindset 

The march ended with several people speaking in front of City Hall.

The dude speaking there is the same man from this video:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GbdLqUX1r9M

He said, "[They] took me in that humvee, thought I'd be intimidated. But I'm back out the next night 'cause I'm not doin' it for me! I'm doin' it for everyone!" 

Protesters sit around, ready to do so all night in defiance of the curfew.

But that didn't last long. In the foreground are people running. In the background you can make out the police as they spread out, grabbing people. 

The last few protesters being chased away, including myself. You can kind of make out the man in white and the other officers with him, just before they break into a sprint.

We escaped on the train.

I didn't pay.