I See You, in Your BMWs, Buying Drugs on My Street : Crime: A drive-through market for ‘casual users’ makes a whole neighborhood a living hell; one captive fights back.
You think that I don’t see you.
You, the usually white guys in BMWs, four-wheelers and occasionally a limo, rolling down my street to buy your “drive-through†drugs, California-style.
You think that since you’ve driven into a poor area, no one notices you. You’re wrong. I see you. And I take down your license-plate numbers.
You’re despicable in my eyes and in the eyes of the terrified non-English-speaking families who are my neighbors.
Your sellers--black and Latino men, mostly, and a few women of all races--hate you, too. There’s a lot of hatred with drugs. I hate all drug addicts because they become sociopaths. No conscience.
You probably think that you are in control of your drug use, that you are a “casual†drug user. A recreational doper. Tell me, if that’s true, what’s so casual about driving into a so-called dangerous neighborhood--dangerous because you are helping to make it so--in the dead of night. It’s not like running over to the 7-11 for ice cream, this long drive you’re making.
You come to the slums and return to your genteel neighborhoods to get high. You don’t think your actions have consequences for others. You don’t stop to consider that your dope dollar goes to buy bullets that stray and kill 2-year-olds. Or that you’ve made a living hell out of our neighborhood, which was generally pretty livable when my first husband and I bought this “affordable†house in 1977 as part of the “urban pioneer†wave.
Partly, we’re in this mess because the police put up a substation at the park where most of the dealing went on, driving the drug peddlers into our streets. But mostly it’s because you’ve made our neighborhood your marketplace. Now the gangs are flourishing here, charging each drug dealer $30 a night for protection. Your recreational dollar is blood money.
There are terrified families on this street who don’t dare to speak out against the drug trade and hope only for a better life for their children. Your presence contributes to the blight, the graffiti, the zero property values. Maybe you also voted to reduce spending on social programs and education.
For me, it’s difficult to concentrate on anything but keeping you away. My sprinklers are on a timer to chase off the peddlers at night. Not good for conservation, but vital to me.
I take down license-plate numbers. My husband takes photos with high-speed film and telephoto lenses. I call the police and they come, but the peddlers just stroll off until the coast is clear.
One night, I tried a new tactic. A bullhorn. Each time a buyer slowed down, I clicked it on and said, “Move on. Buy your drugs somewhere else.†Or, “I’ve got your license number. Get out of here.†It worked.
It also enraged the dealers. “You’re dead,†they shouted back, with unprintable curses. “We’re going to burn your house.â€
Yes, this is scary and humiliating for me. I’m trying to find a way to move out, but my wonderful Victorian house is apparently unmarketable and would be trashed the minute we left. We can’t even rent it, except to crack dealers.
Some might say, “Oh, the poor little white middle-class couple.†I have the same voice in my head, because I know that the reality of my neighborhood has afflicted a lot of truly poor people for a long time. But that doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t complain.
The city government and police are overwhelmed by the urban problems caused largely by drug consumption and can’t help me much. The police tell me to be careful. My family and friends tell me to flee. But I am consumed with keeping you, the drug buyers, away.
So don’t think that no one sees you. I see you. I’m determined to expose you. You’re in the wrong neighborhood this time.
