Stray Bullets in Baltimore

Stray bullets are no accident. Whizzing by, separating air and ripping through surface layers until they are stopped or they stop. They disrupt everyday life in the worst way imaginable, taking with them that which was never theirs to take.

“Ain’t nowhere to run to,” sings Nina Simone soulfully in her song Baltimore, “there ain’t nothing here for free.”

I remember when I first announced I was moving into Baltimore back in 2010: the worried concerns of friends and family who have watched The Wire; the references to local and national news putting the city’s shortcomings on repeat. For as long as I can recall, I have likened Baltimore to a tale of two cities. There are waves of people flocking in for it’s thriving tech, medical and startup communities, and an equal if not greater amount of people dreaming of the day when they can finally escape the abandoned row home-lined streets that have held them back for generations.

Our city through a wide angled lense reveals an intermingling of shades, both darkness and light. We feature a prominent exterior of thriving communities with desireable neighborhoods, and an underbelly of everyone left behind: poverty largely segmented by race and class, so much so that rarely do these communities collide. One side has the privilege of being fully insulated, where it is easy to pretend the other does not exist. The other side is likely reminded daily of their place. The ever shrinking middle class straddles the dividing line.

It was a sunny summer afternoon, on Sunday when the weekend winds down and thoughts of Monday start to sneak in. I just finished watering the courtyard garden behind my small apartment building. I was transitioning inside to enjoy the AC and relax with a movie. And then, disturbing my peace...

"POP! POP! POP!"

"POP! POP!"

These explosions of sound came quickly from right outside my window. I instinctively hit the floor for protection, flattening myself to the hardwood panels. I knew those weren't fireworks or somebody's engine backfiring. Those were gunshots, on my tree-lined, neighborhood street in Baltimore city. There are children here. There are families here. This isn’t supposed to happen...here.

I didn't hear a car speed away; I didn't hear the wails and screams I thought should accompany city gunfire. I waited a couple minutes in silence and then rose to my feet. It’s quiet again and I listened intently for what might still be stirring beyond the safety of my walls. But was I safe? I slowly unlocked my apartment door and peered outside.

I live on what my neighbors and I have nicknamed the fringe. We are on the back side of a thriving waterfront neighborhood, and a block away from a luxury neighborhood developed within the past 15 years. The government housing projects are across the street, stretching two long blocks up and three over. The projects four story high brick buildings, squared off, do little to hide the cracked foundations, broken windows, and cheap fixes. We are separated on every neighborhood map you’ll find of our city, but we are not equal.

I’ve never really been bothered by the makeup of my street. Everyone says hello. The kids play in the open grassy area beside their complex and run up and down our sidewalks. The woman who owns the corner market comes outside and picks up litter. Our street is designated bike friendly on maps, so cyclists are always passing through. But, it’s very evident, as you walk or drive up from the waterfront, that there are stark differences between the end of our neighborhood and where the rest of Baltimore begins. After hearing those gunshots, I felt a sense of unease about the company my street keeps.

Just outside my door, there is a young man in a parked vehicle, his driver side window rolled down. He was on his cell phone talking with the police, explaining that he heard gunshots and saw a suspect take off running right past his truck. He looked up and saw me, then waved. I recognized his face instantly. It was Matthew; he works down near the waterfront at a salad place where I sometimes grab lunch.

Matthew parked his truck and walked over to say hello. Immediately following, a police car, sirens ablaze, speeds down the street. Just one car. The police car whizzed by us and rounded the corner to stop directly in the middle of my block. An officer stepped out. At the same time another neighbor of mine emerged from his home, Philip. He was an older man with salt and pepper hair, who resides just a couple doors down from my building.

We all walked over and met the police officer in the street. Just below the white clouds and perfect blue sky, a helicopter circled our neighborhood, searching.

“Which one of you made the call?” The officer asked.

“I did,” Matthew said, eager to help.

“I’ll talk to you first,” he said, and he asked to see Matthew’s license. Matthew retold the story of how many shots he heard and described the man who ran past his vehicle. African american male. Medium build. Young adult. This is also the same description for half of the population in Baltimore.

“But you didn’t see him fire the shots?” The officer asked, seeming frustrated when Matthew said no. What did he want? The perfect scenario, for everything to have unfolded with front row seats as if watching from a movie theater? He sighed, taking Matthew’s ID and walked back to his police car.

"A bullet went through my window." Philip said to me and Matthew.

"What?!” I asked, “are you okay?"

"Yeah,” he continued, “luckily I was in the kitchen cooking when it happened. It came through and ricocheted off the ceiling. I have no idea where it went.” He seemed surprisingly calm.

As we walked over to survey his window I listened to his commentary about how he’s lived on this block for 10 years and this has never happened before.

“This neighborhood is going to shit,” he concluded. “I’ve seen it decline over the years.” His front window is at the same height as mine, street facing on the first floor. There is a hole, the size of a golf ball, through his window. In my apartment, my sofa is pushed up to the wall where my front window is. If a bullet had entered my window, there’s a good chance it could’ve hit me, sitting on my sofa watching a movie. This could've been me. This could've been anybody. Everyday we go on living our lives, but I bet depending on where you live in Baltimore, this is a scenario you’re either well conditioned to or have not had to fathom at all.

“Maybe I should move...” He trailed off. To have the option is a privilege. I imagined myself in his shoes; that hole in my window a constant reminder of a strange combination of what if and luck. I would get up to gaze at this hole at odd hours; I would be wondering where was the bullet’s final resting place. Would it be hiding from me? Would I be entertaining and have someone find it? My mind forever penetrated by my proximity to unrest; I would be consumed.

But I have found so much love, hope, community, and good people inside these city lines. I am so fond of the city that I grimaced to even post on social media that there were gunshots on my street, just 5 blocks up from the waterfront where one bedroom apartments starts at $2100, and just one block over from a luxury condo building where you can buy in at $600,000. Would you think less of my city if you knew this happened right outside my door? Would my words confirm your views, further feeding the tsunami of negative news that floods television screens and internet feeds? Would you be more apprehensive to visit, to spend the night? Would my words mesh well with the scenic photos I post of Baltimore regularly, sunset views from high up places, where you can’t see the trouble stirring on the ground?

Throughout the first four months of 2017, Baltimore has experienced the highest murder rate in recorded history. As city officials work to become more efficient in solving gun crimes and further line our streets with officers, on the first weekend of August, community organizers launched a 72 hour cease-fire campaign with pleas for peace. But maybe this news doesn’t come into view from a luxury high rise just a mile or two away. Maybe concrete walls and luxury high rises mask the true sounds of my city. We have children’s laughter, adults socializing after a night on the town, live music from local bars, and gunshots. We have gunshots. I’ve always felt a sense of security inside my home. But no matter how I spin it, in reality, there is little inside here that can stop a bullet gone astray.