A Vision of Decay, Neglect Is Revisited

On the morning after three young men were shot and killed outside the Fairview Villas apartment complex last week, a toddler played “hide-and-go-seek” outside her family’s apartment. Dashing in and out of the bushes, she was just 100 yards from the public telephones where the men were gunned down.

The child seemed oblivious to the slayings and to the occasional crowd that gathered at the site to look at the bloodstains that marked the death scene. As I walked past the girl, I couldn’t help but think of my own childhood. My family lived in a rough section of Jersey City, N.J., a neighborhood that slowly decayed as families, able to afford the suburbs, moved away. Those who were on low incomes stayed behind--along with the drug dealers and hustlers.

Here in Santa Ana, I thought of this child growing up as I did, stuck in a neighborhood where crime is common and drugs are a way of life.

I was a 5-year-old when my family moved to Jersey City. My parents had saved enough money to buy a tiny laundry on Jackson Avenue, which was once the premier shopping district in Jersey City.

When my family moved to Jackson Avenue in the late 1960s, there were already signs of suburban flight. Still, we didn’t care. At the time, we were only too happy to live in our own place. Though the neighborhood was still relatively safe and lively when we moved in, there was already a handful of storefronts closing down.

Our laundry was between an A&P; supermarket and a Dairy Queen. On my block, there was a bakery that sold Italian cookies and flavored ices. At the corner, there was a drugstore that served egg creams and malts as well as a fruit stand where customers picked produce from the stalls. Everyone in the neighborhood knew my family, particularly my father. He was always cleaning the concrete in front of the shop with a bucket of water and an old broom.

As I grew up, I watched my neighborhood change. Residents moved away and merchants boarded up their storefronts with plywood. Within a few years, most of the merchants and stores were gone. The only exceptions were my family’s laundry, a corner liquor store and the Dairy Queen, which became a fortress, encased in security bars and bulletproof windows. Gradually, dope dealers, addicts and hustlers made Jackson Avenue their home.

Not unlike residents in Santa Ana around Fairview Villas, my family found itself changing with the neighborhood. We added extra locks to our doors and got a watchdog. We tried not to go out alone at night. Every time my mom came home from work, we waited for her by the bus stop. Muggings were the most frequent crime in the neighborhood. Even with such precautions, we didn’t escape the crime. Muggers robbed my father of $1 when he went to buy a quart of milk from the liquor store.

There’s never a precise moment when a neighborhood goes bad. One day, Jackson Avenue seemed like a dream location for us. Then suddenly, it was the only place in which we could afford to live.

My family was finally able to move away when I was a teen-ager. Now when I visit home, I drive by the old neighborhood for a shortcut. On a good day, I might think of the better memories, like the smell of Italian cookies. But more often than not, I drive very quickly.

In my recent tour of Fairview Villas, I couldn’t help but think of Jackson Avenue. I learned that this complex was once the most sought-after address in the city. In the past year, the apartment management, police and city officials have worked hard to get rid of crime in the area. But still, crime has a way of permeating the neighborhood. And the apartment residents, many of whom cannot afford to live elsewhere, are struck by how close a brutal crime can get.

I looked at that little girl and wondered what kind of memories she will have when she is older. Would she think of playing “hide-and-go-seek” in front of her home or of the day when three men were shot dead 100 yards away from her family’s apartment?