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When I was in junior high school, a couple with a small child moved in behind our house. He was a sailor, mom was some kind of clerical worker.
One day, my brother and I were in or backyard, and we saw this little blond head in a cowboy hat poke itself over the fence and this kid who was 4 or 5 unleashed a fusillade of incredible profanity.
He used the f word, the c word, the n word, you name it, and he strung them together calling us everything he could and laughed and popped back down.
We heard his parents screaming and fighting once in a while, and every so often this kid would cuss us out over the fence, probably just parroting what his parent were saying inside.
My Dad was in the military, so once in a while you would hear it from the men, but hearing it from this little kid seemed kind of funny at the time.
I moved to Treme—America’s so-called “oldest Black neighborhood”—because my mother-in-law’s shops in the French Quarter were starting to see more thefts, more vagrants casing the place, more close calls. She needed help, and I wanted to be nearby. Treme was only a few blocks away. It felt like the responsible thing to do.
The neighborhood, of course, has been thoroughly romanticized by the media, by liberal documentarians, by the kind of white tourists who come down for a weekend, get drunk on “vibes,” and go home thinking they’ve touched the soul of the South. They leave with portraits of resilience and trumpet solos echoing in their heads. But I live here. Within our first month, both my wife’s and my cars were stolen. Not broken into—gone. Packages don’t just go missing—they’re taken. Sometimes while we’re literally watching for them to arrive. Delivery drivers might be working with the local thieves; we’ve seen that too. You stand on your porch and wonder whether the guy in the Amazon vest is casing the house.
Walking my son to the playground two blocks away, or to the hipster coffee shop—where the baristas have tattoos of Louisiana flora and bumper stickers about abolitionist housing policy—means keeping your eyes on the ground like a bomb tech. You’re not looking for cracks in the sidewalk. You’re scanning for broken glass, condoms, human shit, animal shit, trash, needles, cracked lighters, crack pipes, and enough leftover blunt guts to fill a pillowcase.
There are “bars” here—really just cinderblock bunkers with neon signs and no windows. Outside them: rotting piles of chicken bones and crawfish shells that sit for days, weeks sometimes. No one cleans them up. No one cares. Trash in the grass, trash on the curb, trash ground into the sidewalk. It’s just part of the atmosphere.
To be fair—and I want to be—my neighbors have been decent to me. They’ve listened to my complaints and often share them. Their kids are sweet to my son. We wave, we nod. But fairness doesn’t override facts. And the fact is this: it is the people. Not all of them. Not every person. But overwhelmingly, yes—Black culture in this neighborhood is the problem. Not the system. Not gentrification. Not “white flight.” The culture itself.
Fights break out in the street. People scream at each other in public like it’s a stage play. Grown men get high and wander into traffic, yelling at cars. Women threaten each other in front of their kids. Toddlers roam near broken bottles while their parents are passed out or screaming. There is no shame. No self-awareness. Being dysfunctional here doesn’t carry a social cost—it carries street cred.
The police don’t even try to intervene anymore. Instead, they’ve installed cameras—big, ugly, blinking blue-light boxes mounted to poles that flash like club strobes at night. They scatter the worst actors like rats. That’s the security system now. Surveillance and fear.
A few weeks ago, I was podcasting late into the night wi
@CSandbatch
. His car battery died. As we were trying to jump it, a Suburban pulled up. Three Black guys in hoodies got out and started surrounding us. I didn’t wait to find out their intentions. I racked my 1911 loudly. Risky, sure. But effective. They turned and left. Welcome to “community policing,” New Orleans style.
At night, the city hums with decay. You hear the chirping of dozens of fire alarms with dead batteries—an ambient soundtrack of neglect. It’s funny, in a sad kind of way. Everyone here hears it, no one changes it.
I grew up in Northern Virginia. My experience with Black America was the opposite—normal families, striving professionals, order and discipline. Here? It’s like a different civilization entirely. It’s not even American. It’s Caribbean. It’s Central American. Quirky, stabby, corrupt, surreal.
8:28 PM · May 10, 2025
You hear the chirping of dozens of fire alarms with dead batteries—an ambient soundtrack of neglect.
I grew up in Northern Virginia. My experience with Black America was the opposite—normal families, striving professionals, order and discipline. Here? It’s like a different civilization entirely. It’s not even American. It’s Caribbean. It’s Central American. Quirky, stabby, corrupt, surreal.
Serving Black People is a Nightmare & They Never Tip
Deadly shooting at Florida fast-food restaurant may have been over mayonnaise packets
That Chicago?
Patrick says
That Chicago?
Philly
https://hip-hopvibe.com/news/grays-ferry-philadelphia-shooting-ring-camera-video/
Jul 7, 2025
There were numerous people caught in the crossfire. As a result, the video showed people ducking for cover. In addition, there was one person returning fire. According to local news reports, three people were killed and nine others injured after multiple gunmen opened fire on the crowd.
Patrick says
That Chicago?
Philly
https://x.com/ThePatriotOasis/status/1948167947786092739?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E1948167947786092739%7Ctwgr%5E%7Ctwcon%5Es1_c10&ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.theburningplatform.com%2F2025%2F07%2F27%2Fcomply-a-revolutionary-behavioral-medicine%2F
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_B0QoRIDTI&