I've been to Camden.  I’ve been at the corner of Federal and Broadway-perhaps the most dangerous intersection in America’s most dangerous city.  I’ve seen drugs bought and sold there, hookers passed out on the street, dead dogs in the alley.  One side belongs to the Puerto Rican dealers, the other the Blacks.

On Sundays the Camden Police (Who are in everyone’s pockets) create a blue divide along the street-all for Camden’s Nuevo rich church service.  I’ve locked the doors and slid down in my seat, and I laughed a numb, sickening laugh when I saw Geraldo Rivera on the news at that same street corner.  Camera, lights-all for his publicity and exposé.  Little old me?  I was there to pick up my Dad.  He does Crack.

 Indulge me if you will, while I tell you my impressions of Camden.  It was once a lovely riverside working city or so I’m told.  Unfortunately when the Campbell’s factory closed and industry left Camden, thousands of people found themselves desperate and idle.  These conditions can do one of two things.  Inspiration can come to those with enough skill, talent, will, and determination.  For most people, however,  idle hands and idle minds are the Devil’s foreplay.  This isn’t some high minded notion of mine.  Indeed crack viles and used condoms on the street are hardly upper class.

 Of course the new waterfront meant to revitalize Camden has done little to help the poor and disenfranchised.    The NJ Aquarium-eh.  Blockbuster Entertainment Center, The Tweeter Center, Rutgers-you have to survive the drive through the naughty parts of the city to get to these struggling institutions.  And oh yes, Rutgers Camden is struggling.  Softball championships and university education my ass.  Trophies and expensive pieces of paper can’t stop students from getting reaped going to and from class.  All that separates these extremes of Heaven and Hell is a black gate.  Wow.

We first got into all this mess through another vice of my parentage.  Before he was living high in a crack induced stupor, my Father lived beyond his financial means as a compulsive gambler.  I didn’t notice so much as a kid, but looking back now I suspect not all my Father’s business trips were legitimate.  Once when he away, my older sister and I went shopping  with my Mother.  I wanted a pack of alien army men. But my Mom told me no-maybe Dad would bring me back something from New York.  Don’t you know, he did!  And it was the exact same set of alien army men!  Hey, don’t knock alien army men-I still have every single piece in a blue pencil box.  I am very protective of them, and I’m not above opening my blue box and setting them out from time to time.  Only later did I find out from my sister that it was Mom who actually bought my beloved alien army men.

 I also recall waiting by the window for my Father to come home.  He promised me we could go to the YMCA and play basketball, but in my young perception of time I waited forever and he never came.  Otherwise I had no conception of our financial status.  People came over and brought fruit and vegetables from their garden.  We also had plenty on our own farm and gave away our fair share.  I got a lot of hand me down clothes from my sister and cousins, but I gave things away just the same.  Did I think we were poor? No.  As much as I was aware of those less fortunate, I knew there were richer people looking down on us.  In blissful childlike ignorance, I didn’t really care.  My sister and I always had our Sunday Clothes-pretty lace things that always made me itch.  Matching hats, gloves, bags, patent leather penny loafers, and tithes for the plate.  What else was there?

Only recently have I come to accept that I live below the nation’s poverty line.  Did when then? Perhaps.  Our family fortune is like tree rings-some are thinner than others.  I don’t think I was totally aware of my parents’ mortality until I was 15.  Checks my Dad wrote out would bounce, and my Mom got a retail job. My parents were none to thrilled at the financial burden of my sister’s forthcoming baby.  She’s five years older than I.  On her 18th birthday, she got a car.  My teenage years came and went unnoticed it seemed-even to me.  My sister told me to stop looking through rose colored glasses. Ha!