Smile, Hon, You're in Baltimore! #13
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THE PRISONER OF VIOLETVILLE - Noam Sane
THESE HANDS - Heck
MY FRIEND FRANZ (NO ONE UNDERSTANDS HOW I FEEL) - Benn Ray
RACONTEUR - E. Doyle-Gillespie
THE LAST DATE - Alex Hewett
MARILYN - Caryn Coyle
4:37 A.M. - S.J. Ferrandi
CONVERSATION WITH A SNIPER - Joe Higler
BALTIMOREANS THEN AND NOW - Judith Krummeck
DISPLACED OR MISPLACED - Stacey A. Peterson
I'M IN IT WITH YOU - Jonas Kyle-Sidell
IMPORTANT WORDS - Holly Myers
DEAR LADY ON THE METRO - Heck
ONCE UPON - Sharon Goldner
THE BACK-STEPS OF 4 A.M. - Sarah Jane Miller
A RITE OF PASSAGE: SWIMMING IN THE HARBOR - Bill Hughes
ANOTHER LIFE - Keith Berry
PROMETHEUS' DAUGHTER - Otis James
ON BALTIMORE STREET - Martha Gatewood
NANCY IS WAITING - Jeffrey L. Shipley
FLASH DEATH - Dee Smith
ALARM - Wayne Countryman
SUSPENDED - E. Doyle-Gillespie
EXIT 38 - Allyson Leigh
B MORE GIRL - Randy Brooks
THE CLIFF - Ian Hochberg
ON THE MOUND - Sarah Jane Miller
STABBY THE CLOWN - Earl Crown
I LIKE IT HERE. THINK I'LL STAY FOR AWHILE - Lisa Wiseman
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
Too long in the wasteland mustve gone to my head - JAMES McMURTRY
Some days I wonder if I should really like Baltimore as much as I do, given its penchant for violence and blight, the gross disparities between its haves and have-nots. Where one-fifth of the population lives below the poverty line. Where fear is too often confused for respect.
Indeed, some days I wonder if I’ve here too long…most recently on a walk with the 4-year-old on the campus of George Washington University in Washington, D.C. - about 40 miles south of Baltimore - on the ninth anniversary of what has come to be known simply as “9/11”. His mother had business on the campus, so the boy and I went for a walk. I carried him on my shoulders, taking in the warm, late-summer sun…not unlike the weather on that morning of epic violence nearly a decade ago.
“Dada,” said the boy.
“What’s that red stuff on the sidewalk - blood?”
I looked down at the splotched concrete - the fourth most-expensive sidewalk in American academia. I laughed.
“No, sport,” I said. “That’s spray paint - probably for something the maintenance men are working on.”
“Spray paint?” he mumbled incredulously. “It looks like blood.”
I glanced once more at the red splotches, mulling the boy’s words, wondering if indeed I’ve been in Baltimore too long.
Then I looked around us, and wondered exactly how much Baltimore had anything to do with it.
“Yeah, kiddo,” I nodded as we moved on through the fourth most-expensive crowd in American academia, soaking up the last warm rays of summer before Nature shut off the heat. “I guess it sort of does...”
WILLIAM P. TANDY
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