[original source]
Trying to make sense of wolfpacks in subway concourses, I dropped in on the West Philadelphia Community Center, a bullet-scarred wonder that struggles to keep a light on at night.
The place was a swarm of activity - guys in their late teens and early 20s playing fast and freestyle basketball, girls watching movies and music videos in the computer room, center director Bill Butler setting take-out pizza on a conference table, intended to coax some kids to talk.
Four teens sat around the long table, not saying much at first, as I asked what would make someone attack a man or woman for sport.
The teenagers talked of a change in season. "When it starts to get nice, people start to get crazy," said Maleeka Borders, 16, soft-spoken and pretty, as she thumbed her cell phone.
"Nowadays it's getting crazier and crazier. People don't have nothing to do. And when you have nothing to do, you spend your time doing anything. People get caught up in the wrong thing."
She knows the craziness firsthand. Last summer, when budget problems curtailed the Mantua center's hours, she had nothing to do all day, she said, so she'd sleep until dinnertime.
"It was like 12:30 one morning. I was walking to 40th and Fairmount. I felt something hit my back."
First she thought that a brick had struck her from behind. But a bullet had slammed into her left shoulder. She walked home, and recovered in time to be back in school that fall.
"Didn't cry?" asked Khiry Blaylock, 19, across the table.
"The only reason I started crying was because of the blood."
Up until four years ago, the center was open nights until 9, but the nonprofit that runs it, Caring People Alliance, could no longer find the money. Funding programs for kids over 13 is tough, says Arlene Bell, the organization's president. "We have an age group of kids who are not safe on the streets, and as a practical matter, there is no money to provide for them. That is astonishing to me."
So, in 2004, the center started closing at 6 p.m.
Scared on the streets
Butler, the building's 36-year-old director, said he'd be working late and on his way home would see kids - 8, 9 years old - running through the streets. "They'd tell me they were scared, the younger ones in particular."
A teen delegation approached him last summer, led by Chaz Walker, 19, who had been going there since he was 4, and who in his younger days was "the Dennis the Menace of West Philly," as Butler puts it.
The teens needed the place, Walker told him. Butler promised to find a way. And he did.
By staggering his employees' hours, he was able to keep five people working late two nights a week. Since November, the center has stayed open Wednesday and Thursday nights until 8:30.
What would you be doing if the place weren't open? I asked the teens.
"Be either at work or in the house," Blaylock said.
"Probably not that," Walker said. "Be on the corner."
The hard corner
But the corner is getting less hospitable. Four weeks ago, Blaylock's cousin was shot to death outside the bar, called the Easy Corner.
Butler says the push of Drexel and Penn students has flushed the drug dealers onto the community center's block.
"This was sacred ground, this block," Butler says.
The teens say the center offers more than an open door. Butler and his assistant director, Branon Gilmore, have created a community. The men have known each other since third grade, when they were city kids in Reading and relied on its clubs and community centers and sports leagues. Best friends for nearly 30 years.
Butler, a musician and Drexel grad in computers, has been at the center since 2000. He recruited Gilmore, who had been working at Temple in admissions.
"I'm just trying to bring the values I grew up with," says Gilmore, a former high school quarterback.
I was still struggling with making sense of the subway attacks.
So what was going on with the Simon Gratz High School students accused of beating a Starbucks manager? It was a lot to ask a conference room of teens pulled from their games.
What were these Gratz kids looking for? I continued. Were they just looking to fight? Did they need . . .
"A place to go where they're wanted," Chaz Walker said, finishing my sentence, if not my thought.
current mood: chill
current noise: "the stars" by moby
Trying to make sense of wolfpacks in subway concourses, I dropped in on the West Philadelphia Community Center, a bullet-scarred wonder that struggles to keep a light on at night.
The place was a swarm of activity - guys in their late teens and early 20s playing fast and freestyle basketball, girls watching movies and music videos in the computer room, center director Bill Butler setting take-out pizza on a conference table, intended to coax some kids to talk.
Four teens sat around the long table, not saying much at first, as I asked what would make someone attack a man or woman for sport.
The teenagers talked of a change in season. "When it starts to get nice, people start to get crazy," said Maleeka Borders, 16, soft-spoken and pretty, as she thumbed her cell phone.
"Nowadays it's getting crazier and crazier. People don't have nothing to do. And when you have nothing to do, you spend your time doing anything. People get caught up in the wrong thing."
She knows the craziness firsthand. Last summer, when budget problems curtailed the Mantua center's hours, she had nothing to do all day, she said, so she'd sleep until dinnertime.
"It was like 12:30 one morning. I was walking to 40th and Fairmount. I felt something hit my back."
First she thought that a brick had struck her from behind. But a bullet had slammed into her left shoulder. She walked home, and recovered in time to be back in school that fall.
"Didn't cry?" asked Khiry Blaylock, 19, across the table.
"The only reason I started crying was because of the blood."
Up until four years ago, the center was open nights until 9, but the nonprofit that runs it, Caring People Alliance, could no longer find the money. Funding programs for kids over 13 is tough, says Arlene Bell, the organization's president. "We have an age group of kids who are not safe on the streets, and as a practical matter, there is no money to provide for them. That is astonishing to me."
So, in 2004, the center started closing at 6 p.m.
Scared on the streets
Butler, the building's 36-year-old director, said he'd be working late and on his way home would see kids - 8, 9 years old - running through the streets. "They'd tell me they were scared, the younger ones in particular."
A teen delegation approached him last summer, led by Chaz Walker, 19, who had been going there since he was 4, and who in his younger days was "the Dennis the Menace of West Philly," as Butler puts it.
The teens needed the place, Walker told him. Butler promised to find a way. And he did.
By staggering his employees' hours, he was able to keep five people working late two nights a week. Since November, the center has stayed open Wednesday and Thursday nights until 8:30.
What would you be doing if the place weren't open? I asked the teens.
"Be either at work or in the house," Blaylock said.
"Probably not that," Walker said. "Be on the corner."
The hard corner
But the corner is getting less hospitable. Four weeks ago, Blaylock's cousin was shot to death outside the bar, called the Easy Corner.
Butler says the push of Drexel and Penn students has flushed the drug dealers onto the community center's block.
"This was sacred ground, this block," Butler says.
The teens say the center offers more than an open door. Butler and his assistant director, Branon Gilmore, have created a community. The men have known each other since third grade, when they were city kids in Reading and relied on its clubs and community centers and sports leagues. Best friends for nearly 30 years.
Butler, a musician and Drexel grad in computers, has been at the center since 2000. He recruited Gilmore, who had been working at Temple in admissions.
"I'm just trying to bring the values I grew up with," says Gilmore, a former high school quarterback.
I was still struggling with making sense of the subway attacks.
So what was going on with the Simon Gratz High School students accused of beating a Starbucks manager? It was a lot to ask a conference room of teens pulled from their games.
What were these Gratz kids looking for? I continued. Were they just looking to fight? Did they need . . .
"A place to go where they're wanted," Chaz Walker said, finishing my sentence, if not my thought.
current mood: chill
current noise: "the stars" by moby
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