It was Friday afternoon, 2 p.m. The sweet, melodic chimes on my clock had just sounded, only to be followed by two pop-pops. From where I stood in my apartment, I only needed to turn my head and glance out of the window. I saw, on the southwest corner, a group of people waiting to cross the street. Darting my eyes quickly, I glanced across to the southeast corner, where a young boy, who obviously should have still been in school, was running down the street at breakneck speed. Following quickly behind him was a boy on a bicycle. He, too, should have been in school, some school, any school. Other than the quick flash of their speed, everything else on an otherwise busy 5th Avenue stood still, as if frozen in time.
Unlike the previous midnight hour shootout reported here in an earlier edition, within minutes, seven to 10 NYPD patrol cars descend on the area. One patrol car is on the sidewalk, another traveling in the wrong direction on a one-way street, both circling the Lincoln Houses. But the boys ran downtown. Why, I wonder, are the police circling uptown. A detective suddenly appears. Although dressed in suit, shirt and tie, with a pink ribbon celebrating breast cancer awareness month on his lapel, it is obvious he is a detective by the way he peers at every nook and cranny along the sidewalk. The only problem is he’s on the wrong side of the street.
Flustered and confused, the army of police that has now gathered are at a loss, until finally a concerned citizen appears. He had a keen vantage point and was able to point the police in the direction where the action began, and in the direction the boys had fled. After giving the police a full account, he is given one of their cards and heads back in the direction from which he came. I said a silent prayer because I was happy that someone had the courage to approach the police in broad daylight and not be afraid that he would possibly become a target of revenge, albeit, he was wearing a hat that covered his face.
Yellow tape now sections off the corner where the shots were fired. Only weeks before, the police watch tower was parked at that very intersection. It didn’t take much to know that once they were gone, the gun violence would start again.
The most incredible thing is that Fifth Avenue between 135th and 132nd streets is a very busy thoroughfare. So busy that it’s no problem to step out the door and catch a cab (of any color) or a bus, or to have an ambulance blaring its siren on its way down Fifth Avenue to Mount Sinai Hospital, much to the dismay of local residents. Yet, under the banners signaling the upcoming marathon route, where in only a few days, thousands will pass through, where children, moms, dads, grandmothers, aunts, uncles pass all day everyday, lies the constant danger of being in harm’s way.
It is now 2:50 p.m. The elderly are passing by with shopping carts, children are walking home from school and the hearts of everyone who sees the police presence and yellow tape begin to beat faster as they wonder what happened but don’t dare stop to ask.
Question: Why aren’t security cameras placed on the lamppost of these particular four corners, where every two weeks a shootout occurs?
Fast forward, four days later. Helicopters are hovering in the air. Unmarked police cars with sirens and flashing lights are going up Fifth Avenue, while similar cars are headed down Fifth Avenue. Other cars are streaming onto Fifth Avenue from 132nd Street, having exited the nearby Harlem River Drive. Something is happening. The clock strikes 10 p.m. I click on the television in time for the news. Immediately, the news flashes that NYPD officer Randolph Holder has just been shot in the head. You know by now how that story has unfolded. Officer Holder is dead, and it’s another life lost in our Harlem community because of the mean and senseless gun violence that we just can’t seem to get a grip on.
As so happens, whenever there is one shootout, it is followed a short time later by another shootout—they come in twos. It is the confrontation between the aggressor and the retaliator. My mind immediately jumps to the conclusion that this shootout was retaliation for the earlier shootout. Much like rats that follow a track from one rathole to another. The boys from the first shootout—one on a bicycle—fled down 5th Avenue. The second shootout took place further down the East Side, in close enough proximity to have a causal relation. A bicycle was involved, and several individuals other than the shooter were seen on security camera video. Could any of them have been involved in the earlier shootout?
This thought haunts me: If the perpetrators of the first shootout had been caught right away, would that have saved officer Holder’s life? Although exact details of the sequence of events are sketchy, in my mind, it’s all too coincidental and follows the pattern. After all, how many gun-toting young punks do we have running around Harlem? If my theory is correct, these punks are now off of the street. It is sadly comforting to know that our neighborhood is safe from gun violence, and we don’t have to be afraid that we will get caught in the crossfire every time we step out of the door, for a little while, until the next crop pops up.
The next question is why do we have to be afraid to walk down our streets, afraid in our own neighborhood, afraid of our own people? Why is it so very hard to rid the neighborhood of guns, or more precisely, of guns in the hands of young boys who should be in school at 2 p.m. in the afternoon and in bed at 2 a.m. in the morning? Why isn’t the community rallying to address the problem at its core? Somebody, somewhere knows something. Why do people think gunfire and shootouts are an acceptable part of life?
Speaking solely about the shootouts in my neighborhood, I am bold enough to say that a large percentage of them start at the Lincoln Houses. Before you judge me, let me say in my own defense, I am an alumnus of P.S. 197. I have many former classmates and friends who grew up in the Lincoln Houses. Those such as Valerie Reese, Beverly Reevy, John Mitchell, Deborah Saunders, Ernst and Diane Wine and Carol Sass (deceased) are just some of my friends. I’ve walked through the Lincoln Houses when I park on Madison Avenue, as a short cut over to Fifth Avenue. I attend events in the Lincoln Houses. My daughter and her friends are friends with children of the same age who live in the Lincoln Houses.
We are not elitist and don’t discriminate, unless you are just acting plain old ignorant. Are we clear? If so, the point is whenever the shootouts erupt around here, young boys are seen running either out of or into the Lincoln Houses. If you don’t like my accusations, then clean up your act and take care of your business, or rather, your problem. It is pretty safe to say that the young boys who carry guns and shoot without care don’t have their names on leases and don’t pay rent; adults do. These adults have to be held responsible and accountable for their children. Those who know what’s going on have to be held responsible and held accountable. I am not singling out the Lincoln Houses. Even if it were Lincoln Center, aggressive action needs to be taken now to rid our neighborhoods of gun violence.
Until next week … kisses.