This article is about life in this neighborhood which has, like many other neighborhoods in the United States, I am sure, been incredibly abused by a down turn economy.

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Write about what you know! Keeping it Real

BY: E.T. SIMON

"Write about what you know," is the single most important piece of advise instructors in creative writing/poetry courses give their students. Good advise even for Opinion Pieces. Thus, today I will write about the crumbling of America as I see it from right smack in my front and back yard, and about the underdogs (including myself) who now populate it.

Ten years ago when we moved into this neighborhood this was a working class neighborhood; an ethnically mixed one too. Mexicans, Hondurans, Brazilians, Haitians, Cuban, Hindu, Chinese and Americans, White and Black from different States in the United States resided. This mix was made up of different educational backgrounds as well, but for the most part people got along enough to say "hello," "good morning," or, "how are you?"

Pipe fitters, plumbers, surveyors, roofers, pool caretakers, pressure washers, store clerks, house painters, elevator techs and installers, medical office staffers, teacher aides, county employees, city workers, handy men, senior citizens, aviation career people, dye-and-tool makers, fishermen, landscapers, and hopeful people whose pockets had money in them to pay their rent or mortgages, to put food on their table, to buy hot dogs and fireworks for their kids 4th of July celebrations, toys for Christmas and birthdays, and here and there for some special night out with the family.

Kids went to public schools. Public schools offered music classes, arts and crafts classes, drama courses; you know, a well rounded curriculum where kids could learn something other than a rote memorization of ABCs, or 2+2s and of the regular grammar and science courses. They offered courses which helped them develop their thinking abilities, their cultural appreciation of differences and gave them a rounded education.

Over time something akin to a hand grenade hit this neighborhood. It had it sink into an imperceptible despair at first. A despair which is now quite visible.

The Bush tax cuts for the wealthy had a lot to do with it. His raiding of the national coffers to finance his invasion and occupation of Iraq and his military occupation of Afghanistan, the bank bailouts he started and Obama continued all of which contributed to a depletion of Federal funds coming to the state, of the state passing them on to the counties, the counties passing them on to the cities, jobs being cut from city and county roles, and the ensuing tanking of the economy in general.

As jobs were being lost in a tanking economy, pipe fitters were laid off in a slow market which drove construction to a near halt. Engineering firms had no new projects with which to keep themselves afloat; surveyors, drafts people, technicians and others also were put on the chopping block. People who had no jobs had no need to call roofers, or plumbers, house painters or pressure washers because they had no money to pay for those much needed services. City and County began to cut social programs and support services much needed by the community

Many lost their livelihood. People defaulted on their mortgages; almost overnight countless of houses emptied out. Tent cities came into existence at the poorest edge of the town. In other instances families bunched up together in one household in an effort to survive the financial storm. Storefronts, too, along the main drag of town became empty for sale lots. The whole strip which had previously held car dealerships, clothing stores, furniture stores, pool services stores, restaurants, all were closed out, row after row, after row. The business end of town looked more like deserted city.

As the recession continued property values declined. Banks desperate to have their foreclosed on mortgages taken off their hands began to have short sales. Savvy foreign investors began to purchase the homes or condominiums, in bulk, at a fraction of their cost.

This part of town, being a blue collar neighborhood now in decline was overlooked by these investors who knew there were no potential profitable returns, or value appreciation to be had here. Not for a long time and if ever again. Slum lords saw their dreamland open up, however, and they too bought houses in bulk, right and left, at less than a fraction of their cost, till their heart and greedy pockets were near experiencing pleasurable orgasms.

Slum lords have filled the houses in this neighborhood with whatever rift-raft can get government financed rent. The rift raft doesn't really care about the neighborhood. It is not now uncommon to go out any time of day or night, see someone walking with a cell phone in their hands, watch how a passing car stops, a window opens, the walker with the cell phone approach it, the car window roll down, the hand of the cell phone caller hand something to the driver, the driver hand something back to the cell phone caller and then each go on their way.

A clash has hit the neighborhood. Not so much a class of cultures as a clash of values. The rift raft respects not the property of others and generally walks the streets of the neighborhood with a taunting attitude.

In the meantime the people who were here when we moved in ten years ago and who are still here are still trying to hold on to their property, and thanking God for the jobs they still have and their incomes which hardly cover any expenses anymore.

The neighborhood is now a real slum. People have become divided. Haitians stay to the Haitian group, Blacks stay with Blacks, the Hispanic crowd stays within its own subgroups: Puerto Ricans with Puerto Ricans, Hondurans with Hondurans, Mexicans with Mexicans, and White Americans stay with Whites Americans. People were friendlier before. Hardly anyone says good morning anymore and everyone minds their own business. The words of Glenn Beck, Sarah Palin, and Newt Gingrich have found their way to the heart and soul of at least one soul who now likes to call the police when the number of people in a house exceeds the limit of people she thinks ought to be in the house, or call Immigration or the Border Patrol if she thinks anyone in the neighbor is here illegally.

Crime is on the increase. Cars get broken into. Homes do too. Meanwhile the Sheriff is talking about cutting the police force. The Power and Light Company contracts its services to subcontractors who also out contract their services to people who do not appear to know what they are doing. An out street light can remain out for longer than a month, even after reporting it to the power company and should you call again to remind them that they have not yet serviced the street light, they make a new ticket and the wait for them to come repair the light starts all over again.

So, when politicians and pundits say that the economy is improving, that there is a recovery from the recession. I say, show me where. It certainly is not in this neighborhood.

I also ask, will this neighborhood ever again become what it once was? Will the slum lord ever stop buying foreclosed and/or abandoned houses? Will he stop moving in rift raft into this neighborhood?

Will there be a politician honest enough to say that taxes are a need and that a good steward collects taxes for the benefit of all.

Pundits who claim to be for the American way are not often for the American way and while they shout and yell that this or that is not the American way, they also say, almost subliminally, that "something has to be done about social security. Maybe not in the short term, but yes in the long term something has to be done." (In case you didn't hear him that was Chris Matthews not all that long ago talking to one of his guests about one of the current politicians running for office who believes in saving social security). I do believe in Social Security and I believe in Medicare, and I believe in the taxes needed to maintain and support them.

So Yes. America is now the land of The Haves and The Have Nots. Be Blessed if you currently fall in the land of The Haves. Don't be surprised if at any time you find yourself in the land of The Have Nots. Remember Boethius. I also remember Lucy Hady and my first training as a social worker for the Department of Health and Rehabilitative Services back in the 1985. She made it a point to drive in the point, "the people you are servicing today could be you tomorrow."

Do I believe in the promises of any politician who says they will give me this, or that, or the other? Hardly.

Authors Bio:
E.T.SIMON ... Keeping the Bio Real and Transparent ...
E. T. SIMON is more often like a transplanted palm tree from the land of Santiago de Cuba where she was born to a Cuban, Tulane University, lawyer educated father and, a Mississippi, mother, great-granddaughter of American Revolutionary War hero, Brigadier General Andrew Pickens who is credited with the victory against the British in the Battle of the Cowpens. Although at times, E.T. Simon is more like, the fruit of the pecan of her Mississippi grandparents pecan farm of long ago, or even like the Sycamore so firmly rooted in the Florida Peninsula. As such, the daughter of bi-cultural, bi-lingual parents, E.T. Simon navigated the bi-cultural ties, bi-lingual shores of her birth, while learning to appreciate Cuban and Southern cuisine and cultures, from a very early age.

At the age of 15, two years after her mother's death, she dreamt about running away from her home to join the , "Bohemians" of the 1950s in New York's Greenwich Village and become a writer. She did not. In 1961, at the age of 18 her father sent her across the pond to her mother's family in Mississippi in an effort to keep her from falling prey to Fidel Castro's repressive agents who were on her trail for her opposition to Fidel Castro.
Bumpy rides, or not, In 1976, E.T. Simon, after twelve years of part time studies, with in-between times-off for parenting, obtained her B.A. in English with a Major in Literature and a double minor in Psychology and Philosophy. In 1985 she obtained her Master's Degree in Counseling and in 1987 her License in Marriage and Family Therapy.
Her quest to pursue a MFA in Creative Writing was derailed when a stuffed shirt Chaucer Literature Professor graded her paper on The Prioress Tale short of the A she needed to establish her credentials in the MFA Creative Writing Program, even while receiving the support of the Academic Dean who told her with a certain urgency, "don't stop writing. You'll find a way."
Prior to pursuing her graduate studies in counseling, Ms. E.T. Simon joined a Creative Writing Group where she honed in on some of the art and craft of writing and had the pleasure of attending poetry readings by Tess Gallagher, Denise Levertov, Rutabaga Rose and others.
Following her 1985 graduation, Ms. E.T. Simon proceeded to work as a counselor/family therapist until 1998 when, following surgery, she became a near recluse and has remained a near recluse for the last twelve years or so.
It was during those years that she worked as a counselor/family therapist that Ms. E.T. Simon learned that grief is a powerful agent which often contributes to the derailing of families; that human hearts can bury grief for generations and generations with the grief popping up unexpectedly as a symptom anywhere, sometimes even in someone else further along in the generations.
Ms. E.T. Simon also learned that when careful unearthing of buried grief happens and a person is enabled to truly grieve the pain of a loss they have been holding on to for years, then rebalancing of the derailment takes place and true healing occurs.

Writing is a lifelong love of E.T. Simon's, and whether she kept her writings buried in dusty drawers, or shared them with university professors, writers' groups, editors, or published them, the writer's flame burns undying in her. The flame of truth also burns in her along with the need to stand up for the underdog, of which, today, she finds herself to be one. This blended well in her throughout her years of computer activism for peace and social justice.

E.T. Simon's articles have been published under the name of TERESA SIMON-NOBLE, the pen name of ELENA DUMAS; and at times, under the additional pen name of SKYAGUNSTA, or SKYAGUNSTA PICKENS, both of which are a direct reference to her great-great-grandfather Brigadier General Andrew Pickens who was named "Skyagunsta," by Native Americans who came to appreciate him as a man of conscience. Please also know that whether the articles have been signed with one name, or another; with a pen name, or another, the writings have always come straight from my heart, my perception, and my core values.
In other words, it has always been me, and only me, writing the articles.