Crackhead Girls In The Hood
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Crackhead Girls In The Hood
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9 lessons from living by crackheads & crack dealers
Writer, retired boxer, self-improvement enthusiast
© 2022, Ed Latimore. All rights reserved.
I grew up in the projects and learned a lot about crackheads and crack dealers. Here are some little known facts about them.
In the ghetto, there are crackheads. In case you didn’t know, crackheads are people addicted to crack-cocaine. Crackheads and the ghetto go together like Kool-Aid and fried chicken.
Crackheads get their crack from somewhere. That’s where crack dealers come in. I grew up in the projects. This means I spent a lot of time around crack dealers and crack addicts. However, my experience had a unique feature.
I spent about 5 years living next to a certified crackhead. When I moved to another housing project, I lived next to a crack dealer for 4 years.
The hood is a terrible place to begin with. I can assure you that living next to hard drug users and dealers is a unique level of hell.
These are my observations, lessons learned, and experiences from living next to crack dealers and crackheads.
A lot of crackheads rob and steal to get drug money. There are also quite a bit who have jobs.
They use that money to fund their crack habit and to also keep a roof over their head. Not all crackheads want to get high in a crack house.
My mom even occasionally let a crackhead babysit us. She lived next door to me as a kid. This brings me to my next experience.
The crackhead next door babysat me.
When I was 4 years old, I picked up a syringe full of heroin and squirted it. I thought it was a water gun. The crackhead was super angry. I remember my mom offering to pay for the lost drugs, but the junkie didn’t calm down.
I actually don’t remember the eventual resolution.
In the world of a crackhead, crack is God.
Crackheads sell their children to get crack money. Male and female crackheads will suck dick so they can get crack when low on funds.
No crime is too great or too low once a person has sold their soul to the crack devil.
It’s common to hear someone in the hood talk about “crack prices” when referring to something inappropriately priced.
An object is in the “crack price” range when it’s priced low to expedite the sale.
My introduction to the concept of crack prices came at age 5.
One day my dad parked his car outside and went through the extra effort of putting his Club anti-theft device on. I asked him why he put The Club on. His response was, “So some crackhead doesn’t steal my car and sell it for 5 dollars.”
While 5-year-old me didn’t know how much cars cost, I knew they were a lot more than 5 dollars. Once I learned that the rock is the most important thing to a crackhead, it all made sense.
Since then, I’ve watched or been victim to this type of crackhead behavior on a few occasions.
I’ve known crackheads to break out car windows for loose change in the seats, ignoring anything else of value.
Once a crackhead broke into my apartment and only stole a jar of change and a cable box. The crackhead is extremely short-sighted.
It’s only thinking about the fastest way to get just enough money to get high again.
Crack doesn’t ACTUALLY give a person superpowers.
I joke about the crackhead superpowers, but all good jokes contain truth. What probably happens is crack changes their brain, allowing them to endure high amounts of pain.
I’ve seen crackheads get hit by cars and keep moving. I once watched a crackhead fall a few stories and shake it off like nothing happened. I’ve personally witnessed crackheads jump out of burning buildings and land in stride.
You also don’t really meet any fat crackheads. Maybe crack raises your metabolism, but it is likely just a symptom of the previous observation. Crack is more important to crackheads than food.
Crack comes before food if you only have 5 dollars from the car you stole and sold. Even if you haven’t eaten in days.
I’ve got a collection of quotes, many of which highlight this incredible power of crackheads. Check out this collection of crackhead quotes here.
They make a big deal about drug violence and why we need all these laws against drugs. My perspective is unique.
I have no skin in the game either way but grew up at ground zero of the war on drugs. Here’s what I’ve observed.
I’ve never actually seen two crackheads fighting one another.
I’ve seen them fighting other non-crackheads, but they don’t really go to war with one another. However, the crack dealer next door is one of the reasons there were bullet holes in my door.
Biggie warned about this in his song The Ten Crack Commandmenets. Check out my breakdown of this rule and others here in this post .
On a more general note, most hood violence is drug-related. The rest of the violence is because of people taking advantage of someone who comes off as a weak, easy target.
It’s about controlling who sells what, where, and for how much. Random muggings aren’t as common as shooting disputes over street corners.
I’ve met a few dealers of all different substances. My general experience has been that the harder the drug, the worse the human being is that deals it.
I’m sure this is a result of the level of ruthlessness you need to get into and survive the game. Harder drugs are worth more money so the competition is tougher.
This is merely speculation, but it makes sense.
The crack dealer who lived next door to me regularly beat his girlfriend. Once, he tried to push his way into my house to go after my then 10-year-old sister to beat her.
She played a harmless prank, but he didn’t care. I pushed him out of my house, but for weeks I worried that he’d shoot my 13-year-old ass.
Drug dealing is a thing a person gets into to make money.
The ROI is shitty, but most guys sell drugs as a way to make ends meet. They aren’t in it to fuck the world up or hurt others (despite what drugs do to people).
They just want to put food on the table.
You generally don’t have to worry about drug dealers trying to hurt or you rob you for no good reason.
Unless you’re a player in the game, you’re safe. These guys have other issues but if you keep to yourself, you don’t have to worry about crack dealers.
You’ll never meet someone more generous than a hard drug user offering a hit of his drugs.
I never used any hard drugs. I was offered heroin, crack, and coke on a few occasions. The dealers weren’t the ones making the offer. It was always a user while they were getting high.
I don’t think something about being a smack or crackhead makes you more altruistic than the general population. I think this is an attempt to normalize their behavior.
If you accept their invitation, it makes them feel a lot better about feeding their addiction in your company.
I didn’t learn this directly from living in the projects.
I knew a guy who made home deliveries. One day (in the rash stupidity of youth), I did a ride along with him. I couldn’t come into the house and meet the clients although we were in some pretty nice areas.
Most clients bought “soft” (cocaine). A few wanted “hard” (crack). He told me that most of these people were doctors and lawyers.
This reiterates what I’ve stated earlier about drug dealers being functional individuals. These people can hold down a job (even a damn good one) but they just like to party.
Living next to crackheads and crack dealers is something I will never do again. However, I can’t deny that I’ve learned some things about life that you can’t pay to learn.
I’m a writer, competitive chess player, Army veteran, physicist, and former professional heavyweight boxer. My work focuses on self-development, realizing your potential, and sobriety—speaking from personal experience, having overcome both poverty and addiction.
The Ten Crackcommandments is an education in the real, raw, viciousness of human nature. This article takes lessons from the song to apply to your entire life.
Fatherless homes lack examples for boys to follow into becoming men. This article provides solutions for the children of absent fathers.
This is for the kids growing up in broken homes, dangerous neighborhoods, and who are bullied at school. You have an advantage that can’t be taught or beat.
Skills and mindset content to help you realize your potential, let go of resentment, and live life with purpose.
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RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
Outside, I signal to Anne, my upstairs neighbor, who has been waiting out in my car, that I'm going to stash my cameras in my trunk. And I am slamming it shut when I see her again: the young woman from Ferg's shop. Still sipping at her Pepsi, she's sitting on a low wall alongside the Diaz Market, a Cuban mom-and-pop store facing Ponce de Leon.
She is, I quickly realize, a prostitute.
My gear stashed, I walk around and climb into my car...
I could take her picture for the book, I think. Well...maybe I could. How would she react, I wonder, if I approached her about it?
I feel nervous about that. Also about launching the book. I hadn't been planning on starting today.
But, George, you've got to start some day....
I look over at Anne. "What do you think, Anne? You think I should see if that prostitute up there will let me take her picture for the book?"
Anne follows my eyes...looks at the woman herself. "Yeah, go ahead," she urges. "Go for it."
And in less than a minute, with two cameras dangling from my neck, I am face to face with the young woman.
She is standing now, leaning against the brick facade of the Market.
"I was wondering...if I could...take your picture."
"What for? " she comes back. "The police?"
"No," I say. "For a book I'm doing on Ponce de Leon. It'll show all the...you know...all the different...types of people along the street."
She doesn't immediately answer. Her eyes drift from me to somewhere across the street.
"Okay," she says then softly. But she still doesn't look at me; her eyes remain focused off into the distance.
And I don't say anything as I lift a camera to my eye, position myself, and frame her in my viewfinder, making sure to get in a billboard towering above her in the background to show that her environment is the street. I squeeze the shutter.
"Your girlfriend doesn't mind?" she asks me, glancing down the hill toward my car.
"She's not my girlfriend," I let her know. And I bring the camera back to my eye, framing just her, waiting for a natural expression.
"How're you doing?" I ask, hoping to put her at ease.
"I've got to go to jail today," is her reply. "If I don't get two hundred dollars by this afternoon."
It's late in the afternoon now, I think to myself.
__________________________________________
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE, a new two-volume ebook containing many, many more photographs and much more detailed text than appears on Flickr:
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
Ronda stands, slipping on her jacket. She says—"I'll walk you out, George...I gotta go out anyway."
In the elevator going down, she's quiet. Until she says: "I hope I don't see Charlie."
"You know," she says, reminding me: "The one I ripped that seven hundred dollars off of. I'm always worried about seeing him."
"Is he the type," I ask, "that might get violent?"
"Somebody told me he would. He has two guns that I know of."
On the sidewalk outside, as I'm saying good-bye, I notice that Ronda is standing in the path of a narrow but brilliant shaft of sunlight. I turn to see its source. The lowering afternoon sun is casting her rays between two tall buildings. Casting them down upon Ronda like a spotlight beamed from the heavens.
My photographer's eye stimulated, I reach quickly for a camera…
I've got to get a picture of Ronda in this light, where all but her is in the shadows...
On the other side of Peachtree, suddenly, are two mounted policemen, their horses' hoof-beats sounding on the pavement.
"Yeah!" Now Ronda gets excited. "Get a picture of me with these cops in it! Hurry!" she commands as I fumble with the f-stops. "Hurry! Take it! Take it!"
I snap the shutter—just in time, I hope—catching Ronda, plus the cops on their horses; and I'm taking more just of Ronda when all at once her face lights up.
Her eyes, gleeful, are fixed on some man about halfway down the block. She skips down the sidewalk to him. I watch as they hug then together walk toward me.
The guy, I see as they come closer, is in his twenties, wearing a made-to-look-like-leather vinyl jacket and a felt hat, its brim turned down.
Ronda does the introductions—quite properly as always. He's Michael Hoffman, a good friend of hers, although she hasn't seen him in ages. And I am George Mitchell, "the one who wrote Ponce de Leon." Michael's into photography himself—he owns a Cannon system, he says—and he's always admired the pictures in Ponce de Leon.
"Well, right now, I'm doing a whole book on Ronda," I tell him.
"Way to go, Ronda!" He grins widely, showing some black and rotting teeth.
But then a shadow crosses her face and her gaze drops downward toward the sidewalk. "Yeah...well..." she surprises me by saying, "I'm not too sure about what I'm representing."
"I love Ronda," says Michael, turning to me. "She's not like the rest of the girls out here." He puts his arm around her. "She's...she's about like a six-year-old. And I've never seen her get angry."
You just don't know, I think to myself, having heard her express such extreme anger about her mother so many times. You just don't know.
As they catch up on each other, I photograph them...
And at one point, Michael, facing Ronda, places his hands on her shoulders...and Ronda's eyes close, and the tension disappears from her face...
Briefly disappears...just as it had a couple of months ago when I placed my hand on her forehead to feel for fever.
Michael leaves, and as I am putting away my cameras, Ronda, watching me, mutters, "You could get a picture of Charlie putting a bullet through my head."
"What?!" I exclaim. "That's not something I want to get a picture of."
"Well," she says, and there's no little laugh, "it could happen."
______________________________________________________Photo and text excerpted from RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
… then get some of her cuddling with Joey and a couple of her other favorites. Finally I suggest that I get some of Melvin and her together.
It's an idea that's quite obviously agreeable to Ronda, since she immediately sidles up seductively to Melvin, who's been observing the photo session from the bathroom doorway. "Why don't I slip into something sexy?" she asks him, whispering alluringly, but loudly enough for me to hear. "Let him get some pictures of us..."
Melvin vetoes the idea with a quick shake of his head...
So with R
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