Saturday, June 25, 2005
Friday, June 17, 2005
BLACKS AND HOTBEDS OF CRIME
TONEY ATKINS COMMENTARY
It Really Is A Crime
DAYTONA BEACH, FL -- For years, I've kept my itchy typing fingers still on the subject of crime in the Black community, but if we don't tackle the problem now, when will we do it?
Blacks get upset when crime statistics show that some of the top hotbeds of crime are in the Black community. A former co-worker at the times, who often appeared to be prejudiced against whites, displayed anger on numerous occasions, claiming that Blacks who were accused of breaking the law were prominent on television news shows as opposed to the number of whites.
On that issue, I recently kept a personal survey of the alleged lawbreakers pictured on television. On many occasions, whites who had been arrested for one thing or another outnumbered Blacks. Besides, if you don't commit the crime, you don't get the television time. Simply, the best way to avoid being on a local newscast as an accused criminal is not to commit a crime -- and that's true for Blacks and whites.
Let's face facts. There is a lot of crime in the Black community. Blacks sell drugs in the parking lots of convenience stores as well as elsewhere in the community. Blacks have prostituted their bodies openly in the Black community, sometimes in front of the Daytona Times building, other businesses and even churches.
The "poor me" excuse for such criminal activities doesn't carry any weight for either the law-abiding Blacks in the community -- and there are a large proportion of them -- or for me. Newspapers have many classified ads listing jobs. Some may be low-paying jobs in the accommodations industry or washing dishes in a restaurant -- but it is honest work and as respectable as anything anyone can do..
However, many minorities will claim there are no jobs available for Blacks. I have had many business people tell me the contrary, but a person of any color has to apply to get a job and then has to apply himself or herself on that job to move forward and eventually make more money. Some Blacks have admitted to me over the years that they are not going to work at a menial job for little pay, and that there is more money in distributing illegal drugs, along with being able to work on one's own schedule.
Of course, drug dealing can result in violence, including fights, gun battles, slashing with knives -- and let's be real. These things do go on, and sadly, many people in the community are too frightened to combat the problem. They lock themselves in their homes, with bars covering the windows, and won't even leave the house at night because they are scared. In nearly 15 years with the Daytona Times, I have been told this by residents time and again.
If the police try to maintain peace in the community, the lawmen are taunted and accused of brutality. A number of members in white communities also hate authority and blame the police, especially if they get caught committing a crime. Area police officers are basically outstanding and do the best they can, and they handle alleged lawbreakers equally, no matter what their color.
I'm not writing this from mere hearsay. I've witnessed the nightmare, the danger. I've ridden through predominently Black parts of town where many law-abiding Blacks would not go after the sun went down. They are afraid they'll be robbed, shot, beaten ... or worse.
Police often seem to protect at least some Black offenders, for reasons unknown. When my car was stolen by a Black man with a white woman about 15 years ago, a detective came by to see me about a month after the stripped vehicle was found. He showed me mug shots of a number of possible suspects. I pointed out the photo that most resembled the man of my description. A young resident came by the office to give me a person's name who was claiming to have taken my car, which contained all of my earthly possessions. To my knowledge, the individual who, by the time the detective talked with me, was in jail on another charge, was never arrested for taking my car, and I was urged by the detective not to write any more columns about my harrowing experience in the newspaper. You figure it out.
On several recent occasions, after working late at the Daytona Times, I would stand in front of the building, either waiting for a taxicab or a bus (when there was service through the community south of Orange Avenue after dark). Although I was never threatened, I was approached many times by Blacks selling drugs or prostituting themselves. I suppose that, in their minds, a white man in the Black community must be after something more than a ride home.
With some humor laced with sadness, I could almost understand the community's feeling of harassment when one night, a police car stopped as I was waiting in front of the newspaper building. Two officers emerged from the patrol car, wanting to know why I was there. They didn't seem to believe my story about waiting for Votran until a bus approached on Dr. Martin Luther King Boulevard and I waved it down. The officers allowed me to catch my bus.
That touches on a related fact. Votran halted its night service south of Orange after several instances in which rocks, bricks and other materials were thrown at buses as they passed. On at least one occasion, the windshield on the driver's side was broken. A spokesperson for Votran told meat the time that the company couldn't afford to endanger their driversorpassengers. That makes sense, but the policy hurts those in the community who wouldn't think of breaking the law and who need rides to their jobs or to stores or entertainment establishments after dark.
It is also true that drugs and prostitution abound on parts of Ridgewood Avenue within several blocks in either direction from its intersection with International Speedway Boulevard. The same activity occurs on S. Atlantic Avenue on the beachside, particularly in a several block area near the street's intersection with Silver Beach. A mostly-white element is involved there.
When fear and dread keep Black residents trapped in their own homes, it is criminal.
There can be no excuse for anyone robbing, threatening, wounding or sometimes even killing another person. When criminals rule the roost, the henhouse is in trouble.
Instead of accusing the white establishment, the police and the mainstream media of "falsely" pointing to parts of the Black community as a hotbed of crime, perhaps Blacks who want peace, who want to take a walk down the street or even desire to go shopping after the sun sets need to unite and do something about the problem ... something to take back the community and bring back the pride that once was here.
The reader may think: That would take a miracle. It might, but miracles begin with each of us. We can douse the hotbed of criminal activity and live without fear. But that is not going to happen by itself.
Will the creation of a new reality in the community begin with you?
-- Toney Atkins, a veteran writer and former assistant editor of the Daytona Times, takes sole responsibility for these comments, which may not be shared with others involved with the Daytona Times.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
ESCAPING THE HURRICANE: A VISION OF ARMAGEDDON?
A VISIONS COLUMN BY TONEY ATKINS
Hurricane season is here again, and the tropics are starting to churn. After suffering the wrath of three devastating hurricanes within a six-week period, some folks around Daytona Beach are watching the weather with a certain amount of fear and trembling, if only in the back of their minds.
Despite an appearance of normalcy, signs of the storms' wrath in 2004 are still visible in the Daytona Beach area. Some businesses remain closed, workers can still be seen making repairs on structures throughout the county, and a number of residents still suffer psychological effects of the impact the hurricanes had on their lives -- something many had believed they would never have experienced because such storms had been a rarity here.
Black and white businesses alike continue to struggle to recover their losses. Some residents say they still haven't received the financial assistance they believe they were promised to get their lives together again.
One Black resident died after Charley plowed through the area. As the rains and winds were diminishing, she was outside and was electrocuted when she came into contact with a live power line.
In addition to fallen trees, power lines and damage to homes, businesses and property, residents learned the harsh realities of the potency of a hurricane. With each of the three storms, people discovered what it meant to live without modern conveniences. For days and even weeks, some areas had no electricity, meaning no lights, no air conditioning, the inability to pump gasoline into their vehicles or to get money from ATM machines. Computers were useless in places without power or backup generators, and in some areas, cell phone service was disrupted.
The experiences were much like ominous glimpses into what could happen as the result of a terrorist attack. In these cases, Mother Nature was the terrorist, reminding us that we are mere mortals who have to learn to weather and conquer obstacles in order to survive.
My mind flashes back to the Labor Day hurricane -- Frances, I believe it was. Residents on beachside areas along most of the east coast of Florida were ordered to evacuate. Because there was uncertainty as to where the storm would actually hit, many did not know where to go, so they simply headed north.
As fate would have it, I had to travel to Georgia to deal with a familyemergency. My adrenaline was surging as I drove on U.S.92 underneath the Interstate 95 overpass. The interstate was like a parking lot. Vehicles were not moving much at all. The one service station that was selling gasoline near I-95 was jammed with a line of cars waiting their turns at the pumps.
I stopped at a boarded up 7-Eleven that sported a handwritten sign advising that the store was open. There were few people inside, even though the hurricane was a couple of days away. The latest edition of the Daytona Times headlined that Volusia County residents were gearing for the storm.
There was little traffic on International Speedway Boulevard all the way to the beachside, and a decision to drive through part of the Black community revealed the uncanny, unusual sight of practically no one on the streets. Atlantic Avenue on the beachside resembled a ghost town, unlike an ordinary time when the street would be busy with cars and pedestrians. Hotels and motels had already boarded up and shut down. The air was almost too still, only occasionally awakened by a gust of wind.
My pondering as to which route to take took me up S.R. A1A. I couldn't help but feel an eerie sensation as I drove north, practically the only vehicle on the highway. There was a sense of foreboding as I glanced at the angry Atlantic Ocean and almost expected a huge wave to sweep over the road and drag me out to sea. Occasional raindrops and sea spray sprinkled my car.
When I was forced to I-95, the nightmare really began as I became part of the gridlock of evacuees. Interstate 10 was faster moving, but surreal with the number of cars packing the rest areas and lined along the road. The gridlock resumed at Interstate 75 and again it was difficult to find a parking spot in a rest area, where people of all races, tired and some with wild eyes, walked around to take a break from their travels to heaven knows where. A van hauling horses passed through; some cars seemed to be loaded with all of their occupants' earthly belongings; people seemed ignorant of any differences as they talked about the impending storm, their concerns, their fears and their prayers. A woman opened her raincoat to reveal her naked body as cars moved slowly toward the exit, which made me wonder irrationally if she had left home so fast she forgot to put on her clothes.
Vehicles became constant neighbors as they snaked northward on I-75 after dawn. You got to know people you didn't even know. In South Georgia, the DJ on a radio station playing gospel music warned drivers that all hotels and motels near the interstate were already booked solid all the way to Atlanta. Churches called in, offering refuge to travelers. One caller offered a room in his home. Places to get free meals were announced. Another station revealed that the hospitality was spreading. I remember thinking that Floridians should express their gratitude to the Georgians for opening their doors during a time of crisis.
It was rare to see anything but Florida tags on the northbound vehicles. It was a though Georgians were taking alternate routes to avoid adding to the line of cars snaking through their state.
Atlanta radio stations advised that there were no acccommodations all the way to the Georgia-Tennessee state line. In Chattanooga, stations were advising that many hotels and motels were already full, and callers told of heart-wrenching encounters with the refugees in which they overheard such conversations as one between a father and daughter. The girl wanted a candy bar, and her dad told her that she couldn't have it, but only because he didn't know how they were going to afford to spend the night at a motel. Generosity bloomed again as shelters opened and people offered prayers for the people of Florida. Many Floridians didn't know what they would find when they were able to return.
A trip to my destination took more than twice as long as normal.
As it turned out, the area where I lived just outside Daytona Beach was flooded and without power for days while I was gone. My return trip was in total darkness, driving down I-75 past exits where there were no lights at the usual restaurants, service stations and other businesses.
It was like a glimpse of Armageddon.
I relate this experience because it dramatically impacted me as to the power of nature on our lives and that it could happen again. And I couldn't help but wonder how the same people who stayed and those who left would handle an even worse catastrophe, God forbid.
Are we ever really prepared? Now's the time to start thinking about it with Hurricane Season 2005 in its infancy. Now's the time to live in hope, not fear or dread. It's time to be ready, with prayers that no one anywhere will have to experience repeat performances of last year's horrors, minor in some respect to those elsewhere in the world.
-- The opinions expressed in this column do not necessarily reflect those of the staff and management of the Daytona Times. Toney Atkins is a senior writer for the newspaper.(c) 2005, Toney Atkins / Daytona Times
A VISIONS COLUMN BY TONEY ATKINS
Hurricane season is here again, and the tropics are starting to churn. After suffering the wrath of three devastating hurricanes within a six-week period, some folks around Daytona Beach are watching the weather with a certain amount of fear and trembling, if only in the back of their minds.
Despite an appearance of normalcy, signs of the storms' wrath in 2004 are still visible in the Daytona Beach area. Some businesses remain closed, workers can still be seen making repairs on structures throughout the county, and a number of residents still suffer psychological effects of the impact the hurricanes had on their lives -- something many had believed they would never have experienced because such storms had been a rarity here.
Black and white businesses alike continue to struggle to recover their losses. Some residents say they still haven't received the financial assistance they believe they were promised to get their lives together again.
One Black resident died after Charley plowed through the area. As the rains and winds were diminishing, she was outside and was electrocuted when she came into contact with a live power line.
In addition to fallen trees, power lines and damage to homes, businesses and property, residents learned the harsh realities of the potency of a hurricane. With each of the three storms, people discovered what it meant to live without modern conveniences. For days and even weeks, some areas had no electricity, meaning no lights, no air conditioning, the inability to pump gasoline into their vehicles or to get money from ATM machines. Computers were useless in places without power or backup generators, and in some areas, cell phone service was disrupted.
The experiences were much like ominous glimpses into what could happen as the result of a terrorist attack. In these cases, Mother Nature was the terrorist, reminding us that we are mere mortals who have to learn to weather and conquer obstacles in order to survive.
My mind flashes back to the Labor Day hurricane -- Frances, I believe it was. Residents on beachside areas along most of the east coast of Florida were ordered to evacuate. Because there was uncertainty as to where the storm would actually hit, many did not know where to go, so they simply headed north.
As fate would have it, I had to travel to Georgia to deal with a familyemergency. My adrenaline was surging as I drove on U.S.92 underneath the Interstate 95 overpass. The interstate was like a parking lot. Vehicles were not moving much at all. The one service station that was selling gasoline near I-95 was jammed with a line of cars waiting their turns at the pumps.
I stopped at a boarded up 7-Eleven that sported a handwritten sign advising that the store was open. There were few people inside, even though the hurricane was a couple of days away. The latest edition of the Daytona Times headlined that Volusia County residents were gearing for the storm.
There was little traffic on International Speedway Boulevard all the way to the beachside, and a decision to drive through part of the Black community revealed the uncanny, unusual sight of practically no one on the streets. Atlantic Avenue on the beachside resembled a ghost town, unlike an ordinary time when the street would be busy with cars and pedestrians. Hotels and motels had already boarded up and shut down. The air was almost too still, only occasionally awakened by a gust of wind.
My pondering as to which route to take took me up S.R. A1A. I couldn't help but feel an eerie sensation as I drove north, practically the only vehicle on the highway. There was a sense of foreboding as I glanced at the angry Atlantic Ocean and almost expected a huge wave to sweep over the road and drag me out to sea. Occasional raindrops and sea spray sprinkled my car.
When I was forced to I-95, the nightmare really began as I became part of the gridlock of evacuees. Interstate 10 was faster moving, but surreal with the number of cars packing the rest areas and lined along the road. The gridlock resumed at Interstate 75 and again it was difficult to find a parking spot in a rest area, where people of all races, tired and some with wild eyes, walked around to take a break from their travels to heaven knows where. A van hauling horses passed through; some cars seemed to be loaded with all of their occupants' earthly belongings; people seemed ignorant of any differences as they talked about the impending storm, their concerns, their fears and their prayers. A woman opened her raincoat to reveal her naked body as cars moved slowly toward the exit, which made me wonder irrationally if she had left home so fast she forgot to put on her clothes.
Vehicles became constant neighbors as they snaked northward on I-75 after dawn. You got to know people you didn't even know. In South Georgia, the DJ on a radio station playing gospel music warned drivers that all hotels and motels near the interstate were already booked solid all the way to Atlanta. Churches called in, offering refuge to travelers. One caller offered a room in his home. Places to get free meals were announced. Another station revealed that the hospitality was spreading. I remember thinking that Floridians should express their gratitude to the Georgians for opening their doors during a time of crisis.
It was rare to see anything but Florida tags on the northbound vehicles. It was a though Georgians were taking alternate routes to avoid adding to the line of cars snaking through their state.
Atlanta radio stations advised that there were no acccommodations all the way to the Georgia-Tennessee state line. In Chattanooga, stations were advising that many hotels and motels were already full, and callers told of heart-wrenching encounters with the refugees in which they overheard such conversations as one between a father and daughter. The girl wanted a candy bar, and her dad told her that she couldn't have it, but only because he didn't know how they were going to afford to spend the night at a motel. Generosity bloomed again as shelters opened and people offered prayers for the people of Florida. Many Floridians didn't know what they would find when they were able to return.
A trip to my destination took more than twice as long as normal.
As it turned out, the area where I lived just outside Daytona Beach was flooded and without power for days while I was gone. My return trip was in total darkness, driving down I-75 past exits where there were no lights at the usual restaurants, service stations and other businesses.
It was like a glimpse of Armageddon.
I relate this experience because it dramatically impacted me as to the power of nature on our lives and that it could happen again. And I couldn't help but wonder how the same people who stayed and those who left would handle an even worse catastrophe, God forbid.
Are we ever really prepared? Now's the time to start thinking about it with Hurricane Season 2005 in its infancy. Now's the time to live in hope, not fear or dread. It's time to be ready, with prayers that no one anywhere will have to experience repeat performances of last year's horrors, minor in some respect to those elsewhere in the world.
-- The opinions expressed in this column do not necessarily reflect those of the staff and management of the Daytona Times. Toney Atkins is a senior writer for the newspaper.(c) 2005, Toney Atkins / Daytona Times
Sunday, June 12, 2005
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