The PJs

My Divalicious cousin has managed to relieve me of the writer's block and depression that has plagued me for nearly the past three weeks. After a very disappointing evening, where surprise plans for a friend fell through, I found myself nursing a slice of warm pound cake and a diet soft drink. It's funny how the wee hours of the morning, insomnia and loneliness will guide an idle mind. I figured I might as well take a short romp through Blogland. One of cousin's entries inspired me right away and I rattled off the previous offering. Another hilarious entry gave birth to this baby.

I always joke that in the years following the great depression Mount Vernon, Georgia picked itself up and shook out a large portion of its Negroes. A great many of them landed in Long Branch, New Jersey. For years I wondered how all the Black folks in my town appeared to know each other and how most seemed to be related. It was because when they migrated north, they moved into segregated communities similar to those they left behind. The only differences were that what was known as "Jim Crow" in the south was called "Zoning" in the north and it was possible to move into a white neighborhood without violent repercussions.

The south's refugees that made it to Long Branch found themselves living, predominately, in just a few places. A shanty town on Mill Street, which no longer exists; Potter and Central Avenues, which lay nearest the city's large Black churches and the Grant Court housing project, contained within a block, bordered by Central Avenue on one side. Garfield Court was the other project in town, but it was for white folks at the time. An annex was eventually built in the back for people of color to live... Zoning at work.


My grandparents lived in Grant Court for several years before buying their own home in the 1950s. Like them, many were able to move out and acquire their own, but a great many folks, some of them family, remained in public housing. More housing was made available in (I believe) 1953 when the Sea View Manor project was completed. My grandmother said folks were carrying their belongings on their backs and in wagons from the shotgun shacks of Mill Street. It looked like "the Israelites fleeing Egypt." Three of my great aunts moved into the Manor. Two of them remained until they moved into senior housing.

I spent a great deal of my childhood in the PJs. They were a departure from our serene tree-lined street, even though they weren't that far away. It's not because they weren't nice. It was all them damn, bad-assed children. The truth is the apartments were really nice.

Structurally, they resembled Garden Apartments and could probably be called town houses since they had front and back entries and well-maintained yards. I believed all projects looked like this until I saw the Hayes Homes in Newark, Frederick Douglass in Harlem and Cabrini Green in Chicago.

The folks in our projects didn't seem poor except for those few families that housed a dozen kids within a five-room apartment. My aunt says there was one family who had roaches so bad, that when the door opened, they would be trying to escape. For years I remember having to shake out coats and clothes when returning home from visits and I visited often from the time I was an infant. Aunt Savannah (no relation at all) lived in the Manor and was my babysitter while grandmother worked.

The community was tight. Children were interchangeable. We could go into just about any house and be fed. We might catch a beat down if caught acting up outside the wrong door. Surely there would be one waiting at home. Long before Verizon, the mothers had a network. For most of my childhood I believed every woman was my aunt because that is how they behaved. I felt the same love and familial concern in their presence that I felt in those of my actual aunts. They looked out for me like one of their own. They looked out for all of the kids.

As I got older, I witnessed the gradual deterioration of the PJs as they became drug markets. The lawns got patchy, window and door screens went missing from abuse or just hung on by a thread. Of course there remained a few faithful folks who tried to keep up their places. Some folks laid out those apartments like they had a deed and a mortgage. One brother built a deck outside his back door. Another, who was a landscaper, had beautifully manicured hedges around the perimeter of his yard. My Aunt Viola planted beautiful flower and vegetable gardens outside, not only her doors, but also those of her neighbors. Even with those efforts, it was all too clear the Manor was changing.

Sadder than the physical detrioration was the disbanding of the mothers network. As the older mothers moved on and younger ones adopted the attitude that no one else had any business reprimanding their children, I saw the kids get even wilder. There were still success stories, but also too many sad examples of kids left on their own, falling prey to drugs, jail, and death.

I have fond memories of childhood in the PJs... summer recreation on the playground with Ms. Patty... family gatherings in Aunt Letha's 3-rooms, where someone would be sitting, plate in lap, on each of the 14 stairs, leading to her second-floor apartment... most of all, feeling protected and surrounded by love. It's gone now and thinking about it makes me want to go home, but home is different now. I find myself alone and depressed too often. I know it's because I lack the close proximity of family, friends and community I grew up with.

Damn! I miss the PJs.