TheBurg

50 | The Burg | 06.15 eBurg often highlights the work of student writers from Penn State Harrisburg. In this issue, we feature an essay about life in the Allison Hill neighborhood of Harrisburg. leTTer FroM HarrisBUrG By DAWN SAyLor I heard nothing about the Baltimore riots until the following day, when I walked into work and noticed the television tuned to the news. Being at the tail end of my undergrad career, while also working four to five days a week, leaves little time for keeping up to date. I knew about the death of Freddie Gray, but not the escalating situation. e first images that crossed my vision were of fire and chaos. I worry that it could happen here, in Harrisburg, right down the road from where I live. My neighborhood, Allison Hill, has a face only a mother could love. Empty plastic bags tumble down the streets, and scraggly weeds grow out of the cracked sidewalks. A pothole on my side street takes up so much of the road that my car can only drive down the wrong half. My car might easily be dragged into the black hole of rubble, ripping out the undercarriage and leaving a gutted shell behind. e street remains mostly unchanged since I purchased my house and moved in five years ago. ough they did throw in some cold patch a few years back that lasted until the following winter, when it began to cave in on itself again. Like the burnt-out street lamp on my block, I doubt the city will ever fix it. And I adore it. I adore the Dominican salon across the street, the Spanish-American restaurant on the corner, the deli that sits diagonal from my house that reminds me of Brooklyn. I love the joy of the two young girls who live in the house across from me, who giggle and chase each other down the stairs and up the ramp of their home, over and over. I wave to my neighbors across the street and smile at the passersby on my way to the store. I love the kids on roller blades navigating the jutting sidewalks; the folks walking back from the supermarket pushing wheeled personal carts around the broken landscape; the souped- up dirt bikes that rip and roar up the street on any given Saturday night, or Tuesday afternoon for that matter. But in the same breath, learning to discern the difference between bullets and fireworks factored into the education of living on the tattered edge of Allison Hill. I actually reside two blocks past the technical edge of Allison Hill, but bullets aren't concerned with invisible boundary lines. I understand the anger of Baltimore and Ferguson, of Eric Garner, Amadou Diallo and Rodney King. ere is a systemic racism in this country, and it has gone on far too long. But how do we channel that anger into change? How do we become a country that values each and every life? My neighborhood could very easily descend into violence. e buildings in this city could burn alongside police cars. Walk down Derry Street, and you will see abandoned houses, chipped and peeling paint, broken and boarded up windows. e Rite Aid down the street has been robbed so often they employ a security guard. How are the people who live in this neighborhood supposed to hope for a better future when their environment falls apart around them? Martin Luther King Jr. stated that, "A riot is the language of the unheard." Who will hear the cries of my neighbors if chaos erupts? More importantly, is anyone listening now? My friend "Jersey Mike" Van Jura moved here from New Jersey, and adopted Harrisburg as his home. He loved it here. I never asked him why he came; I missed that opportunity. He saw possibility on the streets of this city. He wanted to create a scene that encouraged art, music and theater, that encouraged political activism, that fostered involvement. He wanted a better future for everyone. His heart and soul loved and believed that Harrisburg could be a place where people wanted to live, a city where bands wanted to come because a space conducive to the arts existed. He believed that, by creating a scene where positivity reigned, the whole city could benefit. e first few years after I moved here, I hated Harrisburg. e only thing to do in the city involved drinking on 2 nd Street. Yes, there were some fabulous restaurants, and a couple fantastic little theaters, e Gamut and eatre Harrisburg, but once you attended their productions, weeks passed before a new show opened. I regretted ever moving here to be near my family. I'd lived in Brooklyn, traveled to Chicago several times, and spent a couple months in Austin. I'd resided for a decade in Kalamazoo, Mich., a town loaded with theaters and music venues, art galleries and opportunities. Here, I felt adrift on a disappointing wave lapping at the shore of a life I used to live. Ranting one day to Jersey Mike about the lack of culture in the city, he surprised me. I thought he'd commiserate with me. Instead, he told me I needed to be part of the creation of something bigger than an angry diatribe. He put himself out there all the time. He held tweet-ups at Appalachian Brewing Co. that encouraged people to become an active participant in the change they wanted to see in the city. He blogged about the best diners and attended City Council meetings; he wanted his voice to be heard. e last day I saw him, he wore a crisp white shirt and black vest. His smile showed his excitement at lending his voice to the politics of the city. ree days before, he'd officially submitted his name to run for City Council. He never had the opportunity make good on his promise. When Harrisburg lost Jersey Mike, it lost a beacon of light in a city immersed in darkness. i UndersTand THe anGer oF BalTiMore and FerGUson, oF eriC Garner, aMadoU diallo and rodney kinG. Dawn Saylor was an English major at Penn State Harrisburg. She graduated in May. To read her complete essay, go to www.theburgnews.com.

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