Gang Leader for a Day Response Due July 2, 2021 at 12:00 PM EASTERN New York TIME
Please note you may not use any direct quotes in this assignment!!! My professor will automatically fail anyone who includes any quotes. It is always best to paraphrase and cite information instead of quoting it whenever possible!!!!
PLEASE NOTE YOU ARE NOT CONDUCTING ORIGINAL RESEARCH FOR THIS PROJECT. THIS ASSIGNMENT INVOLVES RESPONDING TO QUESTIONS BASED ON VENKATESH 2008. YOU ARE NOT TO CONTACT THE AUTHOR OF THE BOOK, ANY OF HIS SUBJECTS, OR INTERVIEW ANYONE INVOLVED OR NOT INVOLVED IN GANGS, LAW ENFORCEMENT, ETC. ANY PROJECTS INVOLVING DATA COLLECTION MUST (IN ACCORDANCE TO FEDERAL LAW) MEET IRB REQUIREMENTS/APPROVAL OF MONTCLAIR STATE UNIVERSITY IRB. ANY STUDENT WHO COLLECTS ANY DATA OUTSIDE OF WHAT IS IDENTIFIED AS REQUIRED FOR THIS assignment/PROJECT BELOW WILL RECEIVE AN AUTOMATIC GRADE OF 0. THIS IS NOT DEBATABLE OR NEGOTIABLE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
PLEASE READ THE BOOK THAT IS ATTACHED BELOW TO ANSWER THE QUESTIONS.
Below are 8 questions. Please choose 4 to respond. Your responses should be NUMBERED!!! So that they may be differentiated.
1. Throughout Gang Leader for a day Venkatesh makes comparisons between the Black Kings’ drug trafficking with more conventional forms of American business. Do you agree or disagree with these comparisons? Why?
2. J.T. argued the activities of the Black Kings provided more benefits than harm to the community. Do you agree or disagree with J.T.? Are there ways in which the community would be worse off if the BKs were to stop operating in the projects?
3. How did Venkatesh gain the confidence of J.T. and the other people he meets at Robert Taylor? Did he ever completely earn their trust? Why are issues of trust so difficult in this book?
4. Venkatesh’s views the Chicago police and other social institutions of power are less than glowing terms. Do you think the city’s institutions helped to create and maintain the conditions that allow gangs to flourish? Why or why not?
5. Why did Venkatesh’s efforts to educate the young women and children of the project fail? Why was it so difficult in general to help the people he met in the projects?
6. How did a strong woman like Ms. Bailey exert influence over the housing project? How does the exercise of female power in this book differ from the demonstrations of male power?
7. When you read Gang Leader for a Day, did you question the ethics of Venkatesh’s research? Was Venkatesh, as exploitative and manipulative in his own way as J.T. was in his?
8. Did reading Gang Leader for a Day make help you identify more or less with the problems of America’s urban poor? Why or why not?
EXTREMLY IMPORTANT ASSIGNMENT AND I NEED 100 ON IT! PLEASE FOLLOW ALL DIRECTIONS. IF YOU ARE CONFUSED ON ANYTHING PLEASE ASK ME!!
Table of Contents
Title Page Copyright Page Dedication Foreword PREFACE ONE – How Does It Feel to Be Black and Poor? TWO – First Days on Federal Street THREE – Someone to Watch Over Me FOUR – Gang Leader for a Day FIVE – Ms. Bailey’s Neighborhood SIX – The Hustler and the Hustled SEVEN – Black and Blue EIGHT – The Stay-Together Gang AUTHOR’S NOTE Acknowledgements INDEX About the Author
ALSO BY SUDHIR VENKATESH Off the Books:
The Underground Economy of the Urban Poor
American Project: The Rise and Fall of a Modern Ghetto
THE PENGUIN PRESS Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in 2008 by The Penguin Press,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Sudhir Venkatesh, 2008
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Venkatesh, Sudhir Alladi.
Gang leader for a day : a rogue sociologist takes to the streets / Sudhir Venkatesh. p. cm.
Includes index. eISBN : 978-1-4406-3189-4
1. Gangs—Illinois—Chicago. 2. African Americans—Illinois—Chicago. 3. Chicago (Ill.)—Social conditions. 4.Venkatesh, Sudhir Alladi. I. Title.
HV6439.U7C46 2008 364.1’0660977311—dc22
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To Autry Harrison
FOREWORD Stephen J. Dubner
I believe that Sudhir Venkatesh was born with two abnormalities: an overdeveloped curiosity and an underdeveloped sense of fear. How else to explain him? Like thousands upon thousands of people, he
entered graduate school one fall and was dispatched by his professors to do some research. This research happened to take him to the Robert Taylor Homes in Chicago, one of the worst ghettos in America. But blessed with that outlandish curiosity and unfettered by the sort of commonsensical fear that most of us would experience upon being held hostage by an armed crack gang, as Venkatesh was early on in his research, he kept coming back for more. I met Venkatesh a few years ago when I interviewed him for Freakonomics, a
book I wrote with the economist Steve Levitt. Venkatesh and Levitt had collaborated on several academic papers about the economics of crack cocaine. Those papers were interesting, to be sure, but Venkatesh himself presented a whole new level of fascination. He is soft-spoken and laconic; he doesn’t volunteer much information. But every time you ask him a question, it is like tugging a thread on an old tapestry: the whole thing unspools and falls at your feet. Story after story, marked by lapidary detail and hard-won insight: the rogue cop who terrorized the neighborhood, the jerry-built network through which poor families hustled to survive, the time Venkatesh himself became gang leader for a day. Although we wrote about Venkatesh in Freakonomics (it was many readers’
favorite part), there wasn’t room for any of these stories. Thankfully, he has now written an extraordinary book that details all his adventures and misadventures. The stories he tells are far stranger than fiction, and they are also more forceful, heartbreaking, and hilarious. Along the way he paints a unique portrait of the
kind of neighborhood that is badly misrepresented when it is represented at all. Journalists like me might hang out in such neighborhoods for a week or a month or even a year. Most social scientists and dogooders tend to do their work at arm’s length. But Venkatesh practically lived in this neighborhood for the better part of a decade. He brought the perspective of an outsider and came away with an insider’s access. A lot of writing about the poor tends to reduce living, breathing, joking, struggling, sensual, moral human beings to dupes who are shoved about by invisible forces. This book does the opposite. It shows, day by day and dollar by dollar, how the crack dealers, tenant leaders, prostitutes, parents, hustlers, cops, and Venkatesh himself tried to construct a good life out of substandard materials. As much as I have come to like Venkatesh, and admire him, I probably would
not want to be a member of his family: I would worry too much about his fearlessness. I probably wouldn’t want to be one of his research subjects either, for his curiosity must be exhausting. But I am very, very happy to have been one of the first readers of Venkatesh’s book, for it is as extraordinary as he is.
PREFACE I woke up at about 7:30 A.M. in a crack den, Apartment 1603 in Building Number 2301 of the Robert Taylor Homes. Apartment 1603 was called the “Roof,” since everyone knew that you could get very, very high there, even higher than if you climbed all the way to the building’s actual rooftop. As I opened my eyes, I saw two dozen people sprawled about, most of them
men, asleep on couches and the floor. No one had lived in the apartment for a while. The walls were peeling, and roaches skittered across the linoleum floor. The activities of the previous night—smoking crack, drinking, having sex, vomiting—had peaked at about 2:00 A.M. By then the unconscious people outnumbered the conscious ones—and among the conscious ones, few still had the cash to buy another hit of crack cocaine. That’s when the Black Kings saw diminishing prospects for sales and closed up shop for the night. I fell asleep, too, on the floor. I hadn’t come for the crack; I was here on a
different mission. I was a graduate student at the University of Chicago, and for my research I had taken to hanging out with the Black Kings, the local crack- selling gang. It was the sun that woke me, shining through the Roof’s doorway. (The door
itself had disappeared long ago.) I climbed over the other stragglers and walked down to the tenth floor, where the Patton family lived. During the course of my research, I had gotten to know the Pattons—a law-abiding family, it should be said—and they treated me kindly, almost like a son. I said good morning to Mama Patton, who was cooking breakfast for her husband, Pops, a seventy-year- old retired factory worker. I washed my face, grabbed a slice of cornbread, and headed outside into a breezy, brisk March morning. Just another day in the ghetto. Just another day as an outsider looking at life from the inside. That’s what this
book is about.
How Does It Feel to Be Black and Poor? During my first weeks at the University of Chicago, in the fall of 1989, I had to attend a variety of orientation sessions. In each one, after the particulars of the session had been dispensed with, we were warned not to walk outside the areas that were actively patrolled by the university’s police force. We were handed detailed maps that outlined where the small enclave of Hyde Park began and ended: this was the safe area. Even the lovely parks across the border were off- limits, we were told, unless you were traveling with a large group or attending a formal event. It turned out that the ivory tower was also an ivory fortress. I lived on the
southwestern edge of Hyde Park, where the university housed a lot of its graduate students. I had a studio apartment in a ten-story building just off Cottage Grove Avenue, a historic boundary between Hyde Park and Woodlawn, a poor black neighborhood. The contrast would be familiar to anyone who has spent time around an urban university in the United States. On one side of the divide lay a beautifully manicured Gothic campus, with privileged students, most of them white, walking to class and playing sports. On the other side were down-and-out African Americans offering cheap labor and services (changing oil, washing windows, selling drugs) or panhandling on street corners. I didn’t have many friends, so in my spare time I started taking long walks,
getting to know the city. For a budding sociologist, the streets of Chicago were a feast. I was intrigued by the different ethnic neighborhoods, the palpable sense of culture and tradition. I liked that there was one part of the city, Rogers Park, where Indians, Pakistanis, and Bangladeshis congregated. Unlike the lily-white suburbs of Southern California where I’d grown up, the son of immigrants from South Asia, here Indians seemed to have a place in the ethnic landscape along with everyone else. I was particularly interested in the poor black neighborhoods surrounding the
university. These were neighborhoods where nearly half the population didn’t work, where crime and gang activity were said to be entrenched, where the welfare rolls were swollen. In the late 1980s, these isolated parts of the inner cities gripped the nation’s attention. I went for many walks there and started
playing basketball in the parks, but I didn’t see any crime, and I didn’t feel particularly threatened. I wondered why the university kept warning students to keep out. As it happened, I attracted a good bit of curiosity from the locals. Perhaps it
was because these parks didn’t attract many nonblack visitors, or perhaps it was because in those days I dressed like a Deadhead. I got asked a lot of questions about India—most of which I couldn’t answer, since I’d moved to the States as a child. Sometimes I’d come upon a picnic, and people would offer me some of their soul food. They were puzzled when I turned them down on the grounds that I was a vegetarian. But as alien as I was to these folks, they were just as alien to me.
As part of my heavy course load at the U of C, I began attending seminars where professors parsed the classic sociological questions: How do an individual’s preferences develop? Can we predict human behavior? What are the long-term consequences, for instance, of education on future generations? The standard mode of answering these questions was to conduct widespread
surveys and then use complex mathematical methods to analyze the survey data. This would produce statistical snapshots meant to predict why a given person might, say, fail to land a job, or end up in prison, or have a child out of wedlock. It was thought that the key to formulating good policy was to first formulate a good scientific study. I liked the questions these researchers were asking, but compared with the
vibrant life that I saw on the streets of Chicago, the discussion in these seminars seemed cold and distant, abstract and lifeless. I found it particularly curious that most of these researchers didn’t seem interested in meeting the people they wrote about. It wasn’t necessarily out of any animosity—nearly all of them were well intentioned—but because the act of actually talking to research subjects was seen as messy, unscientific, and a potential source of bias. Mine was not a new problem. Indeed, the field of sociology had long been
divided into two camps: those who use quantitative and statistical techniques and those who study life by direct observation, often living among a group of people. This second group, usually called ethnographers, use their firsthandapproach
to answer a particular sort of question: How do people survive in marginal
communities? for instance, or What makes a government policy work well for some families and not for others? The quantitative sociologists, meanwhile, often criticized the ethnographers’
approach. They argued that it isn’t nearly scientific enough and that the answers may be relevant only to the particular group under observation. In other words, to reach any important and generalizable conclusion, you need to rely on the statistical analyses of large data sets like the U.S. Census or other massive surveys. My frustration with the more scientific branch of sociology hadn’t really
coalesced yet. But I knew that I wanted to do something other than sit in a classroom all day and talk mathematics. So I did what any sensible student who was interested in race and poverty
would do: I walked down the hallway and knocked on the door of William Julius Wilson, the most eminent living scholar on the subject and the most prominent African American in the field of sociology. He had been teaching at the U of C for nearly twenty years and had published two books that reshaped how scholars and policy makers thought about urban poverty. I caught Wilson just in time—he was about to go to Paris for a sabbatical. But
he was also about to launch a new research project, he said, and I could participate if I liked. Wilson was a quiet, pensive man, dressed in a dark blue suit. Although he had
stopped smoking his trademark pipe long ago, he still looked like the kind of professor you see in movies. If you asked him a question, he’d often let several long moments of silence pass—he could be more than a little bit intimidating— before offering a thoughtful response. Wilson explained that he was hoping to better understand how young blacks
were affected by specific neighborhood factors: Did growing up as a poor kid in a housing project, for instance, lead to worse educational and job outcomes than if a similarly poor kid grew up outside the projects? What about the difference between growing up in a neighborhood that was surrounded by other poor areas and growing up poor but near an affluent neighborhood? Did the latter group take advantage of the schools, services, and employment opportunities in the richer neighborhoods? Wilson’s project was still in the planning stages. The first step was to
construct a basic survey questionnaire, and he suggested I help his other
graduate students in figuring out which questions to ask. This meant going back to earlier studies of black youth to see what topics and questions had been chosen by earlier sociologists. Wilson gave me a box of old questionnaires. I should experiment, he said, by borrowing some of their questions and developing new ones as needed. Sociologists liked to use survey questions that their peers had already used, I learned, in order to produce comparable results. This was a key part of the scientific method in sociology. I thanked Wilson and went to the library to begin looking over the
questionnaires he’d given me. I quickly realized I had no idea how to interview anyone. Washington Park, situated just across Cottage Grove Avenue from the U of C, is one of Chicago’s stateliest parks. Designed in the 1870s by Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, it has a beautiful swimming pool, indoor and outdoor basketball courts, dazzling flower gardens, and long, winding paths that crisscross its nearly four hundred acres. I liked to go running on the clay track that encircled the park, a track that decades earlier had hosted horse and auto races. Until the 1940s the surrounding neighborhood was mainly Irish, but when black families started buying homes nearby, most of the white families moved away. I was always surprised that the university actively dissuaded its students from spending time in Washington Park. I failed to see the danger, at least in the daylight. After my run I sometimes stopped by the broad, marshy lagoon in the middle
of the park. The same group of old black men, usually a half dozen or so, congregated there every day—playing cards, drinking beer, fishing for bass and perch in the lagoon. I sat and listened to them for hours. To this point I had had little exposure to African-American culture at all, and no experience whatsoever in an urban ghetto. I had moved to Chicago just a year earlier from California, where I’d attended a predominantly white college situated on the beach, UC San Diego. I had been reading several histories of Chicago’s black community, and I
sometimes asked these men about the events and people of which I’d read. The stories they told were considerably more animated than the history in the books. They knew the intricacies of machine politics—whom you had to befriend, for
instance, to get a job or a building permit. They talked about the Black Panther Party of their youth and how it was radically different from today’s gangs. “The Panthers had breakfast programs for kids, but these gangs just shoot ’em and feed ’em drugs,” one man lamented. I already knew a bit about how the Panthers operated in Chicago during the civil-rights era. What little I knew about modern gangs, however, came from the movies and newspapers—and, of course, the constant cautions issued by the U of C about steering clear of certain neighborhoods. I was particularly intrigued by the old men’s views on race, which boiled
down to this: Whites and blacks would never be able to talk openly, let alone live together. The most talkative among them was Leonard Combs, a.k.a. Old Time. “Never trust a white man,” he told me one day, “and don’t think black folk are any better.” Old Time came to Washington Park every day with his fishing gear, lunch,
and beer. He wore a tired beige fishing hat, and he had lost so many teeth that his gums smacked together when he spoke. But he loved to talk, especially about Chicago. “We live in a city within a city,” he said. “They have theirs and we have ours.
And if you can understand that it will never change, you’ll start understanding how this city works.” “You mean whites and blacks will never get along?” I asked. A man named Charlie Butler jumped in. “You got two kinds of whites in this
city,” he said, “and two kinds of blacks. You got whites who’ll beat you if you come into their neighborhood. They live around Bridgeport and on the Southwest Side. Then you got another group that just won’t invite you in. They’ll call the police if you come in their neighborhood—like where you live, in Hyde Park. And the police will beat you up.” Charlie was a retired factory worker, a beefy man with tattooed, well-
developed arms, a college football star from long ago. Charlie sometimes came to Hyde Park for breakfast or lunch at one of the diners where other blacks hung out, but he never stayed past sun-down and he never walked on residential streets, he said, since the police would follow him. “What about blacks?” I asked. “You got blacks who are beating their heads trying to figure out a way to live
where you live!” Charlie continued. “Don’t ask me why. And then you got a
whole lot of black folk who realize it ain’t no use. Like us. We just spend our time trying to get by, and we live around here, where it ain’t so pretty, but at least you won’t get your ass beat. At least not by the police.” “That’s how it’s been since black folk came to the city,” Old Time said, “and
it’s not going to change.” “You mean you don’t have any white friends?” I asked. “You have any black friends?” Old Time countered with a sly grin. I didn’t
need to answer. “And you may want to ask your professors if they have any,” he said, clearly pleased with his rebuke. From these conversations I started to gain a bit of perspective on what it was
like to be black in Chicago. The overriding sentiment was that given how the city operated, there was little chance for any significant social progress. This kind of fatalism was foreign to me. When you grew up in affluent
Southern California, even for someone as politically disengaged as I, there was a core faith in the workings of American institutions and a sustaining belief that people can find a way to resolve their differences, even racial ones. I was now beginning to see the limits of my narrow experience. Nearly every conversation with Old Time and his friends wound up at the intersection of politics and race. I couldn’t follow all the nuances of their arguments, especially when it came to local politics, but even I could see the huge gap between how they perceived the world and how sociologists presented the life of urban poor people. One day I asked Old Time and his friends if they’d be willing to let me
interview them for Professor Wilson’s survey. They agreed, and I tried for a few days. But I felt I wasn’t getting anywhere. Most of the conversations ended up meandering along, a string of interruptions and half-finished thoughts. Charlie could see I was dejected. “Before you give up,” he said, “you should
probably speak to the people who you really want to talk to—young men, not us. That’s the only way you’re going to get what you need.” So I set out looking for young black men. At the U of C library, I checked the census records to find a tract with poor black families with people between the ages of sixteen and twenty-four. The Lake Park projects looked good, at least on paper, and I randomly chose Building Number 4040, highlighting on my census
printout the apartments where young people lived. Those were the doors I’d be knocking on. Old Time told me that I could go any day I wanted. “Most black folk in the projects don’t work,” he said, “so they don’t have nowhere else to be.” Still, I thought a weekend would be the best time to find a lot of people. On a brisk Saturday afternoon in November, I went looking for 4040 South
Lake Park, one of several high-rise projects in Oakland, a lakefront neighborhood about two miles north of the U of C. Oakland was one of the poorest communities in Chicago, with commensurately high rates of unemployment, welfare, and crime. Its population was overwhelmingly black, dating back to the early-twentieth-century southern migration. The neighborhood surrounding the Lake Park projects wasn’t much of a neighborhood at all. There were few people on the streets, and on some blocks there were more vacant lots than buildings. Aside from a few liquor stores and broken-down bodegas, there wasn’t much commerce. It struck me that most housing projects, even though they are built in cities, run counter to the very notion of urban living. Cities are attractive because of their balkanized variety: wandering the streets of a good city, you can see all sorts of highs and lows, commerce and recreation, a multitude of ethnicities and just as many expressions of public life. But housing projects, at least from the outside, seemed to be a study in joyless monotony, the buildings clustered tightly together but set apart from the rest of the city, as if they were toxic. Up close, the buildings looked like tall checkerboards, their dull yellow-brick
walls lined with rows of dreary windows. A few of the windows revealed the aftermath of an apartment fire, black smudges spreading upward in the shape of tombstones. Most of the buildings had only one entrance, and it was usually clogged with young people. By now I was used to being observed carefully when I walked around a black
neighborhood. Today was no different. As I approached one of the Lake Park projects, five or six young men stared me down. It should be said here that I probably deserved to be stared at. I was just a few months removed from a long stretch of time I’d spent following the Grateful Dead, and I was still under the spell of Jerry Garcia and his band of merrymakers. With my ponytail and tie- dyed shirt, I must have looked pretty out of place. I tended to speak in spiritually laden language, mostly about the power of road trips; the other grad students in my department saw me as a bit naïve and more than a little loopy. Looking back, I can’t say they were wrong.
But I wasn’t so naïve that I couldn’t recognize what was going on in the lobby of the building that I now approached. Customers were arriving, black and white, by car and on foot, hurrying inside to buy their drugs and then hurrying back out. I wasn’t sure if this building was Number 4040, and I couldn’t find the number anywhere, so I just walked inside. The entryway smelled of alcohol, soot, and urine. Young men stood and crouched on plastic milk crates, a couple of them stomping their feet against the cold. I put my head down, took a breath, and walked past them quickly. Their eyes felt heavy on me as I passed by. One huge young man, six foot six
at least, chose not to move an inch as I passed. I brushed up against him and nearly lost my balance. There was a long row of beaten-up metal mailboxes, many of them missing
their doors. Water was dripping everywhere, puddling on the ground. Shouts and shrieks cascaded down from the higher floors, making the whole building feel like some kind of vibrating catacomb. Once I got past the entryway, it was darker. I could make out the elevator, but
I seemed to be losing any peripheral vision, and I couldn’t find the button. I sensed that I was still being watched and that I ought to press the button fast, but I groped around in vain. Then I started looking for the stairwell, but I couldn’t find that either. To my left was a large barrier of some kind, but I was too nervous to go around it. To my right was a corridor. I decided to go that way, figuring I’d come across a stairwell or at least a door to knock on. As I turned, a hand grabbed my shoulder. “What’s up, my man, you got some business in here?” He was in his twenties,
about as tall and dark as I was. His voice was deep and forceful but matter-of- fact, as if he asked the same question regularly. He wore baggy jeans, a loose- fitting jacket, and a baseball cap. His earrings sparkled, as did the gold on his front teeth. A few other young men, dressed the same, stood behind him. I told them that I was there to interview families. “No one lives here,” he said. “I’m doing a study for the university,” I said, “and I have to go to Apartments
610 and 703.” “Ain’t nobody lived in those apartments for the longest,” he said. “Well, do you mind if I just run up there and knock on the door?” “Yeah, we do mind,” he said.
I tried again. “Maybe I’m in the wrong building. Is this 4040?” He shook his head. “No one lives here. So you won’t be talking to anybody.” I decided I’d better leave. I walked back through the lobby, bag and clipboard
in hand. I crossed in front of the building, over an expansive patch of dead grass littered with soda cans and broken glass. I turned around and looked back at the building. A great many of the windows were lit. I wondered why my new friend had insisted that the building was uninhabited. Only later did I learn that gang members routinely rebuffed all sorts of visitors with this line: “No one by that name lives here.” They would try to prevent social workers,schoolteachers, and maintenance personnel from coming inside and interrupting their drug trade. The young men from the building were still watching me, but they didn’t
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