Change
You’ve probably heard by now that a violent Venezuelan gang has taken over an apartment complex in Aurora, Colorado. In at least one of the news reports I heard they mentioned the location being on 12th and Dallas.
It feels strange to me to hear that particular intersection mentioned on a national news broadcast because my family lived there. That apartment complex, the one at the center of the story, was a vacant lot back then. Our house was across the street, and we used to play ball with the neighborhood kids on that property.
Even then, it wasn’t a homogenous, white, middle-class neighborhood. Our next-door neighbors were Hispanic, and our good friends. Another family, whose son was named Ty, were immigrants from Thailand. None of us were wealthy. Far from it.
It wasn’t an idyllic place either. A girl was murdered by a neighbor boy a few blocks from our house. My siblings and I conducted our own investigation without success. The boy eventually confessed. Colfax Avenue, not far away from our home, was a seedy street even back then.
My point is, that it wasn’t Mayberry, even in the 1960’s.
But we could play outside, walk to school, go trick-or-treating, and not live in fear of unrestrained violence. We rode our bikes and trikes, played ball in the field, drank water from the gutter, and threw tomato worms on ant piles in Mr. Barrell’s garden.
I’m not opposed to change. Change is inevitable. I am saddened by the kind of change that allows evil to flourish and violence to grow unrestrained. I am disheartened by a political class that turns a blind eye to it. I am angry that kids can’t be free to be kids anymore on 12th and Dallas.
