Why Don't American Cities Burn?. Michael B. Katz

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       Why Don’t American Cities Burn?

       The City in the Twenty-first Century

      Eugenie L. Birch and Susan M. Wachter, Series Editors

      A complete list of books in the series is available from the publisher.

      Why Don’t American Cities Burn?

      Michael B. Katz

      UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA PRESS

      PHILADELPHIA

      Copyright © 2012 University of Pennsylvania Press

      All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher.

      Published by

      University of Pennsylvania Press

      Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112

       www.upenn.edu/pennpress

      Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Katz, Michael B., 1939-

      Why don’t American cities burn? / Michael B. Katz.

      p. cm. —(The city in the twenty-first century)

      978-0-8122-4386-4 (hardcover : alk. paper)

      Includes bibliographical references and index.

      1. Sociology, Urban—United States—20th century. 2. Urban policy—United States—20th century. 3. Inner cities—United States—20th century. 4. City and town life—United States—20th century.

      I. Title. II. Series

      HT123.K38 2011

      307.760973’0904

      2011023321

      To the memory of

      Baruch S. Blumberg

      (1925-2011)

      Kayak buddy extraordinaire

      Contents

       Prologue: The Death of Shorty

       Chapter 1. What Is an American City?

       Chapter 2. The New African American In e qual ity

       Chapter 3. Why Don’t American Cities Burn Very Often?

       Chapter 4. From Underclass to Entrepreneur: New Technologies of Poverty Work in Urban America

       Epilogue: The Existential Problem of Urban Studies

       Notes

       Index

       Acknowledgments

      Prologue: The Death of Shorty

      At 1:27 on the morning of August 4, 2005, Herbert Manes stabbed Robert Monroe—known as Shorty—to death on the 1400 block of West Oakland Street in North Philadelphia. No newspaper reported the incident. Arrested and charged with homicide, Manes spent the next ten months incarcerated until his trial, which ended on June 8, 2006. After deliberating less than ninety minutes, the jury concluded that he had acted in self-defense and found him not guilty on all charges. I served as juror number three.¹

      This Prologue is the story of the trial, what it meant for me, and what it signifies about marginalization, social isolation, and indifference in American cities. It distills the essential themes of this book into an incident at once mundane and horrific. It is also the story of what I learned from Herbert Manes. It is not a neat story. Ambiguities remain unresolved, contradictions abound, ends dangle. It begins with the two main characters and where they lived.

      Herbert Manes was born on June 29, 1938. His family lived south of Gerard Street, around Ninth Street, in what he says is now “upper Society Hill.” His parents had migrated from South Carolina before World War II but met in Philadelphia, where, after knowing each other for only two weeks, they married. Their marriage lasted more than sixty years until their deaths in their seventies. Herbert has two brothers, one of whom has died and one who works for Blue Cross and Blue Shield. He also has a sister who works for the Youth Study Center, a secure facility for youths age 13 to 18 considered a risk to the safety of the community or at risk for flight while awating their hearing before the Juvenile Court. When Herbert’s parents died, an aunt who lived to be 104 years old managed the family. Everyone referred to her as “the boss.” Herbert spent his entire early life in the neighborhood in which he was born, attending Jefferson School and then Benjamin Franklin High School. He left school to make money at age eighteen without graduating. Money became important, because after a shotgun wedding, which he claims was common at the time, his first child was born when he was twenty. In all, Herbert has eight sons, one daughter, and many grandchildren. His former wife, from whom he was divorced in the 1990s, lives in Cheltenham, a heavily African American suburb on the edge of Philadelphia. Until her retirement, she ran the dialysis unit at a local hospital. Herbert speaks of her fondly, describing her as a “lovely lady” with whom he stays in touch. Most of his children live in the Philadelphia area, some in Willingboro (formerly Levittown, New Jersey, and currently home to many African Americans), and three or four in the South. Herbert sees his children and grandchildren only at family reunions.

      For thirty-five years, Herbert’s father worked for a moving company from which he received a pension. Herbert describes him as a good father and has warm memories of both parents. Herbert drove a furniture truck for the same firm for many years until, like most of the city’s manufacturers, it went out of business. He then worked in steel mills, which he described as “brutal work.” He retired after an injury and survives on social insurance. “Uncle Sam takes care of me,” he told the jury. He also drove a gypsy cab.

      Herbert looks older than his years. At 6 feet tall and 170 pounds, he stands slightly stooped; his close-cropped hair is a grizzled gray; his large lips protrude on one side of his face, almost as though he had experienced a stroke. Round, dark-framed glasses give him a quizzical look. For his trial, he wore an open-neck, long-sleeved light gray shirt, blue trousers buttoned at the top with no belt, and light tan workingmen’s boots.

      Shorty remains more mysterious. In Pennsylvania and New Jersey, birth and death certificates remain closed to all but relatives and their attorneys. As one of the jurors who had acquitted Shorty’s killer, I could not just show up on his brother’s or sister’s doorstep asking for biographical information. Nor would it be safe for me to roam his neighborhood’s streets in search of friends and acquaintances to interview. A friend offered to help by contacting two people with local networks. But the unpredictability that disorganizes lives on the city’s mean streets intervened. One man was arrested and jailed before he could cooperate. Another potential informant was shot in the head and killed on a violent Saturday night when three other men also met their deaths between midnight and three in the morning.

      This much is known: Shorty was born on August 26, 1964, in