Word: pavements
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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Even more depressing than the plodding lives of the city's pavement-dwellers are the lives and frustrations of those who, like my aunt and the bluejean-clad students I travelled with, have grown up with privilege, the opportunity for education, and the responsibility to improve conditions for the people who do not share their privilege. They live in the brightly painted, concrete homes of the city. Few, if any, neighborhoods are segregated from the shortage of food and living space that pervades the city, but some "nicer" areas stand out. In one of these residential neighborhoods, I had dinner...
...call from the young woman's sister in Belfast brought them here. She called to say that in Ulster's unfashionable ghettos the sound of trashcan lid on pavement could be heard again. Joe McDonnell (14 years, handgun possession) had died at the Long Kesh prison after 54 days without food...
Dillon, S.C. is a classic Southern town--a couple of pretty, tree-lined streets with nice big houses, a bustling main drag, and a dusty outskirts where poor people live, with pavement for a front yard. The back road that connects South of the Border with Dillon used to be the main road, and there are only a few rundown motels and roadhouses left. One, the Stonewall Jackson Motel, seems to have caught South of the Border disease. As motorists leave Dillon, its hand-painted sign implores "Turn Around and Sleep with Jackson...
...Border post office. It's dark now, and not many people are left around, so I wander the streets and reflect. Amigoland is absolutely deserted, the Mini-Mex golf course dark as night. So this is America, very imaginative, very progressive, and very wealthy. A little grease and pavement, but there's the sweet smell of exhaust in the air and fun all around. Sombrero towers; steak rooms; fireworks; mini gold; barrooms; postcards; ice cream; swimming pools. I feel at home here, comfortable...
...NEWS from the radio and the t.v. It'd been pretty obvious for 18 hours or so, ever since he went into a coma, that he would die. And when word finally came, they went into the streets and began to beat the lids of trash cans against the pavement and whistle, a high, piercing shriek. God, it sounded eerie, even on tape, even broadcast halfway around the world. But it didn't sound odd, for the Irish women of Belfast have been making the sound most every day since the troubles began in 1969. Usually it's a warning...