Groups offers hope for those with HIV/AIDS

Kia Gregory
Inquirer Staff Writer

Nearly 200 struggling souls gathered for a candlelight vigil the other night in a North Philadelphia neighborhood with a simple mantra: One Day at a Time.

An organization of the same name held the gathering, a group of mostly men who congregated in the middle of the street, wearing orange T-shirts that read "We Change Lives. We Save Lives."

The shirts symbolized sadness and pride, because most of those wearing them were recovering from something.

In this neighborhood, on Lehigh Avenue between 24th and 25th Streets, life can be unforgiving, and the vigil was for those living with HIV and AIDS and those who have died from AIDS. The assembled hoped to bring some light to a community too often blinded by shame and fear of being stigmatized by the disease.

For 16 years, One Day at a Time has held this annual vigil, and in that time, HIV/AIDS has morphed in the African American community from a perceived gay, white disease into a black epidemic.

In 2006, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the rate of new infections among African Americans, who make up 13 percent of the U.S. population, was seven times higher than the rate among white Americans. African Americans also accounted for the majority of new infections, at 45 percent.

Studies show that the number of new infections among African Americans peaked in the late 1980s and has exceeded the number of infections in whites ever since.

As a result, according to a recent report by the Black AIDS Institute, nearly 600,000 African Americans in the United States are living with HIV/AIDS, and more than 20,000 of them contract the virus every year.

In Philadelphia, according to the city health department, 16,000 adults are living with HIV/AIDS, and the North Philadelphia neighborhood where the vigil was held has a high percentage of them.

A few minutes into the vigil, a short line formed for hotdogs and sodas. Several neighbors watched from their front steps or cracked open screen doors, and a group of police officers huddled nearby.

The crowd soon turned toward the steady rhythm of drums as a line of a half-dozen girls turned the corner, strutting in orange and white.

"You know, sometimes in life you screw up," whispered Paul, one of One Day at a Time's street team members. "The key," said Paul, whose skin is a map of burn marks, "is to get yourself together."

About 25 years ago the Rev. Henry T. Wells, 79, founded One Day at a Time in his home. As a recovering addict who had also beaten cancer, Wells' aim was to provide addicts - especially those without money, health insurance or a place to call home - a path to recovery.

One Day now has 80 employees who help 2,500 residential clients with drug and alcohol counseling, homeless-shelter services, GED tutoring, and parenting classes. The organization also conducts HIV outreach to address the high rates of infection among drug addicts.

"Who that?" called Reverend Wells' son and One Day's president Mel Wells from the stage.
"ODAAT!," the crowd responded, using the organization's acronym.

Wells, 27, then bent to one knee and offered a prayer, a prayer for those who can't pay their bills, who have been locked up, and for those looking for a second chance.

A half-hour into the program, 20 people signed up for an HIV test. Their names went into a raffle for a big-screen television.

Wells later introduced Oscar Clark, who has been living with HIV for 11 years, to the crowd.

"A lot of people are scared to get tested," Clark said, "but if you get tested that's how you live. Over 11 years ago, I came through these doors, and when I found out I was infected, it was an open door to get high again. But I stayed."

Clark said he learned everything he could about HIV and AIDS and now visits those with the disease "to give the same ray of hope I got."

The vigil ended with the lighting of candles and a prayer. That was followed by a roll call of the family and friends of those gathered who had died from AIDS. About 50 names were called out.

"These candles are also for those who are living," Wells said. "Don't give up. This is a fight - and you can live."

PHA offers families free school supplies

By Kia Gregory
Inquirer Staff Writer

Standing inside the gym in the Wilson Park Community Center, parent Karen Woods patiently waits among a throng of chatty, laughing students. Hundreds more file in.

The elementary schoolers fidget on the floor, girls with their hair in barrettes and braids, boys in baggy shorts.

The high schoolers hang back at the walls.

Most of the students have traveled to this part of South Philadelphia by school bus from Philadelphia Housing Authority sites - Bartram Village, Paschall Homes, Richard Allen Homes, Greater Grays Ferry Estates - to get a critical gift: a backpack filled with school supplies.

According to a National Retail Federation survey, families with school-age children will spend an average of $594.24 on back-to-school purchases this year, about $31 more than last year. And in the coming weeks, parents will swarm discount stores to stretch their dollars as far as possible.

For those like Woods, 40, back-to-school costs - uniforms, shoes, supplies, SEPTA tokens - are overwhelming.

"This takes a little grief off my shoulders," she said yesterday, holding her 3-year-old son, Maximus, on her hip. Nearby was her soon-to-be sixth grader, Xavier, wearing a navy T-shirt and jean shorts, his eyes cast toward the floor.

Asked if he was excited about heading back to school, Xavier looked up shyly and shrugged. The book bag is just a reminder that summer freedom will soon end.

The book bags are black with red, orange, blue or gray trim. Inside are a black-and-white composition book, a few sharpened pencils, a glue stick, a box of crayons, and a fat eraser.

Bags for junior high students also include a calculator and a protractor.

There is also a list of online educational programs for students with a computer and, on the flip side, information about network centers for those without.

Most of the students participate in the PHA's summer food program, which offers free breakfast and lunch. The backpack offer is a partnership between the authority and the Apartment Association of Greater Philadelphia.

After hearing a brief message on the importance of education, on cue, the students rush the tables, some eagerly peeking inside their new book bags.

"This is a big help, a great help," says Nybee Ali, 42, as his twin boys stand in line. "This gift helps a lot."


(Photo credit: Sarah Glover, Inquirer)

Cecil B. Moore rec center proudly holds on

By Kia Gregory
Inquirer Staff Writer

On a sun-soaked afternoon at North Philadelphia's Cecil B. Moore Recreation Center, a lone kid pumps his legs and flies high on the swing.

The basketball court, a patch of steamy concrete, is deserted. Nearby, two boys walk their pit bulls, one off the leash, across dry patches of grass. A mature couple sit on a bench, close, waiting for a breeze, while a van on the street blasts the immortal words of Tupac Shakur.

The center's pool is the main attraction. There, the lifeguard, enduring his seventh summer, is perched on his tower, while dozens of eager kids line the pool, quietly waiting.

For generations, recreation centers have served as a haven, a second home, where confidences were built, friendships sealed, and lifelong memories born.

The movement started in the early 20th century, mostly with summer sports for idle boys. By the 1950s, programs expanded to entire families.

Today, some of the city's recreation centers seemingly offer everything, while others crumble from neglect. In the last five years, the city has lost three.

Yet for better or for worse, the kids still come.

On any given day, throughout the city, you find boys running the court, drumming the ball onto the concrete, their shirts dripping with sweat.

You hear the crack of a bat, the tap dancing of a double-Dutch rope, the swoosh of a tennis racket, and the wild laughter.

On this sticky day at Cecil B. Moore, at 22d Street and Lehigh Avenue, the lifeguard soon blows his whistle and goes over the rules. The swimmers yell them back, in call and response.

No running. No diving. No pushing. No potty in the pool.

The lifeguard blows the whistle again, and the kids erupt in squeals and splash into the cool, blue-tinted water.

Not long ago, the sprawling, 84-year-old Cecil B. Moore recreation center was slated for closing - a grim prospect in a neighborhood battling poverty, blight, drugs and gunshots.

In 2004, to fill a projected budget gap, the city threatened to close, sell or transfer 20 of its 82 pools and 33 of its 162 rec centers.

For Cecil B. Moore, members of the community rallied.

They stood in the middle of 22d Street and blocked traffic to show their need and commitment.

The needs were great: a cracked court, missing swings, peeling paint, a shoddy roof, piling trash, homeless men sleeping on benches, community indifference.

With a new manager, new advisory council, and donations of time and money coming in, the center is showing promise.

"It's been a long road," says council member Millicent Davis Walker, "but we're here."

To date, the roof has been fixed, and the gym redone. The outdoor basketball court has new nets and backboards.

The basketball league is back, along with organized football. And the pool, now fully staffed, is open seven days a week.

New program offerings include rookie baseball, a drill team, a chess club, a senior fitness program, and a gardening club. And there's hope for a soccer team in the fall.

There are still challenges, Walker says. The basement is uninhabitable. The stage needs lighting. More and more, residents are asking for job training. And, as always, there's the desperate need for money, money, money and volunteers.

But the pride of the recreation center is still holding on.

"It's bringing people back to the center," Janet Williams, president of the advisory council, says of the renewed commitment, "people who haven't been here in years."

Big Brothers seeking more than a few good men

By Kia Gregory
Inquirer Staff Writer

Whenever Blair Shaw visited his old Nicetown neighborhood, his frustrations grew as he saw his boyhood community flooded with struggling single mothers, fearful residents, and kids languishing on the corners.

"Back in the day," he remembered, "the doctors, lawyers and preachers stayed in the community, so children got the opportunity to see other ways to become successful. Now all the people who were positive in the neighborhood have moved out."

Shaw, 32, has two degrees and a job as a real estate consultant. He largely attributes his success to his father and other neighborhood men who were positive influences.

Six months ago, he decided to make a difference as well. He became a Big Brother - one of the few.

Consider: Only three of every 10 mentors in the regional Big Brothers Big Sisters chapter are men.

The result: More than 800 boys idle on the organization's waiting list, most of them African Americans in Philadelphia. Some have waited for a mentor for years.

To address the shortage, Big Brothers Big Sisters of Southeastern Pennsylvania will launch its "100 Men in 100 Days" campaign tomorrow to recruit more minority male volunteers. The group is also asking businesses and organizations to sign up 20 of their men for the program.

"Mentoring is no longer a desire or a want. It's an urgency," said Uva Coles, vice president of intake services for the chapter. She cited "the issues we're having with violence, truancy, and the dropout rate."

For organizations that meet the 20-man goal, the chapter will hold free quarterly activities and publicize partners' logos on its Web site and in its campaign materials.

One that signed on early is the Urban Philly Professional Network.

"I know how important it is for young men to have role models in our communities," said Sulaiman Rahman, the group's head and founder. "This partnership is an opportunity for us to establish a community where young professionals, particularly black men, can be role models and for young kids to have a resource to network as well."

Mentors, known as Bigs, are asked to devote at least one hour two to four times a month for a year. Big Brothers Big Sisters research shows that the youngsters, or Littles, often shine with no more than that amount.

According to Public/Private Ventures research, children in the one-to-one mentoring program are 52 percent less likely to skip school and 46 percent less likely to start using drugs.

"Some men think they have to be superheroes, or their past has to be spotless, or they have to have a lot of money," Coles said. "All they need is the desire to befriend a child."

Shaw agreed.

"Many men don't realize the influence we have to help stymie some of this mess that's going on in our communities," said Shaw, who lives in West Philadelphia, "or how little time is necessary to make an impact."

In his young partner Matt, who lives just a few blocks away, Shaw already sees signs of maturity. For instance, Matt has stopped fighting in school, where he was simply bored, Shaw said.

"He's very, very smart," Shaw said. "He talks too much in class, but that's because he's a leader."

Recently, Matt asked Shaw his thoughts on the presidential campaign.

"I was really taken back that I was having this conversation with a 9-year-old," Shaw said with a chuckle. "It's just a testament to how smart he is."

Their trips have included the movies, Home Depot, and Wissahickon Park, where Matt had never been and where they skip rocks and talk. They've also been hiking and roller skating.

"It's a way for me to get some of my childhood back" - and to give back, Shaw said.

"I see a lot of guys just hanging out at the corner," he said. "And you wonder if someone would have talked to them 10 years ago, would they be in the situation they're in now?"

Street lit offers outlet for upstart authors

By Kia Gregory
Inquirer Staff Writer

"How you doin', sister?" Khalil Robinson calls to a young woman passing his stand in the lunchtime rush. "I got a new author here."

Behind Robinson, the self-described "Philly Book Man," sits his large display of street lit - books with glossy covers of scantily clad women, men in hoodies, shiny cars, and stacks of money, and titles suggesting tales of sordid excess.

On a smaller, lonelier display are a few books written by an Illinois senator who's running for president.

But on this recent weekday, Robinson is pushing a new offering, Stacking Paper, cowritten by first-time author Joseph Jones. Writing under the name Joe Joe, Jones is on hand to sign and sell his book about a drug dealer who considers retiring for love.

Robinson, 29, has been selling street lit on 15th Street, between Market Street and John F. Kennedy Boulevard, for three years, sometimes for 10 hours a day.

While the book business has been relatively stagnant, according to the Book Industry Study Group, a trade association, the gritty tales of street lit have grown into an independent movement whose authors write, publish and distribute their own books to stands, beauty salons, barber shops, clothing stores, record stores.

"Even food stores," says Jones.

Even to Amazon.com and, for some, even to the New York Times best-seller list.

"And it's still growing," says Robinson. "It's becoming a million-dollar business."

Robinson offers Philadelphia native Teri Woods as an example. Before signing with Warner Books for a reportedly lucrative multi-book deal, Woods sold more than one million books through her independent publishing company.

This week, her True to the Game III debuted at No. 14 on the Times list.

Jones, 32, a publisher trying his hand at writing, started out five years ago with one author, a childhood friend. Now, he says, his Street Knowledge Publishing has 25 authors and gets 10 manuscripts a week.

But as street lit thrives, so do criticism and controversy.

With its recurring themes of drugs, sex and violence, and titles like Whore and Still Hood, some say street lit glorifies the worst of urban culture.

Recently one of the genre's godfathers, Philadelphia native Omar Tyree, author of 16 books, announced his retirement from street lit, calling it "poison."

In an online post, Tyree, who now lives in Charlotte, N.C., blasted its saturation of "gold-digging, ghetto girl, gangster love, drug-dealer stories," and lamented its audience's preference for denigration over progression.

"You have a group of readers who only want to relate to the situation they're used to," says Tyree, "and that means you can't take them out of that condition. It's a sad situation. And it's ruining the entire industry."

Temple University professor Marc Lamont Hill agrees.

"The increasing commodification of street lit, and the injection of the profit motive, endangers the genre," says Hill, a professor of urban culture and American studies. "In its current degraded state, we are seeing an art that deprives its readership of a diverse range of experiences. So instead of literature with fundamental integrity, readers get more books about the projects, baby mamas and hustling."

"Yes, our young people are reading," says the Philadelphia-based literary publicist Vanesse Lloyd-Sgambati, "but they're only reading things that glorify all the negative things about society, so their perspective of the world becomes really narrow. And because publishers see these books sell, they respond to it. But it's hurting us."

Author Jones, on the other hand, maintains, "Every book has a message in it. You just have to look for it."

For Robinson, the genre has been a lifeline.

Robinson was raised by his grandmother in battered Southwest Philly, after his mother was murdered by her boyfriend.

He dropped out of high school, sold drugs, and landed in prison, where he discovered street lit. He and the other inmates couldn't put the books down. The tales mirrored their lives.

After 2 1/2 years behind bars, Robinson returned home with a plan. "The same energy I put into selling drugs," he says, "I wanted to take and put it in a positive direction. I just wanted to change. I wanted to change for the better."

He started vending CDs at first, adding street lit at a time when titles were few.

"A lot of authors would come my way because they needed an outlet," he says. "And it just took off from there. It's all about creating. When you're a creative thinker, you create a market for yourself."

Robinson says the profit margin on street lit is "real low," and on a good day he'll sell more than 30 books for about $15 each. His list of books contains more than 750 titles, many of which he admits don't translate well to mainstream bookstores. One of his top sellers is Part Three of the Bitch series.

In addition to his weekly book signings, Robinson now offers a credit card machine for his customers' convenience. He recently launched a Web site. He also plans to open another Center City stand, on Chestnut Street.

Despite what critics say, he believes street lit can be a positive gateway.

"It might not be what people call the right type of information," he says, "but a lot of young people are starting to read."

Plus, "there's a lot of opportunity here," he says. "I just wish a lot of people knew, so they can get off these corners and sell these books."

(Photo credit: Ed Hille, Inquirer)

Shooting victim had been target before

By Kia Gregory
Inquirer Staff Writer

The basketball referee shot during a game at a Strawberry Mansion recreation center Monday night was the target of an ambush 21/2 years ago that left his 6-year-old grandson paralyzed from the neck down.

Benjamin Wright, 43, was shot in a thigh about 9 p.m. Monday on the court at Mander Recreation Center, 33d and Diamond Streets. He was treated at Temple University Hospital and released about 3:30 yesterday morning.

On Jan. 28, 2006, shortly before 8 p.m., Wright's car was sprayed with bullets as it traveled near 29th and Westmont Streets, about four blocks from the rec center. With Wright were his wife, daughter, and grandson Jabar, who was shot in the neck. Jabar was the only passenger seriously injured.

In April, three men were convicted in the shooting and given long sentences. A fourth was acquitted. At the time, police said Wright had been the target of a neighborhood feud.

"It was just neighborhood nonsense," Wright said yesterday in an interview at his home. "It has nothing to do with what happened [Monday] night."

Authorities were told that Wright was the referee for back-to-back league games at the rec center, and that a dispute erupted about his calls during the first game. About 9 p.m., during the second game, Wright told police, he heard gunshots and realized he had been shot from behind.

Wright told police he never saw the gunman.

Police found no ballistic evidence at the scene, Chief Inspector William Colarulo said.

Yesterday, Wright said he did not know who shot him 12 minutes into the second game. Wright said he felt a burn and fell to the ground.

"One individual decided that a basketball game was more important than a person's life," he said, sitting on his couch next to a pile of gauze and tape for his wound. "I feel sad for him. And I feel sad for all the youth who are going to suffer because of one individual's actions."

Wright said he had not been in the argument about the first game, but detectives were told there were people who were not happy with his calls who left and returned during the second game.

In addition to investigating whether the shooting stemmed from Wright's calls, police were looking at whether it could have been linked to the previous ambush. Wright testified against the four men in his grandson's shooting.

Twenty years ago, Wright had been on the other side of such proceedings.

In the 1980s, he pleaded guilty to murder, and he was sentenced in 1987 to serve eight to 16 years in prison.

He was paroled twice but had to return both times because of parole violations.

In May 2002, Wright was released for a third time after completing his sentence, said Kelli Kishbaugh of the Pennsylvania Department of Corrections.

"I was very young then, and I made a mistake," Wright explained. "I served my time. They let me go. And I've never been back."

Wright said he had played basketball at Mander Recreation Center since he was a boy, and had coached and refereed there for more than 10 years.

"This league is an outlet that has helped so many," he said. "It's important to all the youth around here with nothing to do."

In response to the shooting, the city has suspended the center's summer league, which had been playing for about two weeks and has a dozen teams.

"It's a cowardly move for our young men to continue to just pull weapons out and start shooting," said Susan Slawson, the city's recreation commissioner. "We at some point have to say it's unacceptable."

(Barbara Boyer contributed to this report. Photo credit: Jonathan Wilson, Inquirer)

Thieves stealing gas from cars

By Kia Gregory
Inquirer Staff Writer

Standing outside her West Oak Lane home on her way to work one morning, Carol Abbott couldn't figure out why her car wouldn't start.

She then discovered that someone had siphoned her gas tank dry.

"I was appalled," said Abbott, 50. "I just couldn't believe somebody singled out my car. Did they walk up to my car in the middle of the night? It just amazed me."

As gas prices rise, police note, so do such thefts.

"It's an unfortunate sign of the times," said Sgt. Ray Evers of the Philadelphia Police Department's public affairs unit. "It's going to become a trend until these gas prices come down."
That, in turn, has sparked the revival of another trend: gas caps that lock.

Abbott said she traveled to three auto supply stores before she found one for her SUV. Depending on vehicle make and model, the caps range in price from $10 to $25.

"They're selling like crazy," said Crystal Armstrong, an AutoZone store manager in West Oak Lane. Managers at similar stores throughout the city agreed.

"Everybody is picking them up," said a manager at Strauss Discount Auto in the Northeast. "And with gas prices getting higher, I don't see it slowing down."

In the Philadelphia area, the average cost of a gallon of regular gas is $4.15, up from $2.97 a year ago, according to AAA. For Abbott, that means about $65 to fill her tank.

"It just hurts," she said. "It hurts to pay that much for gas, especially when you have other bills to pay - and then for someone to steal it."

Typically, Evers said, thieves siphon gas through a hose into a container, sucking on the hose to start the flow. It can take less than 30 seconds to steal a gallon.

Evers recommended that drivers park in well-lit areas, make sure their gas tanks face the street instead of the curb, and buy locking gas caps.

"You want to deter them to go to the next car," he said.

Said Armstrong: "People are getting gas the best way they can."