It's Love, Actually

Bill Cosby's surprisingly sane solution for Philly violence.

by Brian Hickey

The apartment complex at Judson and Edgley streets feels much less like the projects than a sprawling college quad. Walkways snake through waist-high hills and recreation areas in this North Philly sliver that old heads once called "The Valley." The buildings, much like dorms, are identical down to their industrial-green paint jobs.

But, as anybody among of the 200-some people who gathered here last week would attest, the Raymond Rosen Manor doesn't quite offer a collegiate experience. It goes beyond the "No Loitering. Police Take Notice" signs, too. 

After all, it's rare for an idyllic college haven to need an anti-violence intervention a week after a resident got mowed down while eating water ice at a nearby rec center. Well, that's precisely what Bill Cosby brought on Aug. 23 — alongwith a documentary crew to capture every word he used in urging residents to reclaim both their neighborhoods and the hearts and minds of their children. And despite those who'd just as soon paint him as a grope-happy crackpot who misplaced the common-sense brain lobe, he might actually be a beacon of sanity in a city-turned-shooting-gallery.

"We're at a point in time when talking about the problem is nothing but an exercise in entertaining ourselves," said Cosby, who was sporting a Temple U hoodie, sweatpants and sandals during a 75-minute riff that seemed much more conversational than rehearsed. "This is not entertainment. When a child shoots another child, that's two children gone."

When he asks young men in such areas what they're doing with their lives, "People say, 'I'm standing on the corner.' Well, why are you standing on the corner? Nobody has a reason. The city owns the corner, yet people are out there killing each other over turf that none of them owns. Isn't that something? There's an anger inside these 14-, 15-year-old boys that we need to get to the bottom of."

His solution? Force neighborhood kids to look out for their elders. Address the emotional scars of broken families rather than letting them forge the rage of helplessness. And avoid tacitly affording absentee, deadbeat parents any respect.

THE MESSAGE: Cosby holds court. (CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION)

"It all starts at home. You've got to discipline your children. They might not listen to you now, but in the long run, they'll know what's right and wrong," said Cosby, who mocked the Stop Snitching movement and chided those who don't aspire to move up and out of the projects. "Make changes, and feel good about yourselves. Instead of being jealous of them, throw a party for people when they're able to move out of here."

After leading a call-and-response that had residents talking about the jail time they've served and the sons and daughters they've lost to gunfire, Cosby played Pied Piper to a trail of star-struck residents. They followed him through the projects to the waiting car that would usher him to a Germantown anti-violence march. Before leaving, Cosby vowed to keep returning to Philly's tougher areas until the madness ends. The heart, he said, should be wielded as a weapon.

"People who stand up and say we need solutions are only stalling. You already know what we need. It's going to take work, but let's make sure that every child is told that they're loved. I don't care if it's your child or not. Build love and families in the community. That's the solution," he said. "You can no longer say nobody cares about you here."

Nor could the children a handful of blocks away from Rosen a few nights later, as the inaugural Strawberry Mansion All-Star Baseball League reached its climax [Cover, "It Takes a Neighborhood," Brian Hickey, Aug. 23, 2007]. Nearly four months after the first practices were held, locals packed the bleachers for Monday night's penultimate game.

After the 8- to 12-year-old Dominators took the championship with a 6-2 victory over the Twisters (a second-inning grand slam proved decisive), members of the losing team did their best to fight back tears. Having poured their hearts into competition, they'd clearly been transformed from potential corner dwellers into children who thrived under compassionate discipline.

"You are all role models now," City Councilman Darrell Clarke told both teams on the mound. "You are all neighborhood leaders."

Clarke was right. Not a single child who stuck with the league all summer found himself the victim or perpetrator of violence. Even more importantly, the proof that the message of love can transcend socioeconomic ills came moments after the diamond emptied for the final time.

As the sun ducked behind the Fairmount Park trees, all that was left on the reclaimed field at 33rd and Diamond was a man and his son. Sure, the Wiffle Ball bat was taller than the child, but the two happily played until it was too dark to continue.

Having just seen success in action, a father was making sure it'd spread.

(hickey@citypaper.net)