Trouble in Pill Hill
No one expected gangs to find their way to Pill Hill.
That was one thing that attracted Bernice Mack to the neighborhood more than 40 years ago. More than the quiet streets, though, it was thecharming red brick trilevel on South Chappel Avenue that grabbed her attention.
Mack fell in love with the four-bedroom house with a chain-link fence and a rose garden in the front yard the
first time she saw it in fall 1970. Here, the registered nurse and her husband, a suburban bus driver, could live among like-minded people, building a prosperous legacy for their budding family that they would pass on through generations.
Their South Side neighborhood was named for the many doctors and pharmacists who once lived there. When whites moved out in the late 1960s, well-to-do African-Americans — entertainers, morticians, lawyers — bought their sprawling Prairie-style homes atop the Stony Island Ridge.
The nurses, police officers and teachers who moved into the bungalows at the bottom of the hill were not as affluent, but an address in Pill Hill firmly established them in Chicago's black middle class. The bottom of the hill was a step up for Mack and her husband, Gordon Dennis, who had previously rented an apartment a few
miles north in Chatham.
"I didn't know the history of Pill Hill at that time," said Mack, 67. "I just liked the way the neighborhood looked."
After she and her husband separated, Mack raised her three children there without worries. Pill Hill was shielded from gangs by an imaginary barrier, built on class and wealth, that relegated violence to impoverished neighborhoods.
But over time, the gangs showed less and less respect for geography. With every generation, families in Pill Hill became more vulnerable.
By the time Mack's daughter, Angela Hongo, 44, an office manager at a Chicago publishing company, bought the beige brick Georgian next door in 1999, gangs had slid in from the outskirts. And by the time Hongo's children, Jarius and Jordonea, entered grade school, gangs had claimed the corner outside their classrooms.
By the time they reached high school, Jarius had fallen into their grips and Jordonea was on the fringes.
The story of teenagers being lured into gangs is a familiar one in Chicago. But not in a neighborhood like this, not in a family like this. Once gangs broke through, even a tenacious grandmother and a committed mother
couldn't keep the seductive forces at bay.
Not even the police can explain what happened.
"You normally relate gang issues and gang fighting to war-torn neighborhoods, but that's not the case. The homes are well-kept, the lawns are manicured and when you go there, you feel like you're in a suburban community," said Cmdr. Scott Ruiz, of the Police Department's South Chicago District. "The violence is puzzling when you come into a neighborhood like this."
Mack, who said she is one of only three of the early black settlers still living on the block, believes she knows exactly what happened. Two decades ago, when young men started hanging out late at night at a basketball court across the street from her house, the neighbors got together and forced the city to tear up the cement and replace it with grass and flowers.
But Pill Hill is a different place now, with a new set of people living at the bottom of the hill.
"People know there is a gang problem in the neighborhood. We know what to do, but nobody is out there doing anything," said Mack, who organized the first block club in the 1980s. "We used to be able to leave our doors open. ...We all have alarm systems now, and I'm not accustomed to that."
What is more disturbing, Mack said, is that her own teenage grandson — whose generation was supposed to reap the benefits of her pioneering move to Pill Hill — has contributed to the neighborhood's problems.
Angela Hongo was late getting to the Cook County Juvenile Detention Center on Nov. 13. This time she didn't feel like rushing, so she slowly made her way through the security checkpoint and down the long, dreary corridor to Courtroom No. 4.
She had been in this place many times in the past two years — sitting on a wooden bench outside Circuit Judge Andrew Berman's courtroom, waiting for Jarius' name to be called. But this time was different. She was more nervous, even fearful, about what could happen at the hearing.
With Jarius just five months from his 18th birthday, his time as a juvenile offender was winding down. And Berman, who had given him chance after chance, was growing tired of seeing the teenager with a boyish face and a quiet demeanor standing before him in handcuffs.
This time, Berman would have to decide whether to send Jarius away to the Illinois Department of Juvenile Justice, where hard-core young prisoners are held. After this, any new offense would land him in the adult correctional system — Cook County Jail.
To read the entire article, follow the link below!
Source: Trouble in Pill Hill
That was one thing that attracted Bernice Mack to the neighborhood more than 40 years ago. More than the quiet streets, though, it was thecharming red brick trilevel on South Chappel Avenue that grabbed her attention.
Mack fell in love with the four-bedroom house with a chain-link fence and a rose garden in the front yard the
Their South Side neighborhood was named for the many doctors and pharmacists who once lived there. When whites moved out in the late 1960s, well-to-do African-Americans — entertainers, morticians, lawyers — bought their sprawling Prairie-style homes atop the Stony Island Ridge.
The nurses, police officers and teachers who moved into the bungalows at the bottom of the hill were not as affluent, but an address in Pill Hill firmly established them in Chicago's black middle class. The bottom of the hill was a step up for Mack and her husband, Gordon Dennis, who had previously rented an apartment a few
"I didn't know the history of Pill Hill at that time," said Mack, 67. "I just liked the way the neighborhood looked."
After she and her husband separated, Mack raised her three children there without worries. Pill Hill was shielded from gangs by an imaginary barrier, built on class and wealth, that relegated violence to impoverished neighborhoods.
But over time, the gangs showed less and less respect for geography. With every generation, families in Pill Hill became more vulnerable.
By the time Mack's daughter, Angela Hongo, 44, an office manager at a Chicago publishing company, bought the beige brick Georgian next door in 1999, gangs had slid in from the outskirts. And by the time Hongo's children, Jarius and Jordonea, entered grade school, gangs had claimed the corner outside their classrooms.
By the time they reached high school, Jarius had fallen into their grips and Jordonea was on the fringes.
The story of teenagers being lured into gangs is a familiar one in Chicago. But not in a neighborhood like this, not in a family like this. Once gangs broke through, even a tenacious grandmother and a committed mother
Not even the police can explain what happened.
"You normally relate gang issues and gang fighting to war-torn neighborhoods, but that's not the case. The homes are well-kept, the lawns are manicured and when you go there, you feel like you're in a suburban community," said Cmdr. Scott Ruiz, of the Police Department's South Chicago District. "The violence is puzzling when you come into a neighborhood like this."
Mack, who said she is one of only three of the early black settlers still living on the block, believes she knows exactly what happened. Two decades ago, when young men started hanging out late at night at a basketball court across the street from her house, the neighbors got together and forced the city to tear up the cement and replace it with grass and flowers.
But Pill Hill is a different place now, with a new set of people living at the bottom of the hill.
"People know there is a gang problem in the neighborhood. We know what to do, but nobody is out there doing anything," said Mack, who organized the first block club in the 1980s. "We used to be able to leave our doors open. ...We all have alarm systems now, and I'm not accustomed to that."
What is more disturbing, Mack said, is that her own teenage grandson — whose generation was supposed to reap the benefits of her pioneering move to Pill Hill — has contributed to the neighborhood's problems.
Angela Hongo was late getting to the Cook County Juvenile Detention Center on Nov. 13. This time she didn't feel like rushing, so she slowly made her way through the security checkpoint and down the long, dreary corridor to Courtroom No. 4.
She had been in this place many times in the past two years — sitting on a wooden bench outside Circuit Judge Andrew Berman's courtroom, waiting for Jarius' name to be called. But this time was different. She was more nervous, even fearful, about what could happen at the hearing.
With Jarius just five months from his 18th birthday, his time as a juvenile offender was winding down. And Berman, who had given him chance after chance, was growing tired of seeing the teenager with a boyish face and a quiet demeanor standing before him in handcuffs.
This time, Berman would have to decide whether to send Jarius away to the Illinois Department of Juvenile Justice, where hard-core young prisoners are held. After this, any new offense would land him in the adult correctional system — Cook County Jail.
To read the entire article, follow the link below!
Source: Trouble in Pill Hill
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