The Sad Story of Mr. Brown
Mr. Brown was the first American black man to move onto our street. He bought the house at the corner of California and Sidney. Everybody liked Mr. Brown. He was a homeowner, not just some renter like the rest of us. Actually owning the property you lived on was the dream of every kid in our neighborhood. Having your own place, instead of being subject to the whims of landlords was an awesome concept. Mr. Brown didn't just own his place, he fixed it up too. We'd see his whole family out sweeping the sidewalk, picking up trash, mowing the lawn or planting flowers. By the end of his first summer, he had the nicest place on the block. We were proud of Mr. Brown, and he inspired a lot of other people to fix up their places also. He raised us to a higher standard.

Mr. Brown only had 3 children, but he was perpetually sheltering one extended family member or another. You'd just get to know cousin what's-his-name, and he'd be back on his feet and moving out. Mr. Brown probably helped out every family member that asked. The universe paid him back by sending his brother-in-law to live with them.
Mr. Brown's brother-in-law got out of jail and needed a place to stay for a while. My good and charitable neighbor opened his home to this beast, and for 3 weeks I crossed the street, rather than walk in front of Mr. Brown's house. You don't make it to adulthood in my neighborhood without being able to smell bad from a mile away. This in-law was bad.
He took Mr. Brown's 2 youngest daughters out of the house late one Saturday night, and raped them on a neighbor's front porch.
The little old lady who lived there was awoken by their cries. She called the cops, then took her rosary into the basement and prayed all night long. The cops took the monster away, an ambulance took the girls to the hospital, and darkness fell over my neighborhood.
By Sunday morning, everyone knew what had happened. Crowds kept forming in front of Mr. Brown's house, and an auntie kept coming outside and asking everyone to go away. No one knew what to do, but we all wanted to be a support for the Browns.
Sunday afternoon, Mr. Brown came home to get some clothes and things for his girls, and he got hit by a car. Let me re-phrase that. A blue four-door car full of hoosiers had been sitting on the corner all day. When they saw Mr. Brown, they assumed he was the rapist, so they squealed around the corner and hit him. Then they put the car in reverse and drove over him. When he got up, they ran him down again. They tried to run him over a fourth time, but Mr. Brown was able to run into his house.
I had been sitting on my porch waiting for Mr. Brown to come home, so I could tell him we're praying for him and his family. I saw the car hit him the first time. I was one of many people who called the cops. I was on the phone when I heard gunshots. Mr. Brown had gotten his shotgun and was blowing holes in the blue car. "You go, Mr. Brown!" I thought.
The car took off, and Mr. Brown crossed the street to the payphone and dialed 911. The cops showed up and saw a black man with a shotgun using a payphone, and shot him 6 times in the back.










He was arrested and taken to the hospital, and he came home in less than a week. He had amazing powers of recovery. He actually came home before his daughters did. Mr. Brown's troubles did not end there. Somebody out in hoosier land still seemed to think he was responsible for something, and cars would drive by flinging things at his house. The first time someone shot out Mr. Brown's front window, we moved.
That's how I got out of my neighborhood. It became too scary for even us, and we got the fuck out.