The Top 25 Most Dangerous Cities

This past week, a study was released about the most dangerous American cities.“City Crime Rankings: Crime in Metropolitan America,”published by Washington-based CQ Press, analyzes FBI crime statistics released Sept. 24. They focus only on cities with at least 75,000
residents. The danger score uses zero as the national average. Below are the top 25 most dangerous cities, according to the study:

MOST DANGEROUS 25:
1. Detroit, 407.2
2. St. Louis, 406.2
3. Flint, Mich., 381.0
4. Oakland, Calif., 338.9
5. Camden, N.J., 323.8
6. Birmingham, Ala., 268.8
7. North Charleston, S.C., 254.3
8. Memphis, 245.6
9. Richmond, Calif., 245.1
10. Cleveland, 244.4
11. Orlando, Fla., 237.4
12. Baltimore, 236.7
13. Little Rock, 233.8
14. Compton, Calif., 223.6
15. Youngstown , 222.0
16. Cincinnati, 218.3
17. Gary, Ind., 214.0
18. Kansas City, Mo., 203.4
19. Dayton, 201.5
20. Newark, N.J., 197.3
21. Philadelphia, 192.9
22. Atlanta, 189.9
23. Jackson, Miss., 188.8
24. Buffalo, 187.8
25. Kansas City , 187.6

You may note that cities #1 and #3 are both in Michigan. Blogger and Flint surviver Meg wrote an amusing little Cliff notes on how not to die in Flint. Dramamama also noted that her two cities, Detroit and Flint are two of the top three places where you're most likely to be a victim of a violent crime- and they're also places she basically visits everyday. Amazingly, she's still alive too. I am happy to report that I miraculously survived a childhood with many years spent frequenting both Detroit and Flint. I've also spent many a night in some of the other Most Dangerous Cities, such as Memphis, Birmingham, Atlanta, Baltimore...

My current hometown, Jackson, Mississippi is now ranked the 23rd most dangerous city in America. Having survived the crack dens and drive-bys of two MUCH more dangerous cities, I feel imbued with the authority to nod sagely and affirm that we're actually quite safe here. Do not worry, fellow Jacksonians! We'll make it!!

What's interesting is to track and see how the numbers have changed over time, and then to try to play a bit with cause and correlation. To wit: in 2004, Jackson was ranked #16... significantly more dangerous than the 23 where we fell this year... but then, in the year 2006 (representing data from 2005) Jackson was out of the top 25 completely - in fact, we were #42. Now, based on the past year's crime levels, we're back in the top 25. The Insurance Journal notes the skyrocket in Jackson crime over the course of 2005-now. What's the story? Why did we go from 16 to 42... and then back on up to 23? What happened post-2004 to drive crime levels up again?

• Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath?
• How about our certifiably bonkers, gun-toting guerrilla mayor, Frank Melton?
• Couldn't possibly be the lack of effective infrastructure, and the fact that here, as everywhere, funding for good community-based programs is often the first line item on the budget to get slashed... 'cause you know, education, empowerment and social services have NO effect on crime...

But hey, could be worse. We could be in Michigan. (Wait a minute...)

*It should be noted that three of the 25 Safest Cities, according to the same study, are also in Michigan. Not so for Mississippi. Then again, we only have so many metropolitan areas of over 75,000 people down here...

Urban Family Thanksgiving

Last week, my good friend K approached me and said, "Hey Beth, you know how you always refer to our little crew as our 'urban family'?"

"Yes?" (It's true. I do. I probably overuse the phrase, in fact.)

"Well... I was thinking... what if we had a little Urban Family Thanksgiving?"

That small conversation kicked off our planning for the event, to be hosted by Mama K and Crazy Aunt Beth. With quick enthusiasm, our little crew all pitched in: M designed the lovely graphic for our invitation; A brought extra tables and chairs; EVERYONE offered to bring food or alcohol... and despite one friend's protest that "eatin's cheatin', we should just drink!", we had an incredible spread of food when the urban family gathered this past weekend.

There were no speeches about what we were thankful for, no toasts, no words of prayer said before diving into our food. But there were about two dozen people, of varying ages and backgrounds, sharing stories and drinks and laughter. As I sat surrounded by the members of my urban family, sipping my seasonally appropriate cranberry martini, I began to feel genuine gratitude fill me. I was lucky enough to be born into a terrific family, but through choice and circumstance, my nearest biological-family members are several hours' drive from where I live, and most are much further... yet here, with this motley crew, we have created a strong network of support, love, and encouragement, fortified with healthy doses of gossip and neuroses, and maybe even a little dysfunction... we are, indeed, an urban family of the most wonderful sort. A collaborative holiday meal was a fitting, and filling, reminder of just how much we have to be thankful for in our little corner of the world.

I believe a new tradition has been born.

May all of you, your urban families, your biological families, your traditional and non-traditional families, and everyone, have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Beth Is Where the Heart Is

Saturday morning, lying in shavasana pose in my yoga classroom. I am finally beginning to feel a little relaxed. My mind begins to drift.

I have been traveling for the seven weekends prior to this one. I have long been dealing with the existential crisis of our far-flung and continuously mobile society, and the resulting fact that no matter where I live, I will never be able to be physically proximate to all of the family and friends I most deeply love. Being on the road so much lately, it has been a delight to realize that wherever I go, I have a port in every storm - but also sad to depart each port, and sadder still to feel rootless, and miss even those who live near where my mail is currently delivered.

As my mind drifts deeper into the yoga-soothed meditative state, I begin thinking of home. What is home? Where is home? Who is home?

A long-buried memory resurfaces.

When I was in high school, I took a summer Hebrew course offered by an Israeli-Frenchman. For anyone who knows any stereotypes about the French, or about the Israelis, you can imagine that such a combination would produce the most condescending, chain-smoking, dubious person ever (stereotypically speaking, of course). Well, this man was that stereotype personified. He asked us to all go around the room and introduce ourselves, and if we had Hebrew names, to share them. As it happens, I do have a Hebrew name, Beit.

"Beit?" Sneered the Israeli-Frenchman. "Beit, that means house. Your parents, zey named you House? Are zey stupid?"

The rest of the class tittered. They all either didn't have Hebrew names, or had good solid ones like David, Daniel, or Rivka.

"It's a name, too," I defended weakly.

"Oh sure, sure," shrugged the Israeli-Frenchman, pursing his lips, probably less at me and more at the stupid rule that barred him from smoking in the classroom. "But no one is actually named that anymore. It is, how you say, old-fashioned. Out of date." He snickered. "It is not normal, to just be a girl named House!"

I had no further defense, and truly - I thought of my name as meaning "house." Even after seven semester of college-level Hebrew, when I thought of my name, I translated it as "house." But unexpectedly, in the midst of a yoga meditation, years later and wholly out of context, revelation: Beit means, even more literally than it means "house"... "home."

Such a simple realization, such small semantic differences - but the room felt suddenly warmer. It was odd to be named house, but what did mean to be named home?

I began to mull this over. Meanwhile, I left the sanctity of the yoga studio and life continued to hit, with complications and twists and surprises and confusions arising as they do. I sent a frustrated email to a friend, and I received a response that soothed me more than this friend can know. I had not shared my "home" revelation with anyone, but this is what my friend wrote to me, about me:

"...this Beth keeps a lot of people sane, safe, comforted, fed, smiling, and feeling good about themselves. And that's just for starters."

And all I could think was, is that me? I really do that? That sounds like... home.

If it is true, how lucky I am to live up to the incredible name my brilliant parents gave me. Like a snail with its shell on its back, wherever I go, I will take home with me. It is who and what I should be: I will bring with me, for those I love, the gifts of a solid home: trust, shelter, safety, love.

I am not, as the Israeli-Frenchman wrote me off more than a decade ago, a girl named House. I am Beth, and I am home.

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Rejected titles for this post:

• The Beth that Ken and Lisa Built (because "Beth" there would be substituting for house instead of home, AND because it makes me sound like a weird robot my parents constructed using aluminum and shiny buttons)
• There's No Place Like Beth (I'm a place now? ....Are you calling me fat?)
• Beth Sweet Beth (Too saccharine)
• Bethland Security (Too militant)
• Beth, Beth On the Range (Too cooked-sounding, frankly.)