The Verdict Is In

by Doron Taussig

The other week, as I walked out of my gym on Fairmount Avenue, I could hear the high-pitched clinking sound of glass on concrete. Across the street, three black boys no older than 12 were moving in a circle, and though I couldn't see their feet, it was clear they were kicking a bottle. Back on my side of the block, a group of yuppie types sat in front of a hip coffee shop — named "Mugshots" for its proximity to Eastern State Penitentiary — watching them with concern. In this neighborhood, where gentrified Fairmount borders North Philly, you'll often see adults unsure whether a group of children is theirs to supervise.

There was a shattering sound. The boys let up a small cheer, and one of the women rose from her chair.

"Boys," she called out, "could you not do that? Someone could ride by on their bike and get a flat tire."

Her formulation was fascinating: not "you might hurt yourselves" — that was none of her business — but "you might inconvenience one of us." The boys paused for a moment in surprised silence.

"I'll clean it up," the smallest one muttered, and began to walk away. It was a transparent lie, but the woman thanked him. Then the biggest boy broke into a mischievous smile.

"Michael Jackson, not guilty!" he yelled. "Hollah at me!"

This time, the yuppies paused.

"Michael Jackson?" one of them asked.

I was confused, too. Did a prepubescent boy just zing a group of young professionals by suggesting that they were upset about the acquittal of a black-turned-plastic-white former child pop star accused of child molestation? Or was I reading too much into it? This, truly, was a postmodern race moment. As I turned the corner, all I could think was, 10 years since O.J., and mostly we've just gotten weirder.