A Great and Terrible Story

Jeff Cohen

I cherish the time I spent, back in another lifetime, as a newspaper reporter. And I include my time at the Rutgers Daily Targum, which is a student newspaper, but a really good one that publishes--to this day--five times a week when school is in session. We weren't kidding there.

At the Passaic Herald-News, my very first job out of school, I met some amazing people, a few of whom are close friends still all these years later. And I discovered, to my considerable chagrin, that I was a pretty bad reporter.

People think I'm being falsely modest when I say that. I'm not. I was a bad reporter, and for all the reasons that I hold good reporters in extremely high estimation. I was not good at cultivating sources of information among cops, politicians or for that matter, anybody else. I put in my time, but not more than my time. I didn't know where to look for news. I could write it, and I could research assignments when given to me, but I was terrible at generating my own stories.

And it's a shame, because the best story of my life, a really interesting and (I think) important book is out there, I can see it, but there's no way I could ever write it.

My first hometown, Irvington, New Jersey.

In the 1960s, when I was growing up, Irvington was a bedroom community of Newark, the state's largest city. Our suburban streets were crowded with homes and people--in fact, Irvington was (and they were proud of this!) the most densely populated town in the country. Three square miles. 70,000 residents. I'm not making a word of this up.

But it had a certain hybrid small town/city charm in those days. We walked the streets as kids without worrying about our safety. We walked from my house on Campfield Street, between Union Avenue and Chancellor Avenue, to the Dairy Queen all the way on the other side of town, and nobody thought a thing about it. Watson Bagels--still the best I have ever had, bar none, and you can suck on that, New Yorkers--was two blocks from my house. Once the 1970s rolled around, my father's paint store (which had been on West Market Street in Newark) relocated to Chancellor Avenue, across from Watson Bagel. (Readers of CHANCE OF A GHOST might get a few hints at my affection for paint stores.)

But the Newark riots of 1967 had their devastating effect on that city, and on ours. By the time I got to college in 1975, it was only a matter of time before my family was to move out of Irvington. 

And that was the beginning. Today, the town (now a township, I think) is known around the state as a center of crime, and often violent crime. The population has decreased by almost 20,000. Drug dealers are rampant, the murder rate is eight times higher than the rest of New Jersey (ac-cording to the State Police) and most of us avoid the place altogether. When we are forced to drive through it, we keep the windows up and the doors locked. I have a friend who isn't scared of anything, and he won't even consider driving by the house he grew up in.

A year or two ago, the chapter of Mystery Writers of America that I belonged to sponsored a tour of the State Police weapons lab. And in one office over our heads hung a chart representing the level of violent crime in New Jersey. Listed were three municipalities: Newark, the state's largest city; Camden, the state's poorest city, and Irvington. Three square miles, and that much violence.

I'm sure the average resident of Irvington today is a law-abiding person. I used to occasionally drive by the house in which I spend my first 20 years (except when I was living at Rutgers); it looked like it was being well-maintained and the block still looked quiet and peaceful.

Now, I look at the address on Google Earth, because I wouldn't dare drive down that street again.

There's a book in this, and a good one. But I have no desire to cultivate sources in the town, to spend nights with gang members and drug dealers in an effort to see what the place is really like today. I wouldn't risk my evenings, let along my life, to set off the childhood memories of my hometown against the reality of Irvington in the 21st century.

I'm not a good reporter. I can write, but I'm not a good reporter. I don't have the instincts. If someone out there wants to research that book, I'll be an eager interview subject about the old days, and I'll be glad to write some of it. But don't ask me to go into the war zone. Because I know my limits, and that is past it.

It's a shame--I can see the story in front of me, but I can't report it. I hope somebody does. Because it needs to be told.

Comments

[Patty]

Fascinating, and horrible. Losing any town to violence, drugs and gangs is a bad thing. The "war" on drugs has only increased the amount of drugs coming into this country and somehow, someway we need to turn it around so that people like you can safely drive by the home where you spent your childhood.

[Toni]

it is a shame...i can see Clifton going downhill slowly too.

But if you really want to tell that story, fictionalize it.

[Joan]

I live in Chicago. I have all my life. I've seen the neighborhoods where I lived as a child and young adult change so dramatically that it just tears at my heart. The neighborhood I've spent the last 20 years in is in flux. I don't want to leave Chicago and live somewhere else, but it may happen.

I'm a journalist and have been since college. There are some stories I can't tell either.

[Nancy Roeessner]

I understand the feeling although I'm not a writer. We've driven through the eastside Detroit neighborhood that we lived in for six years. It's quite dismal and scarey. The downtown of my hometown in a Canadian city is horrible - although there is an effort to improve things. I hope it's possible.

[Pete]

Lived at 91 Campfield street for the first few years of life and than again for four years in the 80's when I went to college in NYC. Watson bagels were the best indeed! I have memories of warming my hands on them as I waited for the bus in the winter. Good Stuff!

Drove through the neighborhood a year or two ago and sadly it has lost it's luster. Union and Chancellor Ave (where the Roxy and Falcones Pizza was) is now an empty lot.

[Lev D Zilbermints]

I lived in Irvington as a child between 1975-1979. First it was 654 Irvington Avenue; then, a block around, Chester Avenue; and finally, 1249 Springfield Avenue. I attended Chancellor Avenue School and Union Avenue School, grades 3-6.

In 1975/79, there still were two movie theaters (Castle and Essex), Woolworths, Two Guys, some small businesses, including a hearing center, a shoe store, etc. But even then, there already were places where you did not want to step alone at night. The area near Beth Israel Hospital was not safe. Past the underpass on Lyons Avenue towards Springfield Avenue was a deserted house. It did not have a good reputation. Years later, it got fixed, restored, and is in use again.

Irvington lost its majority-white population after the crack epidemic of the 1980s. Check Wikipedia if you do not believe me. Prior to 1965, Irvington was almost entirely white. After the 1967 riots, everything changed. By the time I came to Irvington in 1975, the town was perhaps 58% white. By 1990, it was 70% black. Today that statistic approaches 90%.

Newark is larger and has wards where Hispanics, blacks, whites, Portuguese, Jews, etc., live. Irvington's wards are predominantly black, unlike Newark. For example, Newark's East Ward has Brazilians, Portuguese, Spanish and blacks. The North Ward has a large Hispanic population.
By contrast, Irvington does not have this.

The tax base in Newark is a bit better than in Irvington, given the higher population. There are companies and businesses as well as Port Newark, all of which bring revenue. By comparison, Irvington does not have this.

The only places I go to Irvington now is the Stamp and Coin store on Springfield Avenue and the Irvington Library sometimes. Everything else just looks ugly and uninteresting.

It will take generations for Irvington to recover from the swamp it is in right now.