strongernow
12-19-2004, 08:47 AM
30318: Atlanta ZIP code rates No. 1 for residents in state prisons
By CARLOS CAMPOS
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Published on: 12/18/04
Two menacing Rottweilers sleep in the northwest Atlanta home of Dexter Callahan and his 76-year-old mother. Iron burglar bars cover the windows and doors.
"There's a lot of bad folks in this neighborhood," says Callahan, 35. "They stole a Santa Claus and a wreath . . ."
". . . right next door," his mother says, finishing the sentence.
Forget about Beverly Hills 90210. This is Atlanta 30318, arguably the meanest address in Georgia.
A recent analysis by the state Department of Corrections found more Georgia prison inmates come from 30318 than any other of the state's 965 ZIP codes. Currently, 1,352 inmates in Georgia claim 30318 on Atlanta's northwest side as their address, almost 2 percent of the state's prison population.
The analysis shows that just 25 ZIP codes in Georgia — less than 3 percent of the total — produce 25 percent of the state's inmate population. Most of the ZIP codes are in urban areas heavily populated by minorities and racked by poverty, low education levels and single-parent households. Atlanta alone accounts for seven of the 25 ZIP codes.
Still, the No. 1 ranking for 30318 surprised Larry Perrino, a probation officer who has dealt with thousands of convicted felons in the area during his 25-year career.
"The 30318 ZIP code is made up of different demographics, you have affluent black communities in that ZIP code as well as low-economic housing," Perrino said. The ZIP code isn't only Perrino's territory, it's also home.
'Choose Freedom'
The Department of Corrections did not compile the data simply out of curiosity, or to stigmatize those communities. Prison officials are starting program in those ZIP codes dubbed "Choose Freedom" aimed at reducing the number of people placed in state custody.
"We want to begin a community outreach program that targets these at-risk communities in a preventative fashion, so what we're really going after are the kids," said Brian Owens, executive assistant to state Corrections Commissioner James Donald.
Owens said Donald asked his staff researchers, Tim Carr and Sarah Spaulding, to compile the data after attending a November speech in Atlanta by comedian Bill Cosby. Donald was inspired by Cosby's message of taking responsibility for problems in the African-American community, which — coincidentally — was delivered at Frederick Douglass High School, ZIP code 30318.
"We know where the problem is, so why — as Mr. Cosby says — aren't we more proactive in stemming the causes of the problem?" Donald said in an interview Friday. Donald said he borrowed the "Choose Freedom" theme from a similar campaign in New Jersey.
The prison system will soon begin running print, radio and television public service ads throughout the state warning young people about the consequences of crime and the realities of prison. It will use real-life testimonials from convicts to drive home the point. The department hasn't budgeted extra money for the program, but instead hopes to rely on existing resources and the generosity of public and private donors and sponsors.
"Our kids aren't educated about what happens to you if you commit an offense in this state," Owens said. "They don't realize that for the seven deadly sins [murder, kidnapping, rape, aggravated sodomy, aggravated sexual batter, aggravated child molestation and armed robbery] you do a minimum of 10 years' hard time in this state."
Housing projects
It's easy to see why ZIP code 30318 produces more prison inmates than anywhere else in Georgia. Inside its borders are some of the city's most notorious housing projects, including Bankhead Courts, Hollywood Courts, Bowen Homes and Herndon Homes.
Corrections Department data, some of it culled from Census Bureau statistics, shows that 31 percent of the ZIP code's residents live below the poverty line. Sixteen percent of its residents are single women with children younger than 18. Only 8 percent are married couples with children younger than 18.
Oscar Wright, 37, knows he has been part of the problem. The Bowen Homes resident has done prison time for cocaine possession. Wright is on probation.
"All I did was help bring it [the neighborhood] down by what I was out there pushing . . . I don't take any joy in that," Wright said this week during a visit by Perrino, his probation officer.
Wright wasn't surprised to learn that the streets of 30318 are a breeding ground for felons. "Drugs, prostitution, stealing cars — within a 2-mile radius, all that's going on right now, as we speak," said Wright, who is now working as a commercial painter.
Wright said he is working hard to change his lifestyle and overcome his mistakes. He said he often talks to young neighbors about his poor choices.
Taking different paths
Down the street from Wright's home, in the shadow of the Georgia Dome, is "the Bluff." The garbage-strewn, graffiti-marked neighborhood of dilapidated homes gained infamy in 1997, when 13-year-old Michael Lewis, who went by the street name "Little B," shot to death a man waiting in a car with his two small children outside a convenience store.
The 13-year-old had survived on the streets, unsupervised by adults, skipping school and dealing drugs. Lewis, once a resident of 30318, is now serving a life sentence in a maximum-security prison.
It's not uncommon to see able-bodied young men congregate on street corners and front porches in the middle of the day in some 30318 neighborhoods — some of them talking on cellphones.
"What folks do you know that just sit outdoors" in cold weather, Perrino asks as he steers through Bowen Homes. "See those two standing right there?" Perrino points to two men standing outside a laundromat. "They're selling dope."
When Perrino stops to pump gas at a station on Donald Lee Hollowell Parkway, an addled woman begs him for change. The woman is incoherent, with ragged clothes, disheveled hair and bad teeth — probably strung out on drugs. "I went to high school with her," Perrino, dressed in a dark suit with a shiny badge hanging from a chain around his neck, says with sadness in his voice. "We graduated in the same class."
Perrino requires his probationers — convicted felons sentenced by a judge — to attend group sessions twice a month. They talk about topics vital to keeping probationers out of trouble, including employment, child support, HIV and AIDS education and marital relationships. When Perrino visits probationers at home, he asks if they're working, staying out of trouble and keeping up with their responsibilities.
But Perrino knows what he's up against. It's difficult for a $6-an-hour job loading boxes in a warehouse to compete with the lure of a quick $600 earned selling drugs.
"It's an uphill battle to get people to understand it's not the thing to do," Perrino said. "Just one bust can mess up your life."
By CARLOS CAMPOS
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Published on: 12/18/04
Two menacing Rottweilers sleep in the northwest Atlanta home of Dexter Callahan and his 76-year-old mother. Iron burglar bars cover the windows and doors.
"There's a lot of bad folks in this neighborhood," says Callahan, 35. "They stole a Santa Claus and a wreath . . ."
". . . right next door," his mother says, finishing the sentence.
Forget about Beverly Hills 90210. This is Atlanta 30318, arguably the meanest address in Georgia.
A recent analysis by the state Department of Corrections found more Georgia prison inmates come from 30318 than any other of the state's 965 ZIP codes. Currently, 1,352 inmates in Georgia claim 30318 on Atlanta's northwest side as their address, almost 2 percent of the state's prison population.
The analysis shows that just 25 ZIP codes in Georgia — less than 3 percent of the total — produce 25 percent of the state's inmate population. Most of the ZIP codes are in urban areas heavily populated by minorities and racked by poverty, low education levels and single-parent households. Atlanta alone accounts for seven of the 25 ZIP codes.
Still, the No. 1 ranking for 30318 surprised Larry Perrino, a probation officer who has dealt with thousands of convicted felons in the area during his 25-year career.
"The 30318 ZIP code is made up of different demographics, you have affluent black communities in that ZIP code as well as low-economic housing," Perrino said. The ZIP code isn't only Perrino's territory, it's also home.
'Choose Freedom'
The Department of Corrections did not compile the data simply out of curiosity, or to stigmatize those communities. Prison officials are starting program in those ZIP codes dubbed "Choose Freedom" aimed at reducing the number of people placed in state custody.
"We want to begin a community outreach program that targets these at-risk communities in a preventative fashion, so what we're really going after are the kids," said Brian Owens, executive assistant to state Corrections Commissioner James Donald.
Owens said Donald asked his staff researchers, Tim Carr and Sarah Spaulding, to compile the data after attending a November speech in Atlanta by comedian Bill Cosby. Donald was inspired by Cosby's message of taking responsibility for problems in the African-American community, which — coincidentally — was delivered at Frederick Douglass High School, ZIP code 30318.
"We know where the problem is, so why — as Mr. Cosby says — aren't we more proactive in stemming the causes of the problem?" Donald said in an interview Friday. Donald said he borrowed the "Choose Freedom" theme from a similar campaign in New Jersey.
The prison system will soon begin running print, radio and television public service ads throughout the state warning young people about the consequences of crime and the realities of prison. It will use real-life testimonials from convicts to drive home the point. The department hasn't budgeted extra money for the program, but instead hopes to rely on existing resources and the generosity of public and private donors and sponsors.
"Our kids aren't educated about what happens to you if you commit an offense in this state," Owens said. "They don't realize that for the seven deadly sins [murder, kidnapping, rape, aggravated sodomy, aggravated sexual batter, aggravated child molestation and armed robbery] you do a minimum of 10 years' hard time in this state."
Housing projects
It's easy to see why ZIP code 30318 produces more prison inmates than anywhere else in Georgia. Inside its borders are some of the city's most notorious housing projects, including Bankhead Courts, Hollywood Courts, Bowen Homes and Herndon Homes.
Corrections Department data, some of it culled from Census Bureau statistics, shows that 31 percent of the ZIP code's residents live below the poverty line. Sixteen percent of its residents are single women with children younger than 18. Only 8 percent are married couples with children younger than 18.
Oscar Wright, 37, knows he has been part of the problem. The Bowen Homes resident has done prison time for cocaine possession. Wright is on probation.
"All I did was help bring it [the neighborhood] down by what I was out there pushing . . . I don't take any joy in that," Wright said this week during a visit by Perrino, his probation officer.
Wright wasn't surprised to learn that the streets of 30318 are a breeding ground for felons. "Drugs, prostitution, stealing cars — within a 2-mile radius, all that's going on right now, as we speak," said Wright, who is now working as a commercial painter.
Wright said he is working hard to change his lifestyle and overcome his mistakes. He said he often talks to young neighbors about his poor choices.
Taking different paths
Down the street from Wright's home, in the shadow of the Georgia Dome, is "the Bluff." The garbage-strewn, graffiti-marked neighborhood of dilapidated homes gained infamy in 1997, when 13-year-old Michael Lewis, who went by the street name "Little B," shot to death a man waiting in a car with his two small children outside a convenience store.
The 13-year-old had survived on the streets, unsupervised by adults, skipping school and dealing drugs. Lewis, once a resident of 30318, is now serving a life sentence in a maximum-security prison.
It's not uncommon to see able-bodied young men congregate on street corners and front porches in the middle of the day in some 30318 neighborhoods — some of them talking on cellphones.
"What folks do you know that just sit outdoors" in cold weather, Perrino asks as he steers through Bowen Homes. "See those two standing right there?" Perrino points to two men standing outside a laundromat. "They're selling dope."
When Perrino stops to pump gas at a station on Donald Lee Hollowell Parkway, an addled woman begs him for change. The woman is incoherent, with ragged clothes, disheveled hair and bad teeth — probably strung out on drugs. "I went to high school with her," Perrino, dressed in a dark suit with a shiny badge hanging from a chain around his neck, says with sadness in his voice. "We graduated in the same class."
Perrino requires his probationers — convicted felons sentenced by a judge — to attend group sessions twice a month. They talk about topics vital to keeping probationers out of trouble, including employment, child support, HIV and AIDS education and marital relationships. When Perrino visits probationers at home, he asks if they're working, staying out of trouble and keeping up with their responsibilities.
But Perrino knows what he's up against. It's difficult for a $6-an-hour job loading boxes in a warehouse to compete with the lure of a quick $600 earned selling drugs.
"It's an uphill battle to get people to understand it's not the thing to do," Perrino said. "Just one bust can mess up your life."