InBerkeley

After 12 years, I am tired of living in South Berkeley.

I am tired of the incessant noise: blaring car stereos, loud parties, people yelling at each other as they walk down the street.

But right now I’m physically and psychologically tired of the place. I’m worn out by the sensory assaults. I’m tired of South Berkeley.

Intellectually, I realize that there are long-term solutions to the mayhem, the dysfunction, the disregard for neighbor. Emotionally, I’m connected to all the good people who live in the neighborhood. Spiritually, I have compassion for the scofflaws, and I am hopeful that my neighborhood can in time be transformed into a livable, walkable, litter-free oasis.

I am tired of the reckless drivers. About once a month, a vehicle speeds right through multiple stop signs. Last month it was three teens speeding and swerving in a stolen Ryder truck. I’m worried sick that a reckless vehicle will strike a neighborhood kid playing on the sidewalk.

I am tired of the trash. Some neighborhood corners have become de facto dumps. About every fifth day, these corners sprout new collections of clothing, beauty supplies, couches and stinky trash bags. San Pablo Avenue between Alcatraz and Ashby is so full of broken glass and rotting food bags that it’s unsafe to walk a dog there.

I am tired of kids openly smoking marijuana on the sidewalk, in front of their houses, at the corner park.

I am tired of the late-night, outdoor parties that run until 2 a.m., when, awakened by drunken howls, I routinely call the Berkeley police to report excessive noise. Wonderfully, the police always respond within about a half hour, and the parties close up or take it inside. I’m tired of, and a little sad about, having to anonymously report my inconsiderate neighbors.

I am tired of the sad-looking teenage prostitutes who sit at bus stops, morning and night, waiting for their next customer.

I am tired of the profanity. Every day, without fail, I hear the worst of the worst street language. It’s depressing as it is incessant.

I am tired of the gunshots. Three months ago, while I sat on the couch reading The Chronicle at 7:30 p.m., I heard several shots precisely 60 strides from my front door. The police responded immediately and found shell casings. Nineteen times out of 20, though, there is no evidence, no suspects. And so the neighbors talk and cower just that much more in the face of the encroaching mayhem and dysfunction.

My city councilman and his staff couldn’t be nicer or more responsive to the neighborhood’s concerns. The Berkeley city staff members are true professionals. They organize community meetings and genuinely want to help the neighborhood improve. The Berkeley police are amazingly responsive. They’re fast, consistently demonstrate their caring and are articulate when they talk to neighbors about how to lessen crime.

But, alas, good intentions alone cannot overnight neutralize the small clutch of loud, uncaring, foulmouthed neighbors who run stop signs, throw trash from their moving vehicles and use guns to try to solve their problems.