View from inside the glass

South Bronx...tales of youth gangs in the 1950s
all true stories about my family and the street gangs of the bronx

Wikipedia For decades Highbridge has been one of the poorest communities in America.,

Nestled against the Harlem River, this lush land of wide open spaces teaming with wild life was surely paradise to the poor immigrants flooding the docks of Ellis Island. Men and women who had never learned to spell their own names, now watched with pride as their children shuffled down the "stair streets" on their way to a place that promised them free education, and a promise for a better tomorrow. And for many this dream came true, along with a new address east of the Grand Concourse Expressway. For the rest, this once upon a time paradise, had quickly become one of the first ghettos of America.

By the 1930’s the city of New York had fallen under control of the Italian mafia, each borough carved up amongst the various crime syndicates. Crime bosses ruled over these neighborhoods with an iron thumb. To operate in the zone, it was mandatory you paid a protection fee. Failure to do so would invariably lead to a burned down store front, a bullet, or both. However, there was one place not even the mafia could control. A neighborhood of jewish and irish immigrants, where youth gangs roamed in packs. They paid no taxes, feared no one. The mafia’s proven method of murder for hire simply failed here. Hitmen, upon taking out their targets, would be swarmed and ratpacked by the hundreds, never even making it to the end of the street.

The city was called the Bronx, the neighborhood, Mount Eden. But this, this was Plimpton Avenue and anywhere else didn’t fucking exist.

To live in the neighborhood meant you worked for the neighborhood. No exceptions. You’re a dentist? Okay, but you’re a dentist who delivers numbers. You’re a single mother just trying to raise your children. That’s fine, but keep this in the cabinet and somebody will come pick it up next week. The kids kept watch while playing stickball. The one’s with “potential” given a job serving drinks at the card games. Prove you’re worth and when you get to be eleven, they’ll teach you how to drive. Now you get to take the players to and from the club, the tip money getting your family a decent meal once a week. The whole world(mt eden/highbridge) was a tenement building. Rows upon rows of eight-story dumps, each one filled with up to sixty families. Everything inside of them broken, the only two items you never run out of are glue and tape. Life was rough for everyone in the South Bronx, but it was hell on Plimpton Ave. All over New York readers opened up their newspapers to find there was yet another murder on Plimpton. The victim’s name never given, referred to only as a “racketeer”. Despair sets in on the neighborhood, as drug use, alcoholism and depression reach an epidemic state. A nine year old is hospitalized at Bellevue Mental Institution after being arrested by police for smoking marijuana. The headlines shaking the country as the young “touc” from Plimpton is interviewed. Explaining the mechanisms of gang heirachy, at nine you’re a “little”, twelve a “junior” and so on. Giving the country it’s first glimpse into the workings of what are then called “youth gangs”.
The attention causes the New York City mortgage board to start a revolving fund(collect money and pay yourself) to fix worn down buildings. They start with the tenement buildings on Plimpton Ave, vowing to make them “hospitable”. The money disappears, but they lived in these boxes before and they’ll live in them after.

It’s 1952, and heroin has flooded the street. It is estimated that nearly all members above the age of 14 are now addicted. Youth gangs occupy nearly every street in the New York metropolitan area, and murders are at an all time high. Irish, jewish, and Italian gangs losing dominance to the influx of Dominican, black, Puerto Rican and Jamaican residents. Meanwhile a block over from Plimpton, the housing projects have now sprouted up on Nelson Ave. The boys from Plimpton take the Black and Puerto Rican, kids new to the neighborhood, under their wing. One member is quoted anonymously by the New York Times as having said “I don’t care what you are, jewish, black, pr, irish, I’ll take them all as members.” Plimpton Ave stays strong.

At 15 years old, Barry Model is already one of the most feared men in the Bronx. Though younger the rest of the gang, he is the undisputed leader. He is seen time and time again, fighting three to four rivals at once. If there is any less then three of them, they run when they see him. His little brother, Jerome, is already well respected in the neighborhood. At nine he was smoking “tea”, working the card games, and dating the 13 year old girls who “put out”. Now eleven, he was driving for the players, following in his fathers footsteps who had before been a driver for Dutch Shultz.

Jerome hated fighting. Unfortunately for him though, grown men who were scared of his brother would look to fight him instead. Add to the fact, that one of the meanest, toughest bastards to walk the streets of New York was also too named…yeah you guessed it, Jerome.
So, he took on the first syllable of his last name and started going by Moe. He knew to have that tough of a name, he’d have to fight constantly, but he figured he’d rather fight because of the name he chose then for people thinking he was some other guy.
Barry couldn’t have his little brother walking the streets without a solid reputation, so he made Moe fight every guy they’d walk by. One day, Moe came home bloodied and bruised from a fight with an older guy from a rival gang called The Fordham Baldies. Without letting him catch a breath, Barry led his little brother out to Fordham Road, to the heart of Baldie territory.
Moe kept trying to escape his big brothers arms and run back home, this guy was twice his size and was known for being tough. Barry wasn’t phased a bit though. He stood across the street from the pack of Baldies and asked the guy “Hey did you beat up my brother.” The baldies, not expecting anyone to have the balls to come to their turf and pick a fight, found themselves frozen with fear. When the Baldie finally said yeah and stepped forward. Barry grabbed a giant stick off the ground and handed it to his brother.
Moe, still being scared shitless, asked his big brother
“what am I supposed to do with this?”
“HIT HIM WITH IT” he screamed back at him
So Moe listened to his big brother like always, and hit the guy in the head with the stick. The Baldie went down right away and when he got up, Barry told his little brother “Alright, now give me the stick back and go fight him”
Moe jumped back from his brother, hit the Baldie in the head with the stick again and yelled out
“FUCK THAT, I’M DOING GOOD WITH THE STICK”
And that was the day people took heed to the little brother!!!

To be continued…

coming up, two of the most high profile gang murder cases in american history, funny tales of 1950's gangs and more