In this part of town, there are bums and fiends everywhere. Drug peddlers are on the corners, and drug abusers prowl the worn sidewalks looking for a new hustle that would allow them enough money to cop their next hit. The destructive effects of crack-cocaine and heroin have infected, spread through, and transformed this once beautiful city, as would a malicious cancerous lesion ruthlessly spread to terminate a once healthy person.

Every time I come to this city, Charm City they call it, I see all the consequences of poverty. It is obvious that the people here are barely getting by. In the market, people are using their welfare cards to purchase cheap sustenance for themselves and, hopefully, for their families. Children have on dirty clothes and have mucus dried caked around their eyes, as if there were no responsible parent at home to show them how to properly venture outdoors.

A woman, who appeared out of nowhere, and seemingly intoxicated with some substance, approached me and shouted, "I'm not crazy!" I was startled by her, and by her announcement. I did not know the strange woman who stood in front of me, wild-eyed, with knarled hair, and dark, greasy, dirty skin. Her pupils were completely dilated and her facial expression was blank. The woman looked like a walking zombie, and she frightened me. I thought she had some mental condition when I examined her in front of me, but I did not verbalize my opinion. I just stood there shocked and at a loss for words.

Maybe the crazed woman saw the look of disgust on my face while I was taking in the chaos of my surroundings. Maybe my facial expressions gave me away. Maybe the woman felt as though I made a silent judgment of her. Nevertheless, I made haste and removed myself from that woman's demented presence. I fled the scene so quickly that I did not get a chance to order my mother's turkey wings from the butcher who looked as if the ill effects of drug abuse had taken a toll on him as well.

I met my mother at the market's exit. We made our way through the crime-infested alleyway, along the side of the market that led to the graffiti stained parking lot. We were thankful that my truck had not been stolen in our absences.

On the way back to my mother's apartment, the city's scenery was grim. "I hate coming here," I whispered softly to my mother. Offended by my comment, she looked at me and said, "The same thing you see here, is the same thing you see in New Jersey."

"No, it's not!" I defended my home state.

"Yes, it is," my mother stated firmly, looking at me with disappointment, then continued, "Jream, life has been good to you. These people are victims of their lives. Most of them are sick with AIDS, and many of them have just given up. What you see here is the end result of a problem far greater than just drugs."

I listened to my mother explain that there are higher authorities in America that are allowing illegal substances into Charm City. I understood most of her points. However, my right mind rebutted her reasonings and I felt compelled to tell my mother, "Just because drugs are available, it does not mean that people should abuse them like this! These people were once human!"

My mother softened her serious tone for a moment to point out all of the condemned row homes lining the city's streets and said, "It's not drugs destroying this community. It is the fact that these people have no money, have teenagers for parents, have parents, and grandparents, addicted to drugs; and unfortunately, for most of Charm City's victims, there is little hope for them. Drugs are an escape from their realities. Many of the people here will never be more than what they see." I listened to my mother go on to proclaim, "I have God's favor, a good job working for the city's Office of the Public Defender, and a comfortable roof over my head, in the county, far from the doomed streets of Charm City."

I could not help but appreciate the gradual change in atmosphere on the drive to my mother's residence, as the streets of the city slowly transformed into a serene country setting. Houses with well manicured lawns and functioning sprinkler systems appeared. As my foot rested on the brake at a red light, I gazed out the window to appreciate the view of happy children playing in the grass. I even found myself waving at them.

Everything was different in the county. Cars were in good condition, families were barbequing, and people appeared to be happy, clean, and healthy. There was a mixed-race couple at the shopping center where my mother and I stopped to pick up two steaks for dinner, as I had been afraid to stand in line for the turkey wings at the market. The couple had a little boy. He was clean. There were no unsightly secretions around his eyes. You could tell this child was well cared for, and loved.

In the county, I felt better about life. I felt hope and tranquility. My whole demeanor changed, and I could not help but then understand what my mother was trying to explain to me about Charm City's victims. Just as my persona had changed to fit the lowly city environment, so had those people who had fallen victim to the misleading claims of "Charm City". There is nothing charming about that part of town.

The next morning, I made my way to Interstate 95 North, but not before venturing back to Charm City to drop my mother off at work. I appreciated the limited opportunity that I had to spend with her. However, I despised the fact that I had to encounter Charm City in order to achieve that time.

As my truck passed over corroded city streets and potholes in route towards the highway, I once again observed the city's deprivation. I could not help but say, "This place is so ugly." The place that the State of Maryland alternatively calls "Charm City" is Baltimore. Through my eyes, Baltimore is hell.

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