And yet, the bar breathes beneath the weight of depression. Looking around on a crowded Friday night one can hardly imagine the impact that the riots of the forties and sixties had. Yet, the consequent movement of people moved everything. Or so I initially thought. Despite various increases in out-migration, the bar remains populated. In through the repeatedly barricaded and re-opened door, the people continue to crowd. The night often juxtaposes itself with the immediate effects of the late 1960s and early 1970s, when the population maneuvered frantically out onto the highways, and into a growing suburbia. Today, at half the population, the door remains open, and the bar remains…as if never impaled by what occurred on 12th street and Clairmont. As if the bar itself were completely oblivious to what occurred on the west side. As if, Cass Corridor, a place synonymous with trouble, never knew trouble itself. The irony resides in this imbalance. The way in which trouble manifests, and dissipates in those places one would never expect it to. This is the last place people expect, and yet, one of the only places where hope resides.
