Yes, I see your swagger, your gangster stare, your arrogance.

I see your street smarts, so called, but where has it gotten you so far? You're handcuffed, forced to the ground, eating dirt like an insect, getting your clothes dusty and dirty.

I see the cash roll, $1,500, and what have you done with it? It's gone now, gone to the state and you try to act so hard, get that tough guy attitude with me and I don't buy the act.

I see the fear that lies beneath the stare, scared that your car is going to be in print, giving me that dare me look, begging me to not take a photo, begging like a child for candy when earlier in the evening I had already snapped a shot, before you came around and gave me that I could shoot you or beat you to a pulp look.

I'm not looking for trouble. I'm an invited guest and what I see beneath it all is sadness, I don't see tough men and tough women, who try to me make flinch by telling me they're selling sex toys to my daughter, my wife, my mother. It's all big talk when your hands are cuffed, being where you shouldn't be, being at a place you know has been under investigation for a year or more now.

Random sights and sounds go by quickly at 209 Ransome Circle Thursday night, the cussing, the complaining, the police are out of line bit, the indignation, the threats, the picking up and dialing of a cell phone to some unknown person who probably cares less about your plight and would rather not be bothered.

The arrogance becomes ignorance, that gangster stare, a child's cry for help. You have your fans, fans lined up across the street, cheering when you are released, making you think you are a folk hero. This ain't the movies, folks, this is South Weldon, Scoco Park, and there are no heroes here tonight as you cheer in front of your small children, setting examples for them, examples of what? The celebration of a life of being detained, handcuffed and forced to the ground to swallow dirt? One day you'll look back when the camera was aimed at you and you did your little booty shake in front of youngsters and wonder why you were even out there, cheering the detainees and jeering the cops. Lucky for you the flash was out of range and you were spared the embarrassment of your foolish and fruitless antics.

Your little one liner was cute, about how, “You ain't gonna rrspin me.” Tells me you got more going for yourself than you're letting in your life, the quick wit, the turn of a word, yet you sit there in your handcuffs talking smack when you could be doing what? Going to college? Don't tell me it can't be done. Don't tell me it's because of your environment. Don't tell me it can't be done. It can.

I listen as Lieutenant George Evans of the sheriff's office advises a detainee he should find a new hangout. The man says he will. Evans, like myself, is doubtful because, while there is nothing to be gained from your current hangout, you think the cash rolls, the 1800 vodka is the high life, even at a house void of grass, only the dirt you must kiss.

Something tells me that while that lawn may be bare from the cookouts and get-togethers, it's probably seen its share of felony runs and drugs deals. Don't think the cops would be out there sweating under the weight of bulletproof vests and utility belts if a family picnic was going on out there.

Don't think the cops would be out there foraging for evidence in the wood line if a group of children were playing tag or hide and seek.

No, this night you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and it seems like anytime you hang out at the Community House it's the wrong place at the wrong time.

So, I wonder, as I watch the activity, listen to the sass and watch the swagger, watch the line of people across the street cheering as if this was a parade, is the arrogance just a code of the street or is it a disguise for ignorance?

You tell me. I would really like to know, like to line the Calvin and Robert Champions of the world up and ask them to remove the facade, the thousand yard stare and answer me honestly why this is the life. Why at 30 going on 50, you enjoy being harassed by the police, dress like you're 20, drooped pants and drawers showing flesh and still trying to perfect a streetwise gait in your step. It's not intimidating anymore, never really was. No, when I look in my wallet I see a $50 bill, not $1,500 that is now vanished because you thought you could parlay it by turning some rock into more cheddar, Benjamins, whatever the current parlance is.

My mind swam after the raid, thinking of all the visuals, the so called coolness, the code of the streets at work, the masks of arrogance hiding ignorance.

I have no money to surrender to the state and for that I'm thankful because as I write this, I know I am free and didn't have the taste of dirt in my mouth when I woke up Friday morning — Lance Martin