Since I have a love for the city of Philadelphia, (family who lives there) this book was a must read. When many people hear or read about Philadelphia, or Kensington, the words that may come to mind are: drug invested, people who may not care, filthy, and crime ridden. Yes all of that my be true, however there are residents who want to have better and deserve to be treated as one who lives in one of the richest countries in the world should.
This is a nonfiction book, but the story reads as fiction, which would help those who normally don't read nonfiction books. You can read the summary of the book, so I will not share that here. I am here to review it and I want to say this book is excellent. It was written well, without biased. Each person and family that you follow throughout the story becomes your neighbor and as you read, you had high hopes that life would become better for them.

If you work in education or any public sector job, this should be a recommended or must read. In order to help those who are struggling and if you have a desire to change your own city or neighborhood you must read this book to know what it is like to like in American poverty. ( )

In 1983 we moved from Kensington to Olney, from a church parsonage to our own home. Just a year and a half before, my husband had accepted a two-point charge in Kensington; one church was situated at Front and Allegheny, the dividing line where the white neighborhood began, and the other at Kip and Cambria, nestled in the three-story rowhouses built to house textile workers a century before, including Stetson Hats and Quaker lace, long closed.

The first thing the teenagers taught us was the code of the street was “don’t get mad, get even.” Many of the young adults were unemployed, living with their parents even after becoming parents. They hung out at corners under the streetlights at night, and greeted my husband with “Hello, Father,” as he returned home from evening meetings. They kept an eye out for the elderly in the ‘hood.

Every corner had a bar or a corner store. An empty warehouse loomed behind the house, which was teeming with cockroaches and mice. Homeless people slept in our old VW Beetle housed in an unlocked garage off the alley. We heard that police escorted teachers into the school across the street.

My husband had arrived already burned out. He left the parish ministry and we bought a house in Olney. It was a post-war rowhouse on a street with houses still occupied by the original WWII refugee owners, black couples including policemen and nurses, Hispanic couples, and one rental filled with students from the school of optometry a block away.

To the west and south were poor black communities, and to the north an upscale area that had seen better days. We could walk to the train station or the last subway stop in a few minutes.

We lived there for seven years, watching it turn into Koreatown with bilingual street signs. When our son was born. I couldn’t let him play in the park because of the broken glass all over the ground. The local kids come to see him in his stroller, and we watched them break dance on flattened cardboard boxes on the street.

In 1990 my husband left his job in New York City and we returned to Michigan. The long commute and frequent travel had meant he was rarely home and he wanted to be more involved in our son’s life. Plus, things were changing. Crack cocaine had arrived in the city. Twice our dog’s alert thwarted a theft of our car. Houses were being broken into by through the skylight.

There was a time when he couldn’t have imagined living beyond twenty-one, let alone having a well-paying professional job.
from Live to See the Day by Nikal Goyal

When I saw that Live to See the Day was set in Kensington and Olney I had to read it.

The book follows the stories of three North Philadelphia Puerto Rican boys growing up in poverty, with food insecurity, meth addicted parents, and school systems more interested in criminalizing students and ignoring systemic problems than in the welfare of students. And, it traces the generational trauma that warped lives.

We feel compassion for these young people, understanding the towering challenges they face. We feel anger at how they have been marginalized and ignored, and guilty for our complacent ignorance.

Through the stories of these young people, Goyal shows the political reactions to systemic problems that got us to ‘here,’ the ways policies have failed, and the innovate approaches that allowed these boys to succeed.

All they wanted was to finish high school and get the diploma that would allow them an opportunity for a better future.

In other countries, governments support families in need. My Finnish exchange student daughter had lost her job when she married an unemployed teacher, but they had an apartment and food through the state. Here, we break up families and give foster children the support that, if given to their families, would have kept the family intact. Here, children who are not safe at home live on the streets or friend’s couches or in substandard and insecure shelters.

And yes, the book was alive for me because I had been to the places described, although in somewhat better times, but also because it is a masterpiece of narrative nonfiction. Goyal raises important issues and, thankfully, shares an example of approaches that succeed.

Thanks to the publisher for a free book. ( )