The first time we heard the gunfire at a house down the block it was comforting to imagine it as a one-time deal, the kind of random shoot-’em-up that at the time often punctuated midsummer evenings in our south Minneapolis neighborhood. I dutifully called 911 and filed the incident away in the back of my mind.

After all, Calvin and Geneva had raised a family in that house, we’d been told. Their girls had played with the teenage girls who often babysat our kids. They came to our block parties and, though they clearly had their problems (Calvin had lost his job and was drinking too much; Geneva, too, hit the bottle), they’d been accepted as part of the neighborhood long before we arrived.

So, when shots rang out again a few days later, and then again a couple of days after that, the block went on high alert. My wife, Sharon, contacted the local police precinct and learned that the cops had been monitoring the developing feud between Geneva’s nephews and the family across the street. The FBI was rumored to be investigating.

Meanwhile out in the front yard, our two kids were showing their friends how to drop and roll if they heard shots.

It was the next Saturday afternoon when we heard a car speed by and unload a salvo of gunfire into Calvin and Geneva’s front window. I grabbed the phone and punched in the too-familiar three numbers while racing down the front steps, nervously assessing the scene from the sidewalk. Down the street, Calvin and Geneva’s front door swang open and two young men, one armed with a shotgun, rushed to a car parked out front and sped around the corner. I described the car to the dispatcher and waited for the squad to show.

The two young men soon returned to the house to check out the damages and were safely back inside by the time the cops arrived. 'One of the guys had a shotgun,' I told the officers as they walked up to the house. They returned to the police car empty-handed, of course, and drove away.

There is, I think, a certain conceit at work among progressive white folks living in embattled, predominantly minority neighborhoods. People like Sharon and I often end up leading block clubs and activist organizations—prompted by a mix of community spirit and a slightly voyeuristic desire for street cred—without completely acknowledging that black-on-black gang crime is unlikely to touch us. But the escalating level of violence down the block had now reached the point where Sharon and I were starting to worry about crossfire. We called a block meeting and were not surprised to find our tiny living room filled to the rafters.