The Honest Truth, by Rick Gilbert

On the night of June 26th or the morning of June 27th I came home around 2:30 am after hanging out with some friends about 1 mile away from my home in Baltimore City. When I went to open my door, my four legged, hairy, 1-year-old dog, Zeke, came out to greet me as I entered. I took one step in to set my keys down and noticed the blur of fur had vanished around the corner. When I went around to pursue my dog I saw four young black dudes whom I know to be lower food chain drug dealers on my block. One had his bike in the air and threatened to throw it at Zeke. I insisted he was cool and pointed to his 6,000 rpm tail wagging as a point to consider before turning him into a Bi-doggy medley. But simple reasoning didn’t seem to work. I was instantly approached by all four guys, and when I looked away, I was hit a few times in the face. It was nothing that put me to the ground, but something that definitely made me wish I had that 10-speed instead of Zeke (temporarily at least).

I ran back to the house and was followed. One of the guys just stood there and I yelled something as the blood started literally covering my shirt and stoop. 

[A neighbor] asked if there was anything he could to help me out, so I let him in and asked him to wet a towel in the sink and bring it to me as I called 9-1-1 a few friends in the neighborhood.

The cops showed up followed by my friend, Adam. When Adam arrived at the “pending investigation,” he was almost immediately put in cuffs. I was thinking, Okay...WTF, and waited for Bob Saget to shoot around the corner with my $10,000 prize in hand. But he never came. Instead, Adam was issued a citation and the cops left without providing any type of police report. They where, however, kind enough to remove the cuffs they so hastily slapped on.

At this point I’m thinking this is a little backwards. 

The following morning was arguably one of my worst. I was covered in blood, had two black eyes coupled with a broken nose, and the thick smell of iron was in the air.  Before I speak a word of English, or any other language in the morning, I must first have my cup of coffee. After scooting my nose to the side to take a sip I noticed the cream had gone bad. That being the least of my worries, I indulged and stepped out the front door for some air. To my delight a few neighborhood friends where participating in a street clean-up with two of whom I called the night before.

A few days later word started to spread around the neighborhood, and I received a call from the president of the local development association. He was interested in spreading my story by way of YouTube—which had become an effective tool for highlighting local criminals. I was skeptical at first, but then realized it may prevent situations like mine, or worse, from happening in the future. So we met, interviewed, and went our respective ways. At one point there were considerable comparisons to the Zack Sowers incident, but they were later dropped out of respect for his family and contrast in outcome. The video, for me, is a little over the top, but good overall. There was a lot of feedback to consider when editing the video before release, and Dan did a good job making sure everyone’s opinions were heard. 



An article was also posted on the Investigative Voice depicts me as someone who has given up and thrown in the towel. Someone who was beaten and chased away by the big mean drug dealers. I understand where this angle is coming from, but I feel I should’ve been interviewed beforehand even if it meant postponing the article a day or two. The writer had called and emailed me, but I left town for the weekend not knowing the plans for the article. It irks me to see my name put in this light, because I’ve given up nothing. In fact, I’ve gained something from this experience. I’ve gained an understanding of an environment I chose to live in for the past three years, why I may have been attacked, and why I no longer wish to live there anymore. As for “sticking it out,” I bought my home with two burnt down houses next door, fended off junkies in vacant houses, removed a large group of dealers from the corner, built a business during a recession, and cleaned the alley and block on a weekly basis. These things didn’t require a committee or clean-up group, it was simply something that needed to be done.

Meanwhile I was the only owner-occupied house on the block. If that’s considered giving up, then I suppose I’m guilty. 

The truth is that I had the “For Rent” sign in my window well before this event took place. I had been planning to move out West. But since no one asked, I couldn’t tell. Being part of this incident certainly hasn’t led to any procrastination with my plans. An although my eye was partially swollen shut as a result of the attack, it helped me see better than ever. It’s taken an event like this and a whirlwind of emotion to help me finally put into words how I really feel. Overall, I’m grateful to arrive to these conclusions and will continue writing until it’s fully understood. 




2000 – 2010:

 The city, neighborhood, and house have a lot more personal significance than some may know. Personally, I feel as if everyone has been using this story to gain a political advantage of sorts, but to also help bring light to every other existing problem in Pigtown. Because of the latter, I’ve agreed to be the poster boy for “The White Boy Who Got Beaten Up By The Drug Dealers Who Don’t Pay Taxes” campaign. But, in reality the bottom line is that I’m more heartbroken by the situation than the attack itself, not to mention pending financial loss on the house and lackluster police response from a city I’ve called home for 10 years. It’s made me feel that I really can’t trust anyone, and that I’m pretty much riding into the sunset solo on this one.



Baltimore, for me, was a place where I became a graphic designer, met great friends, and started my own business in the basement of 1303 W. Ostend Street. Among other things I’ve always enjoyed its diversity and the blue-collar mentality engrained in the city’s heritage. It has provided inspiration in my own work philosophy. Ironically, the shirt featured in the story by the Investigative Voice (Hecht Bros) was the first t-shirt I designed as part of a series that paid homage to the great Baltimore sign creators of the 20th century. In less than a 5- mile radius from the house, I was able to build a business and great clientele that included great companies ranging from Under Armour to Real Estate and Auto Glass Companies on Washington Blvd. My first summer at 1303 I even got the chance to start a skate program for the neighborhood kids.

Some parts were very magical and surreal and others very daunting and disturbing. 

A handy man (Tom) who painted my door and did other odds and ends at the house was found dead of a drug overdose in a Pigtown alley last year. I remember when I first moved in we would sit on the stoop and jam to classic rock tunes. It had the setting of a real Trenchtown and it was always interesting watching the expressions of the passersby. He was much better than I anticipated and I often found myself playing catch-up. Just recently Doug (a 65-year-old battling a lifetime of triggered seizures known as Sarge) who would occupy my stoop was found dead in a vacant rowhome last month on Cross St. When I moved my Design Studio up to the second floor, I would watch him go around and collect unfinished cigarette butts for the last few puffs of good tobacco. A neighbor across the alley set up a little table for him and would cook him dinner in the evenings. He was very weird about taking money and would never take any from me when offered. It created an intriguing depth to his personality. These two people could be written off by many because of their appearance, but to me it was all part of what made our neighborhood unique and I did what I could to help them out.



I often would have people over for dinner and drinks and after the shock of “why the hell did you move here” wore off, we’d settle into regular Norman Rockwell moments of throwing the football around in the streets. This was done intentionally to help give our corner a better vibe. I can say it was accomplished and would resort to football games in the middle of the street with a diverse mix of people who would NEVER meet under another circumstance. It gave me a weird sense of pride in a way—I felt like I was helping one side truly see the other. I remember my mom thinking it was cute that people started decorating for Christmas in October by putting up “blue lights” on the lamp post on my corner. I responded with “Yup, things are pretty festive around here.”

What I’ve come to learn during my three years as a Pigtown resident is that neutrality can only last so long. The Swiss approach to politics doesn’t work here. You get to a point where you’re forced to pick a side, and whichever one you choose, you are forced to live with the ramifications. And in my case, the consequences. And I didn’t even pick a side.

The choice created a huge dilemma for me because I’ve seen both sides, from the businessmen and the handyman. I simply could not fully pick one side or another and that is the real reason I left. Not because I got punched a few times. After discussions with friends and family, I’ve realized life is far too short to live this way and I’m no longer going to be part of an environment where “the greater good” isn’t allowed thrive and grow for a second longer.  This isn’t politics. This isn’t pandering. This isn’t a soap box rant against the big bad drug dealers or the police. This is just me and my honest truth.