From where I sat, on a winter's day, you can see the spires of Liberty Place One and Two and the lattice-work pyramid atop the Mellon Bank Building. To me they represent the hope of Philadelphia's future in plain sight, shining from the distance on a cold clear night. The "three wise men" I call them, hoping my kids might pick up on it, but they never have. As a species, dads tend to be too corny to quote, unless it's a family joke. From where I sat yesterday morning, you couldn't see the city for the trees. Trees to the left of me, trees to the right of me, trees like a mountain dominating the landscape as far as the eye could see, a mere 30 blocks from City Hall. From where I sat off 45th Street in West Philadelphia, my city resembled both a green country town and a peaceable kingdom. Songbirds chirped, neighbors nodded hello, a soft breeze stirred the dark green leaves on a glorious sunny morning of a Sunday I knew would grow hotter than hell. And even hotter the day after that. And the day after that.

The news in that morning's paper was bad. Five Philadelphians had been murdered the day before by other Philadelphians. Young black males murdered by young black males, murdered as senselessly as Sunnis slaughtering Shiites, and Shiites slaughtering Sunnis in Baghdad. Five young men shot dead and no one to snitch. And the long hot Philadelphia summer of 2006 is only going to get hotter. Because I am a white man, I cannot deplore this violence in language that would make a difference to the people doing the killing. Anything I say will only offend black people who will find my being offended by, and calling attention to, the continued silence by black people over black-on-black violence offensive. I know the drill. I know I have the right to remain silent, because I have nothing to say anyone wants to hear. But let me just sneak this thought in here: if five white people were shot dead by white people Saturday, this city would be going nuts. And I don't have to tell you what would be going on right now in Philadelphia if five white people were shot dead by black people in a single day. None of us wants to be here for the aftermath of that. But everyone understands the difference. White people in Philadelphia will not accept murder as the price you pay for being alive

Here's one difference: late on the afternoon of the same day those five young men died I was in a Center City bar watching the Phillies game with no sound as the jukebox played a song. I nodded to the beat like everyone else. "I got the rap patrol on the gat patrol/Foes that wanna make sure my casket's closed," sang Jay-Z. "But ain't nothin' sweet 'bout how I hold my gun/I got 99 problems but this bitch ain't one/Hit me." And it made me think of the young black man I watched being sentenced to life in prison without parole last Wednesday for murdering one of the finest, strongest, best human beings I've ever known, a 50-year old black man with a wife, a life, a family and a future. Shot my friend as he opened a door because the kid felt disrespected. What was he thinking as he pulled the trigger? "I got 99 problems but this bitch ain't one/Hit me?" Yeah, kid, you got hit. Life plus 99 problems until the day you die.