Young Somalis Raise Hell At The Carlson School Of Management...Again

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This is happening with greater frequency at the Carlson School of Management and also sometimes at the Humphrey Institute. Groups of Somali males as young as 12...

...enter the building and (there's no other suitable phrase for it) "raise hell." Sometimes the Humphrey and the Carlson get downright scary after dark because of these roving packs of youth with too much time on their hands and too little parental guidance. Lately, the West Bank has more of a "hard vibe," and "Little Mogadishu" isn't the friendly place it was even a couple years ago. (Click here for an informative City Pages article)

Today I happened to be on campus with my 11-year-0ld son, and I left him in a secure part of the building--playing on my laptop computer--while I went to Acadia Cafe to fetch him some French fries. I was cutting through the Carlson when I saw and heard a group of Somalis males having--good grief--an energetic snowball fight INSIDE THE ENTRYWAY.

Hootin' And Hollerin'

Grad students were everywhere studying for all-important finals while these youth hooted and hollered like a bunch of Nodaks who just sold potatoes to Simplot and bought themselves a case of Grain Belt, yee haw.

A security guard--female, Asian, thin, and so small her eyeballs were no higher than my chest--confronted the group of 7 or 8 Somali males, some of whom were as large and well fed as myself.

"You're causing too much trouble in the building," she said, firmly. "Leave the premises or I will call the police." She kept repeating that phrase, like it was in her manual or something.

She was herding them out the door, but they weren't moving too fast and it looked like they were contemplating making a little stand, right there in the entryway.

"I'm a grad student," I said to the security guard. "I'm backing you up."

I stepped into it and told them to leave and I basically herded them out the door. The security guard later told me she was grateful for the help. The youth started grabbing snow outside, making snowballs. One of the young men looked afraid and said, "It wasn't me, sir" as I continued to show them the way off Carlson property. The "nice" young man's badly-chosen companions were laughing, cutting up, trying to act like gangsters armed with--I'm shaking, here--snowballs.

As they crossed the street at the really bad, unsafe intersection that I've told my city officials about, over and over, a bunch of them let loose with snowballs, trying to hit me and also the security guard. They didn't score any hits, though I had to dodge one. The security guard had a poorly-aimed snowball land at her feet, and refused to duck or flinch.

I won't jazz up the story and say they were throwing hunks of ice. These were just snowballs. I suppose throwing a snowball at a security guard under these circumstances technically constitutes assault, but...well, what's the point of being so technical?

I yelled something like, "You think I won't call your parents?"

French Fries, Interrupted

Rather than walk to the Acadia as I'd intended, I let the block cool down for about fifteen minutes, got my kid some milk from a vending machine run by the evil Aramark corporation, and then continued my delayed journey for French fries.

Well, actually, I left my wallet with my kid and just carried cash and my ID. Plus my cell phone, of course. If the pack of youth-gone-wrong were still hanging around, and decided to jump me, I wanted to minimize any personal loss that might occur. But heck if I'm letting thugs (even thugs hardly old enough to shave) keep me from getting my kid his French fries.