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With the federal deficit at $150 billion a year, it is unlikely that shrunken programs can be beefed up significantly over the next several years, regardless of who moves into the White House in January. But there is little dispute over what a President Bush or a President Dukakis should do: launch viable, cost-effective initiatives to renew the Government's commitment to jobs and education. If nothing further is done, more children will be seduced by the lucrative drug business. More young crack dealers will become crack addicts and burn out before they turn 20. More will wind up as fatalities of the drug war.
The real heroes of the fight against drugs are the teenagers who resist the ghetto's fast track -- who live at home, persevere in school and juggle their studies with a low-paying job. The wonder is that there are so many of them. "Most of our youngsters are not involved in crack," says Frances Pitts, chief judge of the juvenile courts in Wayne County, Mich. "Most aren't running around with guns. Most aren't killing people. Most are doing very well -- against great odds." These are the youngsters who fit Jesse Jackson's words: "You were born in the slum, but the slum wasn't born in you."
Meanwhile, the lonely work of saving one life at a time goes on. If there is a glimmer of hope in the inner city today, it comes from the social workers, community activists and Samaritans who are reaching out to children, one by one, trying to give them the affection and guidance that may keep them from surrendering their lives to crack.
Dolores Bennett calls them her children. There are more than a thousand of them by now, young people who grew up on Detroit's mean streets but flourished inside her tidy yellow frame house on King Street. It was in 1964 that Bennett, now 55, began her work. "I started seeing a need for something in our community to keep my children busy," she explains. "I started with a small group of kids and asked people in the neighborhood if we could mow their lawns or pick up their garbage or go to the store for senior citizens." Her fee for these services: "A pie or a cake" for the kids, she says. "Some people just gave us Kool-Aid."
Over the years, Bennett's activities led to the creation of neighborhood sports teams, regular fairs and picnics and an informal job-referral service for her growing brood of local children. But most important were the casual get-togethers at Bennett's home. There the youngsters could talk openly about their hopes and fears, knowing that someone would listen to them and understand. "I found that being a volunteer was priceless," says Bennett in her quiet, matter-of-fact way. "We have no paid staff or anything. It's like an organization of club members." On her mantel are scores of photographs of the youngsters she has known. "Most of these children don't have someone in their house who takes care of them and shows them they love them. Most of the children are taking care of themselves."
Today Dolores Bennett is a Detroit institution. The mayor, the top police % officials and juvenile-court judges know her personally. So do the crack dealers whom she fights for the lives of her children. "Crack has made my job harder," she says. "We lose some of the young people who come here. But our track record has been very successful."