DEAR BALTIMORE DRUG DEALERS

With that salutation began an appeal in this newspaper for the men
and women selling cocaine, heroin and marijuana in Baltimore to ease
up for the summer. Quit the guns, give them a rest. Peddle the powder
and weed, if you must. But don't re-up the inventory. Chill in the
season of steamed crabs and beer, cold watermelon and shaved ice.

Sun columnist Dan Rodricks' open letter June 9 to the salesmen in
this vast, lucrative, illicit industry was a pitch for a little peace
and quiet in Baltimore neighborhoods, a plea to stop the turf battles
that too often end up with blood in the streets. His crazy,
ridiculous - those are his words - proposition offered dealers a
prescription for a civic duty that could possibly save a few lives.
Theirs and others.

Aren't you tired of it too?

Since Mr. Rodricks asked that question three months ago, more than
250 people have contacted him: drug users and dealers, mostly men,
their grandmothers and relatives, recovering addicts and other
citizens willing to help. Rather than push dope for $50 a day, most
involved in the drug trade said they wanted a real job. They wanted
out of a dead-end life because they were too old for the pace, too
weary for another prison stay, too fearful of the competition, too
embarrassed to face their kids.

What began as one writer's appeal for a summer moratorium on
drug-turf shootings has evolved into a campaign to rally support and
jobs for ex-offenders.

In one telephone conversation after another, enough to fill a stack
of legal pads, Dan Rodricks heard from guys looking for a way out.
The more who talked to him, the more columns he wrote, offering his
readers a stark yet poignant view of his callers and insights on how
they could be helped, one step at a time, one man at a time:

"People think we [sell drugs] to just come outside and be tough or
hard. We do it to survive. Right now, there isn't much food in my
mother's house."

"I have four children. I got to find some way to help with my family."

"It's time for me to step up to the plate and show our young ones
that [drug dealing] ain't cool anymore. And one time before I leave
this world I want to hear my mother say she's proud of me, instead of
shakin' her head and asking, 'Why you keep selling that poison to
your people?'"

The Rodricks columns - more than two dozen - have profiled several
callers and their sorry pasts in the game and in prison, emphasized
the need for accessible, available drug treatment, suggested jobs for
ex-offenders, implored government to do its part, and showcased the
public and private programs such as Moveable Feast, STRIVE Baltimore
and the Maryland Re-Entry Partnership that help train and employ ex-cons.

What's encouraging and instructive has been the public's response,
one person at a time, to the Rodricks drumbeat. At least 14
ex-offenders who called Mr. Rodricks found jobs with private
businesses; 13 others found work through Goodwill Industries of the
Chesapeake; 24 entered a Goodwill job training program. The Sun
columnist has passed on possible job opportunities to others, and
others still tell him of more job leads.

This is networking at the most basic level and scale for a group of
Baltimoreans desperate for a second chance and eager for an
opportunity to prove themselves worthy of it.

Goodwill and others are pairing ex-offenders with empathetic
employers, partnering that should be replicated, one business at a
time. Some business owners have taken the initiative themselves. Guys
are loading brick, doing excavation work, busing tables, working as a cook.

Kevin Gambrill, 39, found himself two jobs. His heroin addiction
helped send him to prison, but once released, he got some drug
treatment, returned to his family and, through a Rodricks tip, landed
his initial job at Bo Brooks Restaurant in Canton.

Dealers and users have a choice to make, as Mr. Rodricks put it: Live
or die. If they choose to live, theirs will be a life of fits and
starts, of struggle to stay clear of the poison, of recovery and its
winding path, of rewards, however small.

The public's choice is not so stark, but the imperative should be to
help those who want help. A criminal record shouldn't automatically
bar ex-offenders from a job. Let's give them a choice other than
returning to the corner this fall. A decent-paying job can keep them
out of the game. It can help support families too long neglected. It
can make a difference in the life of a city if more individuals take
one step at a time, for one man at a time.