A Tour of Industry With the Holy Ghost
by Stefene Russell photographs by Thomas Fletcher
At the end of Branch Street, just beyond the highway overpass, there is an empty apartment building. One of the city’s most notorious graffiti bandits—RATFAG—tagged the entire top third of the building, the A's drawn as pyramids topped with radiant Illuminati eyes, like the back of a dollar.
Next door, there’s a church; there are always a couple of cars parked in front, maybe a truck and a handful of economy cars. Sunday mornings, the curb’s all parked up, and the sidewalk’s filled with people—men in brown pinstripes, little boys in tiny polyester suits, little girls in braids and barrettes, ladies in parkas and church hats sparkling with sequins.
This church rocks with the power of the Holy Ghost, and they advertise it on the front of the building. Sometimes in summer or spring, when there’s a window open, I swear I have heard a congregant speaking in tongues, syllables gushing out: see-tah nah-tah, ho-fi nee-tah! Shandala hallah hallah key, o-see me-ti hoo-ti mah tah!