On a gray June
morning, in the northwest corner of the parking lot of the AutoZone
at 100th and International, the Bishop, in a wheel chair and a white
track suit, called for surrender. He besought the group to pray for
surrender, to pray for the killers to see the light in -- to see the bright
peace of -- surrender. He prayed they would surrender their souls to
Jesus, and that in Jesus' message to love your neighbor as yourself
they would find the reason and the courage not to pull the
trigger.
"There's a
spirit we're up against," he said. "God can cast that
spirit to the rats, as far as I'm concerned."
Across the boulevard
sits St Louis Bertrand Catholic Church. In the 16th Century, the
Spanish Dominican worked in the New World to convert the natives to
Christ. Now, 450 years later, Bishop Simmons seeks to convert
murderous Oaklanders.
I can imagine faith
and Jesus working to pull a young man free from the urge to pull the
trigger. But I wondered if a person
seeking to prove himself in East Oakland ever could see that defying
those who would urge you to commit violence shows greater
courage than succumbing to their dark and dead end instruction. Want
to be defiant of authority? Want to show how powerful
you really are? Then work to leave that life behind. It won't be
easy, but it will be right.
The Bishop was
preaching to a group of 20 to 25 that morning. The last such march I'd covered, from 23rd and International to City Hall, had taken up
the entire right lane of the boulevard and stretched two or three
blocks in all, but this was a sidewalk march, a more intimate group,
led by young men from Victory Outreach Church. They carried a Measure Y
banner, had bullhorns and energy and words. They kept up a remarkably
lucid and inspiring monologue all along the long, slow, four mile
march, discussing, for any and all within range, peace, love of humanity, love
of Oakland, safety for your children, safety for your family.
Bystanders cheered and handed out bottled water, drivers honked their car horns, marchers handed
out flags to taco trucks and other businesses along the way, pressing
them to spread the message of surrender. If I am skeptical of
the effect of such marches on the killers, I still admired the
marchers and the message.
Along the way, the
group stopped three times to remember and pray for the dead. First in
front of Bay Coin Laundry, on the spot where the child Carlos Nava
was killed. There is a mural depicting him with wings there. Then at
the taco truck where five-year-old Gabriel Martinez was killed;
there were pictures hanging along the chain-link fence. Then at the
entrance to Otaez Restaurant, where the owner, Jesus "Chuy"
Campos, was shot dead early one morning in 2011 as he unlocked the door and
prepared to go to work.
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| Carlos Nava Mural, International Blvd., Oakland |
|
The mayor marched
with the group, also her husband. The chief of police walked, as
well, in civilian clothes, a jacket, jeans and loafers. Their
collective presence lent the march a certain legitimacy its small
numbers might have failed to do. They walked with the group past the
trash-strewn number streets, the urine-drunk bus kiosks, past the
dirty facades of the boulevard, past the graffiti announcing that
once their was a guy who came along who calls himself "THC"
here, there, everywhere, past the businesses and storefront churches,
Se Compra Hora, Iglesia Christo Marantha, Low Fee Check Cashing, past
the East Bay Dragon's clubhouse, a casino billboard, more graffiti:
"Los," "TSK," "GE2." At 69th, three
Latino men with shovels, rakes and hoes were clearing the high dry
golden grass of a vacant lot and you had to wonder what they would
find in that little, long neglected patch of Oakland. They leaned on
their handles and watched us as we passed.
In front of a
brightly painted, well-kept barber shop I tapped the mayor on the
shoulder. "That's a lovely facade," I said.
We were all set to
use redevelopment money to help many of these businesses upgrade
their fronts, she told me. But the state economy had tanked and the
governor had withdrawn the funds. She had been trying to convince the
city council to pay for it, but they were reluctant. The City is
suing the State to get some of that promised redevelopment money
back.
I handed her my
card. On the back I had scribbled the name and date of an article I'd written about three violence prevention workers in Oakland, two
former victims of violence, and one formerly incarcerated former
Oakland gang member, all working now to create peace. She hadn't read
it, said she had little time for reading. I told her I was working on
another, longer piece on one of those former victims, on the
city and its reputation and its fight against the gun, that I would
love to interview her some time. She said to talk to her public
safety adviser, Reygan Harmon. Soon a security guard addressed her,
quietly, "Mayor," and pulled her away. She had another
appearance to make, would meet up with the march at the event
scheduled at its destination, a plaza in the Fruitvale District. At that event
I approached Harmon. I handed her my card. On the back I had
scribbled the name and date of an article I'd written about three
violence prevention workers in Oakland. I said I was working on
another one and needed to interview the mayor for it. She gave me her
card and said to email her, which I did the following Monday, four
days ago as I write, but no word yet. I wonder how many emails it
will take.
Back before the
marchers had reached the plaza I'd caught up with the Bishop in his
wheel chair and told him how much I liked his message of surrender.
He asked me if I was a preacher. No, I said, just a writer in
Oakland.
(For more on the event, see 25 Guns)
