The longer I spent with the youth, the angrier I became. I was angry with the media, who didn’t deem the deaths of six brown/black youth as “newsworthy” because they were allegedly “gangbangers.” I was angry with the city and culture of Los Angeles, which didn’t seem to care about kids dying five miles away from the mayor’s office. I was angry with the youth for persistently making choices that led to death rather than life.
One day, five months after I’d started working at the school, I attended a bridal shower for my future sister-in-law. The invitations explicitly stated that we were to bring our invitations in order to be admitted into the walled, gated community where the shower was held. As my sister and I sat in line to show the gate guard our invitations, I fumed. I knew who these people were trying to keep out–I knew them by name; I knew their stories. I ranted and raved at my sister about how I was going to bring Carlos to this community and really make these people scared. When we arrived, I sat in the car to calm myself before entering the party. I was out of place with this group, and felt dislocated, although my sisters and mother were there. I felt as if I were standing at a threshold, out of place in both directions. I was out of place at the school because of my skin color, my education, my suburban upbringing. I was out of place in the suburbs because I spent my week hanging out in the inner city grieving over the marginalization of my students. And I was furious. I wanted to turn the furniture over and yell, “Kids are dying in our city and you don’t care! But God cares and God’s mad too!” My own marginality enabled me to see both the economic and social chasms with clarity. And, perhaps, this clarity allowed me to see these chasms with God’s eyes and heart.
***
115