Warriors for Peace

By Gary Delgado, ColorLines
Posted on April 1, 2000, Printed on December 6, 2009
http://www.alternet.org/story/286/

One time I got a call from these guys who lived in a corner house on the West Side. They said that if these homies from another gang came around near their pad, they were going to blow those motherfuckers away. I went over to talk to them. They were packing big time and they were pissed. Pretty soon three cars cruised down the street and turned around to face the house. I went outside. I heard "rak rak rak" behind me -- the guys in the house were getting their guns ready. About fifteen kids got out of the cars and came toward the house with screwdrivers and bats. They were really kids, mostly 13, 14.I knew that these dudes behind me were gonna blast these kids. So I put up my hands to the kids and I said, "Hey, there are elders in the house. Go back. You guys can really get fucked up. Go back." It happened fast. Some of the young kids started yelling "fuck you, chinga tu madre," and every other curse they could think of. But they moved back. Finally, they left. Nothing happened. I was sweating. I said God, thank you man. I was just happy nothing happened.The next day the dudes from the house came around to Barrios. They said "You know what, Nane, we want to thank you for being there. It's not about shooting the kids. It's about doing the time for killing one of those little motherfuckers. I don't know if I could have done the time knowing I killed a 14-year-old for disrespecting us." -- Daniel "Nane" Alejandrez Founder, Barrios UnidosEvery day we are bombarded with headlines screaming about "the violence." The violence. Another meta-message. A coded euphemism for young men of color with guns. Our fear of our children. But it's not just the media. About a year and-a-half ago, I was in a discussion about community safety. The group was black and Latino, mostly in their 40s. Yet, for that moment, we were just like everyone else. What would make our community feel safe, we asked? More police. Stricter laws. Longer jail sentences. Everybody in the group felt that the predictability of police disrespect and intermittent brutality was actually an "acceptable risk" compared to the irrational threat to our own children of la otra vida, the other life.Why did we take this approach? We were frustrated and we didn't know what to do. Many members of the group loved their kids, disciplined them, talked to them, and even tried sending them away. None of our approaches seemed to work.But what's the truth? The truth speaks in tongues. Youth violence has actually declined since the mid-nineties. But it is not the truth that shapes our perceptions. It is our fear. Even though we may not like Plan A -- increasing the power of the police, legislation requiring more youths to be tried as adults, and the 3 strikes lock-'em-up-and-throw-away-the-key politics -- we don't have a Plan B.One day I heard Daniel "Nane" Alejandrez speak at a seminar on youth violence. He said something that made sense. Young people, he pointed out, had no reason to stop the violence. The headquarters for his organization, Barrios Unidos, was only an hour and-a-half away in Santa Cruz, so I decided to drive down to see for myself how the group did its work.Different Faces of "the Cruz!" For most Californians, the image conjured up when one mentions Santa Cruz is blue skies, beach, and tanned white surfers with sun-bleached hair -- yet another case where image lags behind reality. The "little beach town" has a dual identity. For some, it's a weekend tourist retreat. For others, it's a war zone.Over the last 20 years, "the Cruz" has grown from a beach resort with the omnipresent University on the hill to a sprawling city of 50,000. Affluent Santa Cruz County is home to almost a quarter of a million residents -- a quarter of whom are Latino families who work mostly in the agricultural and service sectors of the economy.In the war over gang turf in California, Santa Cruz Latino youth are an oddly aligned island of mostly Mexico-born Surenos, a gang usually based in Southern California, in a sea of Northern California-based Nortenos. "The Cruz" is home to at least four gangs ranging in size from 30 to over 200 members: the West Side Chicanos, Beach Flats Sure–os, BS & Carlos (named after an apartment complex), and West Side Santa Cruz.Driving through the Beach Flats area of town, Mirabel Gallardo, a former gang member and outreach worker for Barrios points out, "There's only two ways to get in and out of this barrio. So when the Norte–o homeboys from San Jose or San Francisco come down here wearing their colors or flashing gang signs, it can get pretty ugly. The Sure–o homies here just scope them out and wait for them to leave. When they come out, boom! They get nailed."Nane Alejandrez has witnessed this scene many times. "They can get hit with everything from rocks and bottles to bullets. Their cars can get turned over or burned, and they can get really hurt. Sometimes you can't stop it. If you try before the shit goes down, they may come after you. Sometimes I have to wait until after the first hit. After that, everybody knows that the law will be coming soon, so I say to the homies, ÔYou need to get out of here before the cops come.' Then I can help the other kids get out of the car before they get hit again." Although the city's population is three-quarters Anglo, the demographics are almost entirely the reverse at Juvenile Hall. On any given day, according to Superintendent Jim Rapozza, the population "is anywhere from sixty to seventy-five percent Latino." The numbers are pretty harsh."Who Ya Gonna Call? Melissa and her boyfriend, Luis, both former gang members, were among these harsh numbers. Three years ago, Luis was arrested for selling drugs. "Even though I called all over trying to get help from legal aid, the youth programs, and a bunch of agencies, the only place that would help us was Barrios," Melissa recalls. Alejandrez counseled Luis, appeared in court on his behalf three times, and eventually got him released into a Barrios work program. Today, Melissa and Luis have a daughter, Yessenia, and work for Barrios in Santa Cruz.Melissa, 16, laughs playfully as she remembers her pre-Barrios days. "I was bad," she giggles. "I cut school, tried out lots of drugs, and drove my tia crazy staying out all night. But when it looked like Luis was going to jail, and when I was having my baby, the people at Barrios really helped us."Melissa is one of 18 students in Barrios' Cesar Chavez School. The school has four levels of achievement, each named for an animal. Beginning students start at ground level as the creeping Crocodile and advance through the levels of the supportive Deer, the analytical Eagle, and the warrior Condor. Condors sit on the school's decision-making council. Pausing to get more leaflets to add to the pile she is meticulously folding, Melissa's last statement comes in a fierce whisper, "When I made the Condor level, other people here treated me as if I was a teacher. I've even helped someone stay in school. At Barrios, I feel like I can do something really good."John Brown Childs, sociology professor and Barrios supporter, has observed that the ritual, bonding, and sense of community embedded in the Barrios approach not only teach young people another way to look at themselves, but also "give them an alternative system to the gang for deriving status, respect, and accomplishment." For Nane, the animal levels play another important function -- they give young people some breathing space. "When we give a young person an eagle feather, we give them a message. ÔYou earned it. You're helping your community.' So the next time they get tempted to bang or sell drugs they may think, ÔI can't do this while I'm carrying this feather.' For warriors for peace, it's not just about how bad you are, it's about how you're going to take care of your family and take care of yourself."War Abroad, War at Home The Barrios philosophy evolved out of pain, much of it a direct result of Alejandrez's own experiences. "I come from a family of migrant workers and I'd always admired Cesar Chavez. I called my first strike when I was 17 years old and I was able to stop production. I was down with Brown Power, carnalismo. Then I got drafted, and even though I didn't agree with the war, I went. I got strung out on heroin the first two weeks I got to Vietnam and stayed strung out till I came back. I even sent some dope back so when I got here the dope was waiting for me.""We came from one war there to a war that was starting out on the streets here. Many of us came back addicted to drugs and full of violence. My family was already involved in selling drugs in Fresno, so I just hooked up. When this whole thing of gangs started to come up, we were set for it. We were ready." By 1977, Nane had to leave Fresno. "I came to Santa Cruz," he recalls, "because I was trying to save my life. I tried to stab people, and got stabbed myself. I shot at people and people shot at me. There were 20 killings in Fresno and my family was deeply involved. I lost family members to the prison system and to the streets. I was addicted to drugs. I knew if I stayed in Fresno I was going to continue using, get killed, or go to prison.""We came from one war there to a war that was starting out on the streets here." Old Problems, New Vision He saw his future in Santa Cruz. "When I used to sit up in the hills, shoot dope, and look down at the beach, I saw that shit was starting to happen, but it wasn't full blown and I thought I could probably do something. If I'd started in LA, Fresno, Oakland, or San Francisco, I don't know if we'd have been able to get this far. Santa Cruz allowed us to think, to strategize. People here said ÔAw, Santa Cruz is just a tourist town full of college students and hippies.' But I knew the signs. I knew it was going to happen."After a drug overdose that almost took his life, Nane began to change. He started talking with young gang members to encourage them to take a different road. As a member of the Coalition to End Barrio Warfare, Alejandrez's view was, "We weren't going to work with law enforcement, the courts, social workers -- none of those people. We thought that we were going to do it by ourselves. All we needed to do was bring our people together."But he found that even dealing with his own people was difficult. His posters for youth speakouts to stop gang violence in nearby Watsonville, CA were torn down because people in the community refused to admit that there was a gang problem. He had a difficult time getting speaking time in schools, and he had no money.Between 1981 and 1992, Alejandrez worked on a shoestring. His "office" was his 1964 Chevy. "Funding" consisted of infrequent contributions. "I'd pass out information, lecture, or show slides in the neighborhoods and go to any school that would let me talk about stopping the violence. There were very few people talking about it. There was no such thing as violence prevention." "Sometimes when people would see me showing slides or handing out posters, they'd give me $20 -- 'Hey carnal, you're doing good work,'" says Alejandrez. "But twenty bucks is enough for a hamburger and a tank of gas to get to your next meeting. Lecturers would come to U.C. Santa Cruz, talk about violence, and get paid a thousand or fifteen hundred bucks for a lecture. When they'd invite us to class, it would be fifty bucks. When we got a hundred bucks it was big time money."The atmosphere changed in the early nineties. Otilio "OT" Quintero, Barrios' Associate Director recalls: "Suddenly, the world was interested in violence prevention." Alejandrez recalls, "We had a lot of debates about whether we were selling out to foundations. We finally decided that we needed the resources to do the work." By the end of 1992, Barrios was finally able to get foundation support and open an office with three paid staff. They also began working with corrections officers, the courts, and police. "The police work is tough," says Alejandrez. "Sometimes we work with them to prevent violence among youth, and sometimes we act as a police watchdog." By the end of last year, Barrios had 13 chapters in California, and 11 more chapter or pre-chapter representatives in Washington, Texas, Washington DC, New Mexico, Kansas, Arizona, Missouri, and Colorado. The organization even has international connections. "Lots of the homies involved in gangs here were from El Salvador, and they were deported back to El Salvador," says Nane. "Now there's a huge gang problem there. Brothers are picked up by the military police and assassinated." A group called Homies Unidos has formed there to deal with the situation.Youth Leadership Central to Barrios' work is the Cesar Chavez Peace Plan, adopted in 1996 (see box). Largely conceptualized and written by young people, the Plan is important, says John Brown Childs, "because Barrios is actually implementing it." Childs is particularly impressed with the organization's work on gang truces. "Although they do teach history and cultural pride, they've sidestepped the mire of a completely inwardly-focused identity and have allied with similar organizations in the African American community to make peace and build political alliances."Barrios started BU Productions -- a T-shirt silk screening company -- as an economic development project. "The work opportunity builds the young people's self esteem and skill level. It teaches them that they can do something positive. And it gives them an alternative to the colors red and blue," says Economic Development Manager Robert Slack. The three and-a-half year old project has 11 permanent staff, room for up to 10 temporary placements, and grossed $180,000 last year.Barrios' anchor is a revitalization and integration of spiritual practice. "Our people never get taught about themselves," says OT. "So we connect people with indigenous teachings and indigenous ways. A lot of our young people are seeking, seeking, seeking, but they haven't really connected. So when we connect them to these teachings they feel that it's a part of them that they know is there, but they don't know much about. For instance, when we want to make a major decision, we often go to a sweat lodge."The Barrios philosophy embraces the potential for young people to lead a social movement. The majority of staff members are former gang members, with a median age of 26. "We never turn anyone away," says Barrios development specialist Alejandro Vilchez. Vilchez himself is an example of the organization's remarkable ability to find and develop young leaders. Alejandro was initiated into gang life by his three older cousins when he was 11. In 1992, Vilchez was attending Bethany Bible College in nearby Scotts Valley. "After about six months, I said to the people at Bethany, ÔYou guys talk a good game about helping the poor, but what are you actually doing?'" Alejandro went to Santa Cruz and asked for permission to start a Barrios chapter in San Mateo. "I liked the fact that they were coming from the heart. Many of the staff had been in the same situations as the young people they were working with. People can tell that they're for real."The Barrios philosophy embraces the potential for young people to lead a social movement. Santa Cruz Councilman Mike Rotkin admires Barrios' ability to build coalitions and work with a variety of institutions. "Even more impressive is the fact that they've managed to keep the respect of the young people they work with. Lots of organizations are fine until they gain a little institutional legitimacy. Then they promptly lose their base. Barrios has held on," he says.Testing Its Mettle By the end of 1996, only a year after announcing the Cesar Chavez Peace Plan, the organization had covered the first three points -- creating a viable model for violence prevention, providing leadership for the signing of a number of gang truces, and beginning the development of a barrio enterprise. It was time for Barrios to test its mettle around Peace Plan points four and five -- developing public policies to address the root causes of youth violence and mobilizing the political support to get those policies implemented.In an anti-immigrant, anti-Latino environment, with a conservative governor, Barrios Unidos was able to engineer passage ofAB 963, the $3 million "California Gang, Crime, and Violence Prevention Partnership Program" in 1997. The bill will funnel grants of up to $200,000 to grassroots organizations with experience in violence prevention.How was Barrios able to move this against-the-tide political agenda? The answer seems to be political expertise, timing, and persistence. "We got the governor's attention by hitting up his deputies, had individual young people testify at hearings, and we got individuals and organizations to write letters of support. We were able to gain Republican and Democratic support," says Alejandrez. "Actually, the process blew our minds. All these decisions were being made, and many times we were the only people of color around."Racism, Alive and Well Barrios has won recognition for its policy as well as programmatic success. But have these victories won acceptance in the Santa Cruz community? Associate Director OT replies with a wry grin, "Not exactly." His eyes move to a poster hanging on his wall between two of the Barrios T-shirts. It reads, "Stop Barrios Unidos from Busing Gang Members into Our Neighborhood!"Twenty of the signs had appeared overnight, stapled to telephone poles, buildings, and street signposts in the largely white, East Side Santa Cruz neighborhood where Barrios has just bought over $1 million in property to consolidate their programs into a single location. "We have people painting murals to beautify the place, and rocks are being thrown at them," says Nane.Pointing to the poster, he says, "When someone takes the time to put that poster together, print it, and put it up like they're advertising a concert, that's racism. No matter how many strides we've made or how successful we've been, racism is still alive and well in Santa Cruz."Barrios Unidos can be reached at 313 Front Street, Santa Cruz, CA 95060. Their phone number is 831.457.8208 and they can be e-mailed at: barrios@cruzio.com.Gary Delgado is director of the Applied Research Center and a board member of the Center for Third World Organizing, both in Oakland, CA.

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