|
The
police investigation found no connection between the Feb.
15 shooting and the car accident that occurred at the same
time.
African
Americans make up less than
2 percent of Oregon's population. In 1997
14 percent of all Oregon homicide victims were African-American.
David
Walker returned to the scene of the crime and found a bullet
hole where he'd been standing the night before. (photo by
Martin Thiel )
According
to the Multnomah County Sheriff's Office, on Feb. 5 there
were 2,071 people in local jails. Of those, 573 were African
Americans.
According
to the U.S. Department
of Justice, African Americans make up approximately 50 percent
of the U.S. correctional facility population, while constituting
less than 15 percent
of the nation's
population.
In 1997,
Walker's cousin Sean was leaving an L.A. nightclub when
he saw his friend Chris "Notorious BIG" Wallace gunned down.
More
than 1 in 5 black men will be locked up before the age of
30. By contrast, only 1 in 70 of their white peers face
a similar fate.
David
Walker is the publisher of BadAzz MoFo, a pop culture
magazine specializing "blaxploitation" films. Issue #5 is
available at Reading Frenzy, Powell's, 4th Avenue News,
Tower Books and Borders, or can seen on his Web site: www.
badazzmofo.com.
|
|
It was almost 2:30 in the morning when I walked out of the
Spearhead show at Berbati's Pan on Feb. 15. It was past my
bedtime, and I just wanted to get home and get some sleep.
Outside the club, on the northeast corner of Southwest Ankeny
Street and 3rd Avenue, a small group of people was standing
around watching a drama unfold one block south. Two groups
of young men were having a little beef, a silly altercation
that had spilled out from Bar 71 and consisted mostly of people
calling each other "motherfucker." The two groups were on
opposite sides of 3rd Avenue, throwing insults back and forth
and posturing with that macho bullshit that usually makes
me laugh.
Years ago I wouldn't have though twice about throwing down
with guys like these, and even with my bad back, I thought,
I could take at least three of these punks myself. Still,
the developing static gave me reason to exercise a little
caution, and since I was going to have to pass either one
of these groups of flexing little men to get to my car,
I decided to chill on the corner, lest I accidentally get
wet in an ensuing pissing contest.
After a few minutes, it all seemed to have blown over,
and I began walking down the short block of 3rd Avenue,
between Ankeny and Ash, when I heard "it." Some people might
have mistaken it for firecrackers, multiple car backfires,
or low-flying ducks, but I knew it was gunfire, and I knew
it was coming from somewhere very close. The number of shots
told me it was an automatic, which meant more rounds and
more chances of being hit by a stray bullet. I wasn't really
scared, not yet anyway, but I knew I had to get the hell
out of there. This was not my time, this was not my place,
and having seen my fair share of action films, I knew exactly
what needed to be done--run like hell. I turned and ran,
rounding the corner, heading down Ankeny, that little alley-like
street that connects 3rd and 2nd.
Feeling like Richard Roundtree in Shaft's Big Score,
but probably looking like Keenan Ivory Wayans in I'm
Gonna Git You Sucka, I started hauling ass as fast as
I could. Not being the most physically fit guy in the world,
I found that my chest was pounding and my breathing labored;
I tried to remain focused and not give in to the fear that
would keep me from thinking clearly. I knew if I could get
to 2nd Avenue, I would be out of the line of fire. But then
I heard the squeal of oncoming tires heading north on 2nd
Avenue, coming toward the intersection that I was trying
to make it to. What was going on? Maybe cops responding
to the shots being fired?
Like a scene from one of those FOX specials, a car racing
along 2nd Avenue jumped the curb. It was a red car, but
I was too busy moving out of the way to notice the make
and model as it slammed into a shopping cart, a street lamp,
and then a parked car. If this had been a movie, the car
would have exploded. This new development wasn't part of
my well-thought-out save-your-ass plan, and now I was starting
to get freaked out. Who the hell was in the car? The shooters?
Was this a drive-by? Damn! I jumped into the gutter, trying
to hide between two parked cars. Were those more shots I
heard? What if whoever wrecked the car was somehow involved
with the fools throwing shots over on 3rd Avenue? My spot
in the gutter wasn't safe. It wouldn't work in a game of
hide-and-seek, and it sure as hell wasn't going to work
in a firefight. I knew I had to get somewhere, anywhere,
safer than where I was.
By now I was scared. The ability to think rationally was
quickly dissipating, and the all too real fear that I might
actually crap my pants was setting in. Picking myself up,
fighting to contain my bowels, I ran back to Berbati's.
The door was locked. I pounded on it, trying to yell, "Open
the motherfuckin' door!", but the only audible sound to
come from my mouth was a weak "eep." Someone opened the
door for me; I rushed inside to find a huddle of scared
people on the floor. I was panting, out of breath, and suddenly
I thought of Danny Glover in those Lethal Weapon
movies: "I'm too old for this shit."
That's how it all went down. Or at least that's how it
went down from my point of view. The entire incident took
less time than it takes to read this description. It wasn't
nearly as dramatic as the countless movies I've seen and
written about over the years. There was no musical score
to add excitement to my little adventure. And most disappointing
of all, I didn't get the girl in the end. In fact there
was no girl to get. What a rip-off!
I woke up later that morning, surprisingly refreshed considering
what I had been through less than 10 hours earlier. Sure,
there were now bullet holes in the window of Old Town Music,
where I had been standing when the shooting started; but
in my 31 years, I had survived far worse than the gunplay
I had accidentally walked into.
Statistically, I have outlived my life expectancy by something
like seven years. FBI reports say that the homicide rate
for black men between the ages of 15 and 24 is four times
the rate for white men in the same age group. In clearer
terms, 1 in 29 African-American men will be murdered, while
1 in 186 white men will be murdered. It just ain't safe
to be a black man in America.
Like most African-American men, I have been painfully aware
that the odds are stacked against me for years now. I've
watched my peers die in alarming numbers, and even outlived
my father by nearly 10 years. The elder David Walker died
of a drug overdose in 1970, seven months before my second
birthday. My father's death left me with few male role models
other than my Uncle Tommy, and he wasn't much of a role
model.
Growing up in a blue-collar southern Connecticut neighborhood
populated by working-class blacks, Puerto Ricans and Italians,
I distinctly remember the older brothers and sisters of
my friends asking me, "Aren't you related to Tommy Walker?"
It wasn't until later that I came to understand that they
knew who I was because my uncle was their drug dealer. Tommy
sold dope to rich white kids from affluent towns like Westport
and New Canaan and poor black kids from Norwalk and Stamford.
If you bought dope in Fairfield County in the 1970s, you
probably bought it from my uncle.
It was later still that I began to wonder how many people
died from the dope he peddled. It was Tommy who introduced
my father to the heroin that took his life. With men like
this setting an example, it amazes me that I've made it
this far.
The first time I ever saw someone murdered was in 1985,
while spending the summer with my family in Connecticut.
I was leaving a hip-hop concert in Stamford with my cousin
Sean and his girlfriend. Lynne had driven her parents' car
to the concert, and we were stuck in a traffic jam trying
to get out of the parking lot when things began to pop off.
It happened fast. Someone snatched a gold chain, there was
a huge fight, and two people wound up getting stabbed.
The first person to get stabbed was Lee Trusty, an old
childhood friend of mine. He had been trying to fight his
way through the crowd and get to his car when someone shoved
a knife into his back, barely missing his spine. Days later
I found out Lee was fine. Years later, he became a police
officer.
The second kid to get stabbed that night wasn't as lucky.
Terry Hinton, a friend of my cousin, took a blade in the
heart. We watched as Terry's hysterical girlfriend held
him while blood flowed out of his chest. It was like a scene
from Boyz n the Hood or South Central, only
films like that had yet to be made, and so there was nothing
to compare the moment to. Rap's "Stop the Violence" movement,
which culminated in the long-forgotten record Self-Destruction,
was still several years away, and mainstream America had
yet to grasp the concept of black-on-black violence. And
yet the problem existed, and here we were caught in the
middle of it. Sean fought to get out of the car's front
passenger seat to help his dying friend; from the back seat
I fought to keep him in the car.
Meanwhile, Terry's killer had jumped into a van that was
stuck in traffic right behind our car. Dozens of people
rushed the van, rocking it, threatening to tip it over.
Terry was a popular kid in Stamford's hip-hop scene, and
people in the crowd were looking for revenge. That's when
someone inside the van brandished a gun, and everyone outside
dropped to the ground. I tried to duck down in the back
seat, to avoid taking lead to the skull, while simultaneously
fighting to keep Sean in the car. Looking out the rear window
of Lynne's parents' car, I was afraid like never before.
As the seconds seemed to drag on for an eternity, I honestly
thought I would die that night, in a four-door family sedan.
My biggest concern was that I was dying a virgin.
That night was the first time I feared for my life. It
was the first time I had seen someone die. Someone who looked
like me. Someone who was the same age as me. Terry died
over the gold chain he wore around his neck. I learned a
valuable lesson that night: Life may be precious, but it's
also cheap.
I was 16. The harsh realities of being black in America
crashed over me like a tidal wave, forcing me to grow up
and understand a world in which African Americans make up
less than 15 percent of the nation's population, yet account
for nearly half of all murder victims. A world in which,
should I become one of those statistics, the odds of my
killer being another black man are somewhere in the neighborhood
of 90 percent.
In 1985, the epidemic of violence that has long plagued
African-American communities was still several years away
from making it into the mainstream white media. Tales of
black kids killing other black kids for a pair of shoes
or a gold chain were commonplace, only white people didn't
know about it. This was before rap groups like NWA told
the rest of the country what was going on in the inner city.
But for me and my peers, we already knew the deal. It was
how things were. Still, Portland seemed safer than L.A.
and New York.
My high-school years were spent at Madison High in Northeast
Portland. Despite the ethnic diversity that made up the
student body, there was never anyone holding hands in the
halls singing "We are the World." The word that best describes
the environment back then is "tribalism." Rather than claiming
allegiance to one social circle or ethnic group, I chose
to float around. I did, however, hang out with the Curtis
brothers, whom I had known since I had moved to Portland
in 1980. Legend has it that Jimmy and Robert Curtis were
among the first Crips in the city of Portland. Even in the
early to mid-'80s they were notorious thugs.
During my senior year I had gotten into a beef with some
guy, and I asked Jimmy to watch my back as I kicked this
kid's ass. Jimmy had had static with this same guy, and
he suggested we just kill him. "What are you talking about?"
I asked him, as he showed me the revolver he carried in
his gym bag. "Have you lost your mind?" I asked. "We can't
kill nobody. Put that shit away."
That's when Jimmy pulled the gun on me. "You don't tell
me what to do, nigger," he said. "How about if I shoot you,
motherfucker?" This was the first time I'd ever had a gun
pointed directly at me, and it was my friend with his finger
on the trigger. There's nothing quite like staring down
the barrel of a gun. A million different kinds of fear take
hold of your brain and shoot out through your body like
bolts of lightning. Time seems to slow down, and for what
seems like an eternity, you cease to be you, and you become
an outside observer in your own life, because there is no
way this could be happening to you.
I tried not to look at the gun, but it's hard not to notice
something like that. I remember thinking about Brick, a
neighbor's German shepherd that loved to bark at me and
my friends when I was a kid. The more scared you got, the
more Brick would bark. Eventually I learned not to let the
dog see my fear, no matter how scared I really was. And
that's what I did with Jimmy. I was scared, but I wasn't
going to let Jimmy Curtis see my fear, although I was convinced
he could see my heart beating its way out of my chest. I
tried my hardest to be cool, like Charles Bronson in Death
Wish. "What the hell are you doing?" I wanted to yell
at him. "We're friends, you asshole! How are you going to
go and pull a gun me?" But instead I calmly warned Jimmy
that the next time he pulled a gun on me he'd better use
it, because I didn't play around like that. I went into
the bathroom and had a heart attack. At that moment, I decided
I should only hang out with white guys--they didn't do shit
like this.
Later that year I graduated and moved to New Jersey, where
I began attending a private art college. The Kubert School
of Graphic Art, in Dover, was my attempt at making a better
life for myself. A few weeks into the first semester, my
cousin Sean called. Tyrone Wilson had been arrested and
was going to prison for felony murder. Tyrone was a childhood
friend from the same working-class Connecticut neighborhood
I grew up in. We had been friends since Mrs. Church's second-grade
class, where we were the only two black kids, and we'd remained
friends until I moved to Portland.
Tyrone struggled academically, and like nearly a third
of African Americans, he didn't finish high school. By the
time he was 18 years old, he had fathered a kid, gotten
a job changing tires, and eventually moved to dealing and
using drugs. Along with another kid from the neighborhood,
Tyrone killed a woman while trying to rob her. I remember
seeing newspaper pictures of him being led to court. Chained,
his head hanging low, Tyrone Wilson looked like some type
of modern-day slave.
While the doors of prison were slamming on my old friend,
the doors of higher education were opening for me. After
a semester at art school, I returned to Portland in 1987
and began attending Mount Hood Community College. Not exactly
a Shangri-La of ethnic diversity, Mount Hood nonetheless
is where I began to develop my understanding of who I was
as a black man, and the contributions my culture had made
to the world. I began reading the works of Langston Hughes,
James Baldwin and LeRoi Jones. My mind was opened to a world,
a history and a sense of self-pride that had never even
been touched upon in public school. The more I learned about
the importance of my culture, the more important I myself
began to feel.
All my life there were numbers and statistics that told
me who I was and what I was supposed to be. There were even
graphs and charts that told me how and when I was supposed
to die, and who was supposed to kill me. But somehow I had
managed to evolve beyond being a statistic. In college I
began the journey of becoming more than a percentile in
an annual Department of Justice report.
And I wasn't alone: My cousin Sean was on the same journey,
and every day we met more black people like us. Black people
who were smarter and more educated than the latest reports
said. Black people who refused to go down without a fight.
For the next five years I bounced back and forth between
Portland and New York City. These were tough years to be
a young African American in either place. By early 1987
the gangs had moved into Portland. Everyone I knew was talking
about them, but nobody seemed to know what they were all
about. What was a Crip? What was a Blood? Getting jacked
over a gold chain or a bomber jacket was one thing, but
getting shot for wearing the wrong color in the wrong neighborhood?
It all sounded like urban myths. And then in 1987 Delbert
Tompkins was shot to death at Grant High School.
My friends who were there that day swear it was a gang-related
murder. The rules of engagement had changed. A good solid
ass-kicking was no longer enough to prove a point; now people
had to die. For a while, Mayor Bud Clark insisted we didn't
have a gang problem. But in August 1988, Ray Ray Winston
became Portland's first drive-by casualty. Even white Portlanders
took notice of Winston's murder, which sent a message loud
and clear that gangs had found a home in the City of Roses.
Beyond the very real threat of black-on-black violence,
there were other causes for concern. In Portland, the 1988
murder of Mulugeta Seraw by skinheads reminded people that
racism was still a deadly threat in America. Less than a
year later, a gang of young white men gunned down Yusef
Hawkins in New York. Neither of my homes--Portland and New
York--seemed safe. The 1991 beating of Rodney King by the
LAPD was just icing on the cake. The fear of falling victim
to black-on-black violence weighed in as heavily as the
fear of facing a white lynch mob or baton-wielding cops.
More than three decades had passed since young Emmett Till
had been beaten and lynched in Mississippi for allegedly
whistling at a white woman, and America did not seem all
that different--or any safer.
As African-American bodies continued to pile up in cities
across America, I learned to push the fear of my own violent
death to the back of my mind. We are afraid of things we
don't understand. Having been exposed all my life to the
realities of inner-city life--poverty, inferior education,
substance abuse--I understand the hopelessness these conditions
can breed. I have seen first-hand the economic and educational
realities that allow the crack trade to maintain a stranglehold
on black communities. There will never be a valid excuse
for the senseless violence that threatens to destroy black
people, but there are always reasons. Those reasons tend
to be about economics.
In the 15 years since I watched Terry Hinton die outside
a hip-hop show, my travels have taken me to the worst parts
of Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, Detroit, Washington,
D.C., and even Bridgeport, Conn. (the town that invented
car-jacking), where I have tried not to give in to being
afraid. Occasionally, the fear makes itself known, like
the dull ache of an arthritic knee, but I refuse to let
it keep me from moving forward with my life. In comparison
with other cities in this country, Portland is relatively
safe. I laugh when people refer to Portland's 'hood. Inner
Northeast and North Portland have given way to gentrification,
making this city's 'hood one of the few in America with
Starbucks.
It seems strange that the sense of calm that has settled
into my life would be shattered by a young man from the
suburbs. Several days after the Feb. 15 shooting, 22-year-old
Joaquim Vasquez of Aloha was arraigned on 10 charges, including
attempted assault, reckless endangerment, unlawful discharge
of a weapon and unlawful possession of a weapon. The bitter
irony of that night is that while I've contemplated the
reality of going down in a blaze of bullets, I never thought
it would be quite like what almost happened. I can almost
understand being killed in the streets of North Portland,
the accidental victim in a gang-related shooting. But on
Southwest 3rd, between Ankeny and Ash, without another black
person in the vicinity to let the police speculate over
whether it was a gang hit or not? The thought of surviving
31 years as a black man in America, only to be randomly
taken out by a stray bullet fired by some guy from the suburbs,
fills me with rage.
Some people may consider me a hypocrite for glorifying
film violence in my own publication, BadAzz MoFo,
while simultaneously condemning real-life violence. The
truth is I love an entertaining film with explosions, shootouts
and car chases, and I'm willing to live with being labeled
a hypocrite, because I know the difference between what
I see on the screen and what happens in the real world.
You can turn off the VCR, and the violent worlds of Natural
Born Killers and Menace II Society will go away.
The problems our society faces, whether in the suburbs or
the inner city, are more complex and cannot be resolved
by pressing a "stop" button. The fact that I love the gunplay
in a John Woo film does not mean I want to be caught up
in the real-life equivalent.
There are no easy answers. Every day I wake up is another
day I face certain facts; as a black man I have never been
one of the favorite children of this nation. There are still
people who will choose to judge me because of the color
of my skin, without ever knowing me. Statistically I have
a higher chance of being killed or going to prison than
my white friends.
I live with the knowledge that I've already beaten the
odds. It may sound like some syrupy Hollywood philosophy,
the kind I would laugh at if I heard it in a film, but every
morning I wake up is another day I've avoided becoming a
statistic. It is a day that I can spend working to make
myself the best person I can be, meeting new people and
educating those around me. Every day I survive gives me
another chance to try to make the world a better place.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Willamette Week | originally
published March 1,
2000
|
