LOS ANGELES: Dwayne Alexander

I spent yesterday on the story of Dwayne Alexander, the counselor at the Los Angeles Job Corps who was stabbed to death Wednesday by one of the students at the center.

I was struck by how his friends, some from years ago, spoke about him, and overwhelmed because of that, as the day went on, by what a sweet and solid guy he must have been in life. They described him as “a gentle soul” and “a very kind spirit,” rarely angry and never a braggart. These would be rare qualities, I suspect, in the world of record label promotion, which is where he spent much of his career. I suspect also that they would have been enormously helpful as a job counselor for youths on the edge.

He seemed also the kind of guy who had a long-term goal — screenwriting and production — that was his guiding compass. No matter what he did, he was headed that way.

But he interrupted it all to go back home to Tulsa to help his mother recover from double knee-replacement surgery a few years back.

“People say the good die young,” R&B singer Millie Jackson told me, “and this was a totally good example of that.”

 

 

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MEXICO: San Pedro’s big mayor

Franc Contreras reports for Al Jazeera on Mauricio Fernandez, mayor of Mexico’s wealthiest town, San Pedro Garza Garcia, near Monterrey, and a larger-than-life guy from one of the country’s elite families.

Fernandez highlights a huge problem facing Mexico that the drug war has made clearer than ever: the weakness of local government and institutions, and thus the inability of local authorities to play any role in the fight against crime.

Fernandez, some say, is using connections to drug cartels to keep crime low.

But the main issue is that local police and criminal justice system in Mexico is simply unarmed, unfunded, often incompetent and hardly a weapon in the fight against narcotics traffickers and criminal gangs.

A different approach to covering the drug war. … Good job, Franc!

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SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA: Dorothy Inghram — the first black teacher in San Bernardino

This is a sweet obit — of the first black teacher in San Bernardino, who took an elementary school job there in 1942.

She later became the first black superintendent of a school district in California, and has a library named for her.

She passed at 106 years of age.

Quite a life lived.

 

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STORYTELLING: Hieroglyphics in prison

A great story in the LA Times today about a prison inmate who taught himself ancient hieroglyphics from his cell in solitary confinement at the state prison in Tehachapi.

He now writes to the Biblical Archaeology Review, arguing the findings of scholars.

 

 

 

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WRITING: The Commandments — What are yours?

What are your writing commandments?

As I prepare to head off to the Tucson Festival of Books tomorrow, I feel like returning to the basics of writing that are always so refreshingly simple.

My colleague Martin Beck passed on writing commandments from Brit George Orwell, which you can read here.

Ad man legend David Ogilvy has these commandments. I particularly like his view that writing is not a God-given ability, but a craft that anyone can learn.

Novelist Henry Miller chimes in with these 11 commandments.

It’s wonderful how similar they all are.

So again I ask, What are your writing commandments?

I hope it won’t sound too presumido to say that any Sam Quinones Commandments would include, in no particular order:

-Read a lot — above all On Writing Well, By William Zinsser, and Calvin Trillin, too (& Bob Baker, my former LAT colleague).

-If your story isn’t working, you need to report more.

-Cut as many words with Latin roots as possible. “Problematize” is a word I once saw somewhere. (Yikes!)

-Remember the difference between “that” and “which”

-Never use the word “ongoing” and be very careful whenever using “process” with an adjective, e.g. “the writing process” (Yikes!)

-Remove adjectives whenever possible. Adverbs, too.

-The ending is at least as important as the beginning.

-Leave the office. Now.

 

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MIGRANTS: Curandero Carlos, Guatemalan Witch Doctor

Yesterday, I met Hermano Carlos, a curandero, or witch doctor, from Guatemala.

One of the great botanicas in all LA, his place on Pico, which is quickly becoming one of my favorite streets in town.

His place is filled with soaps to Keep Hate Away, and aerosol sprays for love, and candles, Santa Muerte, San Simon, Jesus Malverde, and every kind of icon to ward off evil and welcome good luck and happiness. A lot of it’s made in China.

He said he’s been curing people since he was 5, and came here in 1988, fleeing Guatemala’s civil war.

Initially, he had some competition from El Indio Amazonico, a strange fellow who seemed to franchise out his curing shops and had several the last time I looked. But Carlos said those shops seem to be closing, so Hermano Carlos has more business. The recession hasn’t hurt either, as more people have come to him for help finding work.

He had to interrupt our chat to read the cards of a client who happened by. More later.

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STORYTELLING: Tucson Festival of Books

Hey all — I’ll be at the Tucson Festival of Books this weekend, with an event both Saturday and Sunday, both at 11:30 a.m.

Digging in the Dirt: A Discussion of Setting as Character
Panel / Sat 11:30 AM – 12:30 PM
Student Union – Tucson Room

Windows into Their World: Creative Writing with Latino Youth
Nuestras Raíces Workshop
Workshop / Sun 11:30 AM – 12:30 PM
Integrated Learning Center – Room 141

If you’re in Tucson, drop by…..

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LOS ANGELES: Spit Stix and 82-year-old Mama

Check out this great story on Youtube about Spit Stix, former drummer from the LA punk band FEAR, now caring for an 82-year-old woman with dementia that he calls, Mama.

How very punkrock of him!

Love this kind of storytelling. This is how all old punkrockers should end up.

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MIGRANTS: Pizza Hut Tanda

I’ve just begun a story on the large number of Oaxacan business owners you find now in Los Angeles, particularly in Pico-Union, Hollywood and Koreatown.

I remember in the late 1990s coming to LA and not seeing any of this. But Oaxacans have lost a little of their fear of business. So now there are restaurants, markets, beauty salons, bakeries, a hardware store — all mentioning their Oaxaca connection and drawing on the vast Oaxacan population in those areas.

It’s an entire business community that started without anyone walking into a  bank for a loan.

I met Ramiro, who owns a butcher shop and market on Pico.

He told me years ago he worked at Pizza Hut, where all the Mexican employees formed a tanda — an informal savings/loan network, in which each member contributes money each month, then receives a large payout a year or two later. When it came his time to get the payout, he bought a house in Inglewood not because he wanted a house but really because he wanted a garage he could control. In the garage, he started a meat truck business.

That was 10 years ago. Now he’s got three butcher shops/markets.

 

 

 

 

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TELL YOUR TRUE TALE — “Angel” by Michel Stone

This week on my storytelling website, Tell Your True Tale, South Carolina novelist Michel Stone contributes a story of a Mexican immigrant smuggled into the United States, welded into the belly of a truck.

Angel is powerful stuff.

Check out also Michel’s first novel, just released on Hub City Press: The Iguana Tree.

Hope you like it all. If so, please share it.

And remember, TYTT is open to submissions from anyone — the stories have to be true. I don’t pay but I do edit.

 

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STORYTELLING: Lives well spent

Some of the best storytelling in many papers, and certainly in the LA Times, is found in the obituaries.

Today there were two that made for great reading, and left me thinking about what it meant to have a life well spent.

Eleanor Callahan, 95, had been the wife and partner and frequent subject of photographer Harry Callahan.

Dr. Edward Shanbrom, 87, was apparently a tireless researcher on all manner of medical topics, but above all developed a detergent for cleansing blood plasma of viruses, including the HIV.

 

 

 

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SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA: What would Nixon do?

I highly recommend a trip to the Nixon Library in Yorba Linda, which we just visited.

I understand it once existed to spin Nixon’s legacy after his death. But then a new director was appointed with a mandate to make the library a full reflection of Richard Nixon’s career.

So you can learn about his trip to China, but also hear Virgilio Martinez tell how he and Gordon Libby broke into the office of Daniel Ellsberg’s psychiatrist. There’s a display of all the places RMN had microphones so as not to miss a word: chandeliers, lights, telephones, desks in the Oval Office, the Cabinet Room, Camp David — the guy just wired it all up.

There’s a permanent display about Watergate.

You do come away with a feeling for the deep complexity of the man — who signed laws creating the EPA, the National Endowment for Arts  (and Humanities), strengthened the National Institute for Health and National Cancer Institute — and how his own obsessions were both his strength and weakness, leading to his success and eventual demise.

You also come away with a strong impression of how the Republican Party has changed since then. I have trouble imagining the Nixon who signed that legislation being welcome in this Republican Party.

The gift shop is great. Lots of swag with the photo of Nixon and Elvis — I got a mint tin with Nixon and the King and a bottle of sunscreen with Nixon and the King.

There’s also a whole section dedicated to the question, What would Nixon Do? I’m not sure where this comes from, and what the point is, but I now have a bumper sticker, two coffee mugs, and a magnet and a keychain (WWND?), so that at the crucial moments of my life I can remember to let this question guide my actions. I passed on the WWND? t-shirts.

I also now have two shot glasses on which are printed, apparently without irony, the following quote from his farewell speech to WH staff:

“Only if you have been in the deepest valley can you ever know how magnificent it is to be on the highest mountain.”

A little later in the speech, he said the words that defined his Shakespearean presidency: “Always remember, others may hate you, but those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them, and then you destroy yourself.”

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SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA: James Q. Wilson dies

Criminologist James Wilson has died of leukemia at the age of 80, the LA Times reports.

He was the one who came up with the “broken window theory” of policing, which helped reduce crime rates by focusing on small things, such as discarded sofas, graffiti, and broken windows, as key to attacking more serious crime. The implementation of this theory of policing over time made life better in working-class neighborhoods across the country.

He taught at UCLA and Pepperdine. Quite an interesting life’s work.

 

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PRISON: Tattooed heads of Protective Custody

I had a meeting with a parolee yesterday. I’ll omit his name, but he’s been locked up for 10 years, and was convicted in a fairly high profile gang killing.

We talked about a lot of stuff. But one thing I find very interesting is the major change in the prison system that’s been underway for a decade now: gang-associated inmates have been dropping out of gangs in droves and entering protective custody.

Used to be, protective custody was only for child molesters, ex-cops, witnesses and old men. The entire population amounted to a few hundred guys statewide. But in the last decade, gang members, from all the races, including Latinos both northern and southern, have been dropping out in the thousands. (I wrote about this a few years ago. Since then, the SNY phenomenon has continued to expand.)

Prison administrators have had to open up entire yards –800-1000 guys each — not just small wings of prisons, to house all the new PC inmates.

These are called Sensitive Needs Yards — SNYs. Most prisons in the state now have them; one prison, Mule Creek, is entirely PC. The growth population is gang members, as you can see if you ever visit them. (The heads of these guys all have well-known gangs tattooed on them: Avenues, White Fence, Florencia, etc etc. The heads make good reading. If you ever get a visit, check them out.)

Many of these guys are just older — late 30s and early 40s — and tired of the gang rat race. Many, too, are fleeing what problems they got into in “active” prison yards (for active gang members), where they may owe someone money for dope or gambling, or they’ve been greenlighted for some infraction that is real or (often) imagined by prison gang shotcallers.

This is a huge cultural change for CA’s prisons. I’ve heard stories of guys, years ago, who would rather die that “lock it up” in PC, as it was known. One fellow, greenlighted by the Mexican Mafia, walked an active yard and had the words tattooed on his chest, “I’m Still Here” and lasted a good stretch before they threw him off a tier (that’s the story I heard, anyway). Those days are gone.

Within SNYs now, though, there are new gangs sprouting — the 2-5s, the Independent Riders.

An SNY is of course a step down for a longtime gang member like this parolee, who views it all with a combination of both amusement and disdain, having spent years gang-banging on the street in what he considers to be the gang major leagues. (I can’t really go into why he ended up on an SNY.)

The SNY gangs are “starting because a lot of dudes haven’t never been nowhere,” he said, by which he meant, they haven’t been in any mainline prison population, but go right to an SNY as soon as they enter prison.

Worse, coming from a gang world where race lines were strictly obeyed and apartheid conditions rule at times, the parolee felt the new gangs “initiate anybody – whites, blacks, northerners.” (The parolee is a southerner — a southern California Latino gang member, a Sureno in prison parlance, who’ve had a decades-long war with northern California Latino gang members, Nortenos.) “You got a lot of guys that can’t respect that. I didn’t care for it at all.”

With so many guys on SNYs and active yards always on lockdown, one effect is that prison officials have taken to giving the jobs to SNY inmates, he said, who aren’t locked down so often and thus can leave their cells and do the jobs.

Tattoos, meanwhile, are all the rage on SNYs, by guys, according to the parolee, who want to look the part. “A lot of them never really hit a mainline [prison yard]. [But] now they want to portray that image on the SNY yards. Now they want to feel what they couldn’t on the outside.”

What’s more, he said, the yards now lack the order and control that prison gangs imposed. Snitching is rampant, so is gambling.

“There’s no structure. So many people are doing what they want. Somebody’s going to whack you, and nobody’s going to say anything about it. You don’t have to answer to nobody.”

Just a view from another part of the world.

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CALIFORNIA: Tough times for Stocktone

I’m sorry to see my old favorite town of Stockton going through rough financial times and moving toward declaring bankruptcy.

Things seemed to be turning around for Stockton a few years ago, when I wrote of what seemed to be its reemergence.

I was the crime reporter for the Stockton Record from 1988-92, years that were its worst, criminally speaking. Homicide records were set each year I was there. The town was awash in crack and Crips — both of which came up from LA — and Nortenos and Surenos, who were mostly homegrown. There was a schoolyard massacre in 1989 and a whole lot more.

Still, I loved the place, though not always for reasons having to do with quality of life. It was my post-graduate journalism education.

It was also a place that was daily dealing with the reality of “multi-culturalism” — a term then in vogue in universities, but often used by people who had few connections to any place where it was playing out. Stockton was a town where you’d find four kids in a car, each from a different race. It was a place where you’d hear people order a cup of coffee by saying, “I’d like a cup of coffee” and not whatever it is they were saying up in Seattle, where I moved for my next job.

Some favorite Stockton crime reporter memories:

-Interviewing a Crip named T-Tone, who asked me if I was going to portray the Crips “in a positive light.”

-Interviewing Jack Johnson, a heroin addict, in jail for burglarizing my house.

-Writing about every murder that took place in the county in 1989, finding photos for most of them, and putting it all out in a special two-part report (thanks to my editor, Bruce Spence).

-Getting a Christmas card from Gus, a member of the Nuestra Familia prison gang, in jail and accused of killing a witness in a crime, for which he was first convicted and later absolved. (At his sentencing, the judge gave him 80 years or something, and Gus said, “Why don’t you just shoot me right here?”) In the card he wrote, if memory serves, “Mr. Quinones, another year has passed and the people who killed Angel are still free to roam the streets. Merry Christmas.”

-Having a knife pulled on me by a heroin dealer at that park just north of Charter Way, just south of downtown.

-Corresponding with Danny Ray Horning, who’d dismembered a guy, then went on the lam, robbing banks through the Pacific Northwest before heading to Arizona, where he was caught. I wrote his story off those letters. Then, 20 years ago this summer, he escaped prison in Arizona and took law enforcement on a wild chase for weeks through the area around the Grand Canyon. He’s on Death Row,  last I heard.

-Learning that everyone in a county jail has a story they want to tell — and they’ll tell it quicker if you bring them cigarettes (now, sadly, not allowed).

-Dale Wagner. I learned to read gang graffiti from Dale, a gang detective who probably forgot more stuff about gangs than most others knew. Dale was a great cop — a fluent Spanish speaker. He’d been in Vietnam as a Marine, then gone into policing and was sent to Berkeley to help quell the student riots of th3 1960s, where he bopped some heads. Somehow, me, with my earring and Berkeley student background, and Dale, with his Berkeley history, got along famously.

He told me once that a gang member was shot and dying on an emergency room table. Yet the kid wouldn’t tell the doctors or investigators who shot him. (This was when Latino street gangs were famous statewide for their unwillingness to talk to cops.) Dale shows up and the guy’s going in and out of consciousness. Dale leans over him and says, Chuy, you’re dying, buddy.  Tell me who did it. The kid realizes what’s happening, rises up on the table in his last act on this earth, and takes Dale by the shirt and gives him a name. “Get him, Wagner!” he says, and lies back down and dies. (I think I have that story right.)

Anyway, these are a few of the reasons I love Stockton — perhaps not what the Chamber of Commerce would like to hear, but stories that I’ll never forget.

 

 

 

 

 

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