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Alfred Lomas arrives at the Pueblo del Rio housing project in South Los Angeles. It is not so much the ex-gang members food program that has drawn the attention of civic leaders, but how he builds a renewed sense of community. |
Alfred Lomas stood at the front of a bus. "This," he bellowed, "is not a bus!"
The driver pulled out of the Dream Center, a church ministry where Lomas directs a mobile food bank. Lomas stared into the anxious faces of congregants and do-gooders, his sunglasses hiding dark, deep-set eyes that have seen more than their share of hurt, much of it of his own making.
"This," he said, "is a vehicle of hope!"
The bus lurched and sighed into South Los Angeles. On Slauson Avenue, once a sturdy spine of industry, they passed empty, tin-walled warehouses and an abandoned rail yard. With every pothole, piles of supplies on the bus threatened to tumble -- bags of oranges, boxes of peanut butter, even dog biscuits.
"These children see terrible things," said Lomas, 45, quieter now. "Let's transform the atmosphere. The goal is love."
Each month, Lomas' crew distributes prayer and 80 tons of free food in the city's urban core. A growing number of civic leaders, including police commanders, are watching. It is not so much Lomas' food program that has drawn their attention, but what he does with his free time: building a renewed sense of community in South L.A.
With gang violence down, city officials are looking to secure lasting change in South L.A., in part through a large injunction targeting six gangs in a 13.7-square-mile area straddling the Harbor Freeway. Critical to the success of that campaign is the work of gang interventionists, who act as liaisons between police and gangs -- "like the social workers in the places no one else will go," said Brian Center, executive director of A Better LA, a nonprofit that combats violence in South L.A. and funds 26 interventionists.
Lomas is emblematic of the possibility and the delicacy of that work.
The city is scrambling to "professionalize" the ranks of interventionists, providing new oversight and training in an effort to separate the credible from the pretenders. It's no simple task.
On one side are police, long wary of interventionists, most of whom have only recently left a life of crime. On the other is Lomas, for years a heavy hitter in the Florencia 13 gang -- one of the gangs targeted by the new injunction -- and a man who still compares some police tactics to martial law. It is, somehow, the start of a beautiful friendship, and it's not clear who is more surprised.
The tide turns again
For 80 years, maybe more, ever since there were gangs in South L.A., there have been gang interventionists -- missionaries, civil rights activists, mediators, mentors. But gangs evolved; protectorates gave way to criminal enterprises, fists gave way to automatic weapons and turf became something worth dying for. Intervention became seen as a quaint notion, unworkable in such a war zone.
In recent years, the tide has turned again. By all accounts, it has become clear that law enforcement suppression is vital but imperfect -- and gang crime in L.A. costs taxpayers and victims an estimated $2 billion each year, according to the Vera Institute of Justice, a nonprofit research group.
So police commanders have come around and now view interventionists' work in quelling rumors, preventing retaliatory attacks and leading gangsters onto a new path as essential to augmenting modern policing.
"People do change," said Capt. Mark Olvera, commander of the LAPD's Newton Division. Asked to gauge the feeling of his officers, he said: "It's a work in progress. But they're buying into it."
And there are already concrete examples of success.
Each year, police brace for April and May, when some gangs celebrate "birthdays," matching a date with the street that gives them their name.
May 2 and 3 -- 5/2 and 5/3 -- were the "birthdays" of the Five Deuce gang, which takes its name from 52nd Street, and Five Trey, which takes its name from 53rd Street. The gangs were planning public celebrations, and there had been a series of shootings in the neighborhood. The tension on some blocks was palpable. It had the makings of a long weekend.
Newton officers delivered something of a preemptive strike, working with interventionists to open a line of communication with the gangs. The weekend was choreographed to keep rivals from confronting each other; police even persuaded one gang to rent a hall for its celebration in order to steer clear of trouble.
The driver pulled out of the Dream Center, a church ministry where Lomas directs a mobile food bank. Lomas stared into the anxious faces of congregants and do-gooders, his sunglasses hiding dark, deep-set eyes that have seen more than their share of hurt, much of it of his own making.
"This," he said, "is a vehicle of hope!"
The bus lurched and sighed into South Los Angeles. On Slauson Avenue, once a sturdy spine of industry, they passed empty, tin-walled warehouses and an abandoned rail yard. With every pothole, piles of supplies on the bus threatened to tumble -- bags of oranges, boxes of peanut butter, even dog biscuits.
"These children see terrible things," said Lomas, 45, quieter now. "Let's transform the atmosphere. The goal is love."
Each month, Lomas' crew distributes prayer and 80 tons of free food in the city's urban core. A growing number of civic leaders, including police commanders, are watching. It is not so much Lomas' food program that has drawn their attention, but what he does with his free time: building a renewed sense of community in South L.A.
With gang violence down, city officials are looking to secure lasting change in South L.A., in part through a large injunction targeting six gangs in a 13.7-square-mile area straddling the Harbor Freeway. Critical to the success of that campaign is the work of gang interventionists, who act as liaisons between police and gangs -- "like the social workers in the places no one else will go," said Brian Center, executive director of A Better LA, a nonprofit that combats violence in South L.A. and funds 26 interventionists.
Lomas is emblematic of the possibility and the delicacy of that work.
The city is scrambling to "professionalize" the ranks of interventionists, providing new oversight and training in an effort to separate the credible from the pretenders. It's no simple task.
On one side are police, long wary of interventionists, most of whom have only recently left a life of crime. On the other is Lomas, for years a heavy hitter in the Florencia 13 gang -- one of the gangs targeted by the new injunction -- and a man who still compares some police tactics to martial law. It is, somehow, the start of a beautiful friendship, and it's not clear who is more surprised.
The tide turns again
For 80 years, maybe more, ever since there were gangs in South L.A., there have been gang interventionists -- missionaries, civil rights activists, mediators, mentors. But gangs evolved; protectorates gave way to criminal enterprises, fists gave way to automatic weapons and turf became something worth dying for. Intervention became seen as a quaint notion, unworkable in such a war zone.
In recent years, the tide has turned again. By all accounts, it has become clear that law enforcement suppression is vital but imperfect -- and gang crime in L.A. costs taxpayers and victims an estimated $2 billion each year, according to the Vera Institute of Justice, a nonprofit research group.
So police commanders have come around and now view interventionists' work in quelling rumors, preventing retaliatory attacks and leading gangsters onto a new path as essential to augmenting modern policing.
"People do change," said Capt. Mark Olvera, commander of the LAPD's Newton Division. Asked to gauge the feeling of his officers, he said: "It's a work in progress. But they're buying into it."
And there are already concrete examples of success.
Each year, police brace for April and May, when some gangs celebrate "birthdays," matching a date with the street that gives them their name.
May 2 and 3 -- 5/2 and 5/3 -- were the "birthdays" of the Five Deuce gang, which takes its name from 52nd Street, and Five Trey, which takes its name from 53rd Street. The gangs were planning public celebrations, and there had been a series of shootings in the neighborhood. The tension on some blocks was palpable. It had the makings of a long weekend.
Newton officers delivered something of a preemptive strike, working with interventionists to open a line of communication with the gangs. The weekend was choreographed to keep rivals from confronting each other; police even persuaded one gang to rent a hall for its celebration in order to steer clear of trouble.
L.A. for less than the price of sunblock. 
