Praying for Peace--and a Future

“Viva la Virgen de Guadalupe!” said the padre. “Viva!” responded the crowd. The mariachis had emerged from under a sheet of plastic--where they had taken refuge from the rain--and performed a song in honor of the patron saint of Mexico on this, her special day.

As someone held an umbrella above his head, Adalberto Jeronimo Garcia, his gold-and-white robes slightly damp, put the best priestly spin on the storm: In the Southland, rain is a blessing. And, he added, coming out in this weather was a small sacrifice for everyone to make for Our Lady.

The priest stood on a circular stage in the middle of Toberman Street between Pico and Venice boulevards--in the troubled and often violent heart of the Latino community southwest of downtown. There, in the shadow of an alley mural dedicated to neighborhood youths who have been gunned down in gang strife, he spoke of peace and love, of striving to become “una familia.”

Dec. 12, the feast day of the Virgin of Guadalupe, is one day of the year when “there’s a kind of truce,” said Gloria Farias. Members of rival gangs come to the street Mass and “everybody respects everybody’s children and everybody’s parents.”

Belief in Our Lady, who has been revered by the poor people of Mexico as the Virgin Mary since she appeared to a humble Indian in the 16th century, is “what keeps Pico-Union going,” Farias said. “Our kids are getting killed and there’s no jobs, but most of us believe she’ll give us help if we pray to her.”

This was the 10th observance of the feast day sponsored by the nonprofit Pico-Union Housing Corp., which Farias heads, and, she acknowledged, “things have gotten worse” in that decade. She talks of a community where 11-year-olds have guns but no library; where gangs such as the Orphans, the Drifters, the Harpies and the M-S co-opt the young; where drive-by shootings make people prisoners in their own homes; where parents are in denial until a daughter turns up pregnant or crack cocaine is found in a kid’s pocket.

Still, Farias said, “We believe in Guadalupe. We think that maybe if we pray to her, the streets will be clean and kids will be able to play there. We believe that she will take care of us and everything will be OK. Even hard-core gang members coming out of jail believe she’s going to help and everything’s going to be beautiful. If you start losing hope, you’re really in trouble.”

Farias, 41, grew up in Pico-Union and knows that it’s going to take more than prayer to turn things around. Her organization provides not only low- and moderate-income housing, but a free computer training center and learn-while-you-work youth programs.

On this feast day, troubles are set aside for an hour or two. And a little rain wasn’t going to keep the faithful away. The padre joked that he was going to deliver a half-hour lecture. He didn’t, but he did send the flock away with an admonition to stop fighting among themselves and to start fighting for a future.

Lights twinkled on a thatched altar in which a statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe was banked with flowers. The candles grouped before the altar were quickly doused by the rain. Some stopped to cross themselves before getting in the long line for hot tamales--2,000 tamales made by community volunteers and paid for by yard sales.

Martha Malle, 30, and Luis Frausto, 23, both of whom grew up in Pico-Union and have since moved away, are among those who return each year for this celebration.

“It’s important to me,” Malle explained, “because [the virgin] can intervene for me, give me a little extra help.” Frausto joked that he came “for the free tamales.” But the real reason, he said, is because “Everybody’s carrying guns, but this is one day when, hopefully, everybody can get together.”

Frausto was one of the spray-can artists who painted the landmark wall mural depicting the life of Christ and bearing the names of more than 40 young people of Pico-Union who met violent deaths. Once, he was a member of the Burlington Locals gang and did time for armed robbery. Today, he is assistant manager of a Mid-Wilshire Copymat, a husband and a father.

Frausto glanced toward the mural. “Four of my friends are up there,” he said. “The oldest one was 17.”

Discussing Hate and the Solutions

The statistics posted at the podium told the story: Hate crimes reported in Los Angeles County in 1994 were up more than 32% from 1993, according to the county Human Relations Commission.

Gay bashing was the focus of the symposium, but panelists made it clear that anyone perceived as different can become a victim. People of color. White people. People with accents. People who worship a different god.

As Deputy Dist. Atty. Ellen Aragon put it, Los Angeles is, by definition, diverse, which means, “We’re all potential targets.” Aragon was among speakers at the first Hate Crimes Symposium put together by Officer Lisa Phillips, the Los Angeles Police Department’s first openly gay liaison to the gay community, in cooperation with Hollywood High School.

Other panelists told horror stories--of gay men attacked with bats at a sidewalk cafe in West Hollywood, of a gay man who hid in his apartment for a week threatening suicide after being roughed up by skinheads.

The message from those on the panel: Hate crimes are serious and insidious and should be reported promptly. “It’s the only way we can break the back of hate crime--especially oppression by gangs,” Aragon said.

“If a cross is burned on a black family’s lawn, it affects the entire African American community,” Phillips said, and if a gay person is beaten up, “the whole community feels it.”

Phillips plans more educational seminars, focusing on domestic violence and other issues.

And, she was quick to say, there’s still some educating to be done within the LAPD. “We’re teaching some old dogs new tricks, but some of the new dogs are very lively, so that’s good.”

Questions from the floor reflected concerns of the largely Latino audience. If an illegal immigrant reports a hate crime, can he get into trouble? Immigration status “is of no concern to us,” Phillips said. “You need not fear that.”

If someone calls you a bad name, is that a hate crime? someone asked. “If somebody says, ‘You faggot, you honkie,’ and they don’t do anything to you,” it’s no crime, Aragon said--though it might be cause for civil action. If they say, “ ‘You faggot, I’m going to kill you!’ ” that’s different.

The audience was sparse until some Hollywood High night classes were sent into the auditorium. The turnout was a disappointment, but not a surprise, to Det. Dave Winkler of the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Station, a panelist. “When you’ve got the system up here talking about the system,” he said, credibility suffers. “Nobody trusts the system, and I don’t blame them.”

Phillips was “very disappointed that more gay people didn’t come. I think our community is a little bit in denial about how bad the problem is.” One yardstick: An 80% increase in hate crimes against lesbians from 1993 to 1994 in the county, according to the district attorney’s office. “As we become more vocal and more visible, we threaten people,” she said.

* This weekly column chronicles the people and small moments that define life in Southern California. Reader suggestions are welcome.