92701 Youths Show Their Spirit

It was the battle of the young idealists versus the small businessman. He wanted permission to sell beer and wine in his Mexican-style market. They wanted to save their community from the evils of alcoholism.

On his side, he had his wife and a lawyer, but otherwise he stood alone in defense of his business on Bristol Street. His opponents had strength in numbers and a cheerleading energy out of proportion to this small-time tussle over a single store on a Santa Ana street corner.

He was fighting for sales; they were fighting for their city.

On Monday, the antagonists squared off for a showdown before the city’s Planning Commission. On the agenda: the appeal by the owner of La Loma Market, seeking to overturn a previous denial of the city permit needed to sell beer and wine in his grocery store.

It was an oddly suspenseful moment for this low-level government proceeding, normally ignored by the public and the press. In the audience, about 50 people--mothers, fathers, teenagers and children--waited patiently through arcane zoning discussions.

When the time came to make their case, they said little about the dry and technical code questions that were the substance of the vote at hand. Instead, they spoke passionately about how much they cared for their community, how they’ve seen their neighbors and loved ones destroyed by drinking, how they were determined to stop the scourge.

“We are a new generation,” said Maria de Jesus Chinas, 17, one of the red-shirted young advocates who spoke in halting but effective English. “We want to start a new future for us. . . . You can help us to reduce [liquor sales] . . . to have a better world.”

To me, victory for the community seemed assured. Not because of the public protest, but because big guns also were aimed against the grocer, Wannes “John” Loy Abajian. City planners said La Loma’s plan to sell beer and wine would violate an ordinance designed to restrict liquor sales in certain areas. The police also said nyet because crime was too high in the area.

Too many liquor outlets concentrated in one area increases the possibility of loitering, litter and graffiti, city officials say. More than 10 years ago, the city adopted an ordinance to block new outlets within 1,000 feet of a school, a church, a park or an existing liquor retailer. La Loma would be in violation because it’s near two schools and an existing liquor store.

The vote against the market was unanimous. No surprise.

Yet, outside the council chambers, the crusading residents cheered as if David had just slain Goliath with a slingshot. They hugged and chanted porras, those singsong Spanish-language cheers heard in Mexico for everything from soccer games to papal visits.

“Oh, my God, the spirits were with us!” exclaimed Priscilla Monserrate-Sanders, one of the organizers, as she hugged a teenager from her group. “I thought we were losing this one.”

The young people lingered for a while in the dark parking lot behind City Hall, chatting and laughing in the glow of their victory. I couldn’t help but admire their togetherness, their commitment and their self-confidence.

But where did they come from? And how did they get organized?

The answers took me back a couple of years to a news story I had almost forgotten. It was about Latino Health Access, a nonprofit group with an unusual strategy to improve public health in Orange County’s low-income, immigrant community.

The agency had targeted a single ZIP Code with multiple problems: Santa Ana 92701.

To start, the agency took a random survey in the central-city area and found that 62% of residents had no health insurance. Other data showed more than half the families live in poverty; more than two-thirds of the mothers have less than a high school education.

Then the organizers called a community meeting. But instead of talking about the problems, they asked people to talk about their skills and abilities.

“We didn’t come to 92701 to rescue anyone,” said America Bracho, the group’s hard-driving leader. “We want you to tell us what are your talents.”

“Does it help that I know how to make pinatas?” one woman asked.

“Ma’m, I know a lot about soccer,” said one gentleman. “Does that help?”

“My English is pretty good,” said another.

The most encouraging finding: Three-quarters of those surveyed said they were able and willing to do something to improve their community.

“We were not talking about this needy, hopeless, helpless community,” Bracho told me this week. “We were talking about this magnificent pool of assets.”

With a planning grant from the California Wellness Foundation, the agency hired promotoras de salud, or health outreach workers. They turned apartment buildings into community centers; they used living rooms for classes in diabetes management and used patios to teach CPR.

They also started recruiting young people to be groomed as leaders. The youngsters also went through an assessment of their talents and troubles. And they developed a plan for creating Wellness Village 92701, an ambitious attempt to strengthen the physical, social and mental health of families.

Latino Health Access recently received an additional $1 million from the foundation to implement the village plan. Ten young people will be hired, said Bracho, “and their job is to change their community.”

That’s how it came to be that so many young people turned out to protest over a liquor license.

It was the kids who identified alcohol as a serious threat to their families and neighbors. They said they were sick of seeing drunks on the street and witnessing fights at home.

To document the problem, they had videotaped a belligerent drunk being bounced from a downtown bar in broad daylight with families watching. They also took photos of markets that sold more liquor than food.

“This has been youth-driven from day one,” said Monserrate-Sanders, 26, who holds a bachelor’s degree in criminology, law and society from UCI and is working toward a master’s in public health at Cal State Long Beach.

Monserrate-Sanders says the project has convinced her that young people need to be given a greater voice in their communities at all levels. The world needs to tap their energy.

“They work, they don’t talk,” she said. “They don’t plan for hours. They’re doers.”

Abajian, the grocer who immigrated from Lebanon, has just one question: Why did they pick on him?

Abajian confronted three of his young adversaries outside his store a week ago. He took their pictures and called the police. The youths say they were just taking a survey of residents on the sidewalk and they felt intimidated and offended by the grocer and his wife.

The kids left before police arrived.

“In reality, probably, I don’t blame them because they want to reduce the alcohol in Santa Ana,” said the gray-haired Abajian, who also owns a flower shop on Bristol. “That’s fine, but I’m not asking to open a liquor store.”

The grocer says it’s unfair for the city to restrict his sales while a planned Lucky supermarket will be allowed to sell liquor right across the street. Stores over 20,000 square feet are exempt from the city’s “over-concentration” standards.

Abajian wouldn’t say if he would take his case further.

For now, he feels betrayed. He showed me an array of ads he bought in local school publications to help support Santa Ana students. He’s also sponsoring a soccer team.

But he may quit making such donations in the future because he feels the young people of Santa Ana turned on him.

“My heart hurts,” he says.

And mine is torn.

I’m thrilled to see the youth so committed to change. But I was once a retailer, selling records in East L.A. The pressure to survive can be intense for the small-business owner. In the grocer’s shoes, I would be furious if the city restricted my liquor sales but allowed a big competitor next door to sell booze freely.

The city says an exception is made for supermarkets because liquor is only supplemental to their main business. But Abajian says that would be true in his store, too.

“It isn’t fair,” concedes Monserrate-Sanders. “But our issue is what is fair for the community.”

I guess change doesn’t come without growing pains.

Agustin Gurza’s column appears Tuesday and Saturday. Readers can reach Gurza at (714) 966-7712 or agustin.gurza@latimes.com.