Tattoos on the Heart by Gregory Boyle

Author:Gregory Boyle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Free Press
Published: 2010-10-06T04:00:00+00:00

5

Slow Work

David had decided to change. Sixteen years old, back in school for the first time “in the longest” and working part-time for me at Homeboy, David liked living in his own skin again—or perhaps for the first time. He enjoyed being as smart as he was discovering himself to be.

One day he lands in my office and seems to want to try his hand at small talk.

“You know,” he says, “I ran into a man who attended one of your talks recently.”

I give a lot of talks, and David has accompanied me several times.

“Really,” I say, “that’s nice.”

“Yep,” he says, “he found your talk … rather monotonous.”

“Gosh,” I say, with some dismay, “really? He did?”

“Weeellll, actually,” David says, “that didn’t happen. But I just need practice using bigger words.”

I suggest that he practice on somebody else.

* * *

In 12-step recovery programs they often say, “It takes what it takes.” This is true enough when it comes to change. The light-bulb appears and it brightens. Who can explain how or when? We can’t do this for each other. David just decided.

After Mass at Central Juvenile Hall in Los Angeles, I spot a kid named Omar, seventeen years old, whom I had known for some years. I actually never knew him “on the outs”—only in a variety of detention facilities like the halls or camps or in a placement. He never seemed to be out very long before he’d find himself swept up, yet again, in gangbanging and life on the streets.

He gesticulates wildly at me, as he is being led back to his unit. “Come see me.” He mouths his unit, “KL.”

I locate Omar in the dayroom of Unit KL. He knows the drill. He quickly sweeps up two plastic chairs, whose backs are carved with gang graffiti, and carries them away from the others, landing near the windows, out of earshot. He tells me he’ll be leaving on Thursday, and I can’t help but think I will be bumping into him yet again in one of these county-controlled facilities. After a half hour, I eye the clock on the wall and tell Omar, “Gotta go, dog.”

“Why so fast, G?” he asks. I stand.

“I have an anniversary Mass at the cemetery for a homie I buried a year ago. So, gotta go.”

Omar stays seated and is uncharacteristically pensive.

“Hey, G,” he says. “Can I ask ya a question?”

“Sure, mijo,” I say, “Anything.”

“How many homies have you buried … you know, killed because of gangbanging?

“Seventy-five, son.” (This was some years ago. If he asked today, it would be more than twice that number.)

“Damn, G, seventy-five?” He shakes his head in disbelief, his voice a bare hush now. “I mean, damn … when’s it gonna end?”

I reach down to Omar and go to shake his hand. We connect and I pull him to his feet. I hold his hand with both of mine and zero in on his eyes.

“Mijo, it will end,” I say, “the minute … you decide.”

The moistening of his eyes surprises me.

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