MLK Tribute: Watts Venice and Santa Monica

As a tribute to Martin Luther King Jr. I want to re-post a true story about how the pains of being the baby brother of the infamous Wolf Pack were mitigated each week by the Angel from Watts. Also, it is important to those of us from Venice and Santa Monica to know that right in our stomping ground... right  from our city thousands of miles from Selma and right from our very own Saint Monica high school we have a genuine but non-nondescript hero of the Civil Rights Movement... to be proud of (by clicking on the link to the right you can find that story here)...

Circled in red in the picture above is my Aunt Mary with Martin Luther King Jr. in the foreground of the "Selma March"

Now about the large, black lady from Watts who made her way to Harding ave in Venice several times a week for a couple decades; little did I know - she was God's gift to me - my angel. To be the youngest boy of a slightly demented pack of older brothers was a tough job - but someone had to do it.  It was my job to get Jalapenos rubbed all over my body, to be shoved in a hamper of death, to have my temples squeezed and knocked out. Who else would volunteer to be be electrocuted or buried in a pit or left behind at Salton Sea  - NOBODY in right mind.  But someone had to submit the the torture of sadistic older brothers left to themselves without adult supervision.   My mom had checked out, locked herself in her bedroom and our house was like an asylum run by the inmates where all sibling torture ran downhill and fell upon my plate... I had inherited this mantle from the brother before me and he in turn inherited this from the brother above him and so forth and so on.

The only problem was that by the time I came along there was a lot more of them to pick on me and they had perfected all means of inventive torture - never thought of before by the like of the Lennons, Nargies, Tripps, Blasers or anyone from Santa Monica.

The year was 1966 and a lot was going on in the world... besides the Beatles, long hair, hippies, hot rods and Vietnam War protest, there were much bigger stakes taking place in our country at this time. It was the ongoing tension about Race and equality and civil rights. After James Meredith was shot, Stockley Carmichael reacted and said,  "The three terms that black people in this country should learn at birth. One is 'White Supremacy,' one is 'New York Colonialism,' and one is 'Black Power.'"

No matter what white people say in denial... blacks were looked down upon as second class citizens. To a small degree (as much as a 5th grader could wrap his little mind around -  being the tormented baby brother) I understood their frustration. The pent-up need for equality and justice and the frustration of wanting to have a voice had become a ticking time-bomb.

In the seed bed of that context every Friday - an old, black woman took the bus from Watts to my house - on Harding Ave in Venice. Irene was large and squishy and beautiful. She spoke with a southern accent that was so thick, it was as though she was talking a different language. I couldn't quite make out everything she was saying... I couldn't make out most of what she was saying - yet despite my inability to understand her words, I knew she spoke a language that was not filled with hatred, malice or have any scorn... I did not have to flinch every time she rose her hand or fear that around every corner was some kind of diabolical trap. She was different...nice...maybe it was love I thought - the thing I longed for the word I wanted someone to say - TO ME! She didn't look down on me as though I was a second class citizen like my brothers did and she accepted me just the way I was - mosquito bites and all.

Irene came to de-clutter the chaotic mess in our house every Friday. By Friday morning it was always stinky mismatched socks that I had borrowed from the floor of my brother's room. I loved Fridays. I couldn't wait for the bell to ring at Saint Marks school - because I had an appointment with my squishy black angel.

When the bell went off at 2:50 in Sister Godzilla's classroom I darted for door...there was no time for idle chatter. I zigged and zagged in between the likes of Terry and Marilyn and Andrea and Theresa and "Ghering the Great" and Richard and Roberta.  I race home in those smelly mismatched socks. Poochie by beloved beagle laid smack dab in the middle of the warm asphalt and cheerfully wagged her tail when she saw me rounding the corner as I gave an abbreviated salute to the Blessed Virgin Mary in the Lennon Sister's front window.

If I hurried, he could beat everyone home. There would be:
No Tony

No Karl

No Bob

No Kris

No Pinky

No Kurt

No Kleghorn

No Chewy

No Erick

No Charlie

No Four Eyes

No Queen of the World

No Karin and no Mrs. D.                 I could have Irene all to himself.

Irene, had heroically and miraculously washed mountains of laundry...cleared one set of stairs, raked the living room and entry of its debris. she dug through millions of years of strata that had collected on the Formica surface of the kitchen table since last week and parted the red sea of Evening Outlook - the Catholic Tiding and the National Geographic magazines that had become an accumulated mountain since the last time she was here. 

The flag was still hoisted earlier this morning, reminding me to be on lookout for the rattlesnake that had escaped last night) and the instant I burst through the front door the foul-mouthed Mynah bird began cussing like a drunken sailor. I shook my finger at the bird and told it to shut up...I didn't have time for it's vulgar language.. This was FRIDAY!  

Tuning out the despicable creature I stretched my neck in the direction of the stairs and listened for the singing.

Ears trained like radar,I had heard it up on the third floor.  I could hear the sweet melody of  "Swing Low" It was one of Irene's favorites. "Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home."  and it had become was one of my favorite songs. 

Rounding the third flight of stairs I could hear my beautiful Irene joyfully singing, “Well, I looked over Jordan and what did I see, coming for to carry me home? A band of angels coming after me, coming for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot.” 

Feeling like a bird set free from its cage I bellowed, "I got-a wings, you got-a wings. All O' God's chillun got-a wings." I sang trying to overpower her - there'd be none of that. When I rounded the corner with my voice cracking, Irene dropped her broom and opened her arms like a mother bird welcoming a chick back to her nest. In I flew. Her arms smothered me like the protecting wings of that mother bird. I was safe. It was Friday and for 20 minutes everything was all right in the world as I made contact with the elusive concept of what I thought might be love.  

She talked! I listened - though I couldn't understand a word she said, I laughed when she laughed at the end of her sentences - hoping my timing was right. 

Irene grabbed my hands... we danced like the Prince and Princess at a Royal Ball and she said..."You got-a wings child...you got-wings."   

Yep! For some reason - I got Irene and she got me. The mynah bird squawked out profanities in the entry as we heard footsteps of the Wolf Pack returning home. I couldn't let them catch me with Irene so I jumped out the third floor window, slid down the galvanized plumbing pipe and  began to work on the fort out back with Tommy.  She finished her work...and took the bus back to Watts. TGIF!
   

In the profound words of Dr. Seuss, in his deep theological dissertation "Horton Hears a Who," just because people are different or smaller than you, remember what Horton learned, "A person is a person no matter how small."  and if I be so brazen as to add - no matter their color, their size of shape...filled with mosquito bites or mismatch socks -  As Irene taught me, we are all God's children and all equally deserving of equality, love, fairness and the occasional tender touch of kindness. 

Part 7 The TRAGIC TALE: The Dramatic Conclusion

I guess it's time to try to end this story... the story that Marylin and family had read in the newspaper... a story I didn't want anyone to hear on that first day of fifth grade.  It is a story that still brings with it - an emotional response of the little boy left behind at Salton Sea. Healed? Yes... absolutely, but whenever we suffer like this (as with physical wounds) scar tissue remains.

It is possible that those scars not only serve to remind us of the things that are important... family, forgiveness, love, care, protection...but those scars can also remind us how God can use ugly things to beautifully shape us.  I am reminded of that by a response I received to The TRAGIC STORY part 5...

This is from a person very near and dear to me... one of those to whom my amazing mother had opened our hearts and our home.  If there is a picture that can be sadder than that dirty little boy left behind by his family at Salton Sea... it is the picture of baby twins abandoned on the beach in Marina Del Rey.

THIS IS WHAT SHE WRITES:  "I wish I was there to love that little boy. There is something amazing here Mark. Much of what you have so eloquently put into words mimic some of my own experiences. We have something in common as a result - God used the hurts and built in us a compassion that could only come from Him. We both have chosen to tap into this professionally and personally - you as a pastor, me as a nurse. My kids will always know how much I love them - as I know yours do too. We both are drawn to those who are hurting - to love them. I believe your hurts fueled the unconditional love you showed to me and David when we became part of your family. We now have an unbreakable, God given bond forever. His plan at work..."

Perhaps it was this searing sense of loneliness that burned in me a driving desire for connection to God. Who knows, as Lisa above has just reminded me, maybe it is this funny, tragic and ugly story that has beautifully shaped me for ministry that desires nothing more than to let people knew they are loved by a passionate God who relentlessly pursues them.

The Conclusion:

The officer stepped towards the station wagon with only the faint, red-glow of the neon signs from the aging Pink Pump dive that was several hundred yards away.  With jaw set and a telling red glow, the officer approached as the apprehensive crew silently held their collective breath. Mrs. D hid in the tiny toilet stall and the other kids in the trailer had been cleverly buried in camping gear. Mr. D's hand was perched and ready to strike.The tribe had taken the oath and nobody was about to give away the fact that bodies were stashed illegally in the trailer.

In an effort to control his temper, the Highway Patrol officer began the conversation in low tones. "Evening, Mr. Dahlin" he said.

"What's seems to be the problem, officer?"  Asked Mr. D apprehensively.  This had already upset the officer of the law - Abandoning young children is the problem he thought... What kind of parents would do such a thing...dropping them off one by one at the most desolate locations on the planet?

Not giving his cards away, he calmly replied. "Uh, Mr. Dahlin, is this your family traveling with you?"

"Why, yes it is your honor...officer!"

The officer looked into the window and tried to count the number quickly... He counted 11.  But was informed that the number was between 15 and 17...  Mr. Dahlin was obviously lying.

"Mr. Dahlin, um...it would be safe to say that all of your children are all here, correct?" The trap was set!

Mr. D gripped the back of the seat, showing the tense white knuckles, to let the boys know what was at stake... (the threat of "THE HAND")."Um...boys is everyone here?" he turned and hollered rhetorically over his shoulder.

"Yes, dad... we're all here" came a tentative reply from the back seat.
"Why, yes officer, we're all here!" Dad said nervously.

The officer's blood boiled and his heart was still racing from the pumping adrenaline of his high-speed pursuit.  "Mr. Dahlin"  He said, raising his voice, exposing the anger he has been suppressing. Syllable by sharp syllable, the officer continued louder, "Mr. Dahlin, are all of your kids in the car with you?"

"Is everybody back there?" Dad asked, squeezing the seat so hard, with his threatening fingers, that he almost poked holes in the upholstery .

The boys did a fake head count - making sure to count some of the sticky bodies twice... "Yes Dad, we're all here..."

Even before dad could repeat the answer, the officer yelled, "MR. DAHLIN, DO. YOU. HAVE. A. SON. NAMED. MARK?"

Flustered, Dad turned and ask the mob in the backseat, "Do I have a son named Mark?" This was not the right thing to do at that moment.

Now, sure that this was a conspiracy being covered up by the entire clan, the officer grabbed his billy-club and asked Mr D. to step out of the car. As dad slowly grabbed the door handle...Karl in back yelled up front "Uh, dad...I think we might have left Mark back at Salton Sea."

"YOU! THINK!" Screamed the officer, spraying spit on everyone one in the front of the car... not once, but twice, "YOU THINK!" He yelled, showering everyone and everything within a ten foot radius.

I have to break before continuing with a bit of commentary. Obviously, those in front thought I was in the back and those in back thought that I was up front  - strategically placed by Wolf Pack for THE HAND!

Okay, this makes sense (I mean, after all, the mother and step-father of Jesus did the same thing leaving Him behind so I guess this is a natural mistake that can happen to the best of us. Just ask my daughter about the hockey rink incident of 2001).

Anyway, this wasn't rocket science! Think about it...
               1) An officer pulls you over and he knows you by name.
               2) He asks if your entire family is in the car with you.
               3) He asks you to take a head count to see if anyone is missing.
               4) He asks if you have a son named Mark.
               5) He asks if your son Mark is in the car.

Okay, so you thought he was secretly hiding away in the trailer with Mrs D and the overflow, but come on, by number 2, any normal person probably should have had a clue!  (The operative word in that last sentence was "normal" but then again any normal person doesn't take 62 people to Salton sea - illegally hiding half in that abominable thing we called a trailer.)

Normal or Not...the next thing my dad said was not the thing you say to an irate officer of the law.  Mind you, my dad was both frugal and practical. In his mind he figured:

         1) Why would a intelligent highway patrol officer go through all this trouble of chasing him down and  not bring the kid!
         2) Had he brought the kid - this whole mess would have been over and done with.
         3) What was easier, more practical and economical?
         4) Now Mr. D would have to spend all of this time unhooking the trailer, leaving it in Indio, making a    recon run all the back to Salton Sea and then back again.
      5) Think of the time...think of the money...(in his mind he was thinking "What's wrong with this police officer?")

Computing and thinking and weighing in on all the consequences is the reason my dad blurted out the way he did...  Dad said, "You mean, he's back at Salton Sea?"

Nostrils flared.. sucking in a gallon of air before responding... "Yes he is Mr. Dahlin!" said the officer with pursed lips and tight neck... doing all he could to hold himself back from choking the ring leader of this child abandonment campaign.

MR. D, "DO YOU MEAN I HAVE TO GO BACK AND GET HIM?" This made perfect sense to everyone in the car, but only served to infuriated the officer to the degree that it took great restraint not to pull out his billy club and clobber my father...
Hitting the dirt with his billy-club, the officer called for backup so they might restrain him from wielding his wooden baton  instrument on the top of a certain man's head.

Back at the diner, I had no idea what became of the the highway patrol's efforts to catch my family. I had to wait and see if I was to be an indentured servant, end up in an orphanage, or if my dad and the Wolf Pack would return for me.

In my pathetic Zombie-like state I stared at my little cheeseburger...my blessing - manna from heaven and gulped...and tried, but still could not swallow even a sesame seed. (insert cheeseburger song here). 

It was late - nearly the middle of the night and I had been holding on to my Popsicle stick as though it represented holding onto my family... hoping against hope!

Then the door at the far end of diner burst open with dad and a small reconnaissance crew. People in the restaurant cheered. My dad and the four older brothers took one look at me and ran in my direction.

This is the point in the story where everything goes into slow motion... (If I had a background track for this part of the story, it would be the Chariots of Fire music where all of those guys are running on the beach in slow motion)...

Hum if you know what I'm talking about...  "du, du, du, du, du, du....du, du, du, du, du"
Pushing dad aside, the brothers ran towards me with outstretched arms... I was loved and I was missed. (more of the sound track)... they wanted me! I had not been erased. Slow motion they ran...it was all about me! I was loved!

I smiled and set my Popsicle stick on the table... my chest stopped heaving and my throat cleared enough for me to take a bite of that beautiful cheeseburger. I had earned it, and now it was time.

With their arms outreached and happy faces, they ran to me as I stood up on the seat of that blue vinyl seat and opened my arms to receive their smothering hugs.

In slow motion, the boys raced each other and dived on the table fighting for my cheeseburger.

They wolfed it down along with the fries and watery malt...  (I found a fry that had fallen onto the seat and ate it)... and my angel had disappeared.

One of the men in the restaurant said, "If it was me, and I was their father, I would have left all of them here to die a slow death"

There is no place like home! I made it back to Venice and we lived happily ever after?!?

Until a week later, when I joined the cunning Wolf Pack in a game of hide-N-seek!