Chapter 38 When He Took Out His Palette

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon and the mere silhouette and rhythm of the day suggested that a nap was in order. But, apparently, none would be coming, because Gabe (that mop haired eleven year old of mine), decided it was time to pack up some stuff and drive downtown to the Rialto, for something of a new experience -- a ritual in the making; one that I actually hope endures.

But, before I get to said ritual, my only request was that, on the way, we listen to some Springsteen, because, as you may imagine, it’s of utmost importance that I pass this Boss appreciation onto another generation.

So, he agreed and off we went. But of all the songs available from this particular artist, Gabe decided he wanted to listen to 41 shots (American Skin). And so we did. Over and over and over again. And meaning no disrespect to the subject of the song, I swear he asked me 41 questions about it, one right after another.

If you didn’t know, 41 shots is a haunting allusion to a 1999 tragedy involving four NY City police officers who shot an African immigrant outside of his apartment in the Bronx. They fired 41 shots, killing him of course (although only 19 shots actually hit him). He was reaching for his wallet, but the police thought it was a gun, and he fit the profile of someone they were after, and, well, enough said. It was a painful time for the police department, the City itself and race relations in general.

It was an even more painful time for Kadiatou Diallo, who lost her son. His name was Amadou, and he was only 23.

After hearing the facts of the case, Gabe was righteously mad at the cops, mad at the world and mad about the number of times they shot Amadou. So he ranted and raved, just like he does with other perceived injustices in his life. I wanted him to have a measured perspective, though, and so we talked about how each person involved must have felt; and I couldn't have scripted it any better because this led to a deep discussion about race and skin color and prejudice, not just in New York but all over the world. And I wondered to myself right then and there if his world view was being shaped before my very eyes. Sometimes that happens, even when you’re eleven.

Maybe he’ll make music someday about discrimination and the downtrodden and the underdog, just like Bruce. And that would be more than alright with me.

But, I digress.

The conversation lasted nearly all the way to the Rialto, and while Gabe fumed, I took in the subtle changes evolving with each passing mile, as expansive courts and boulevards slowly shrunk into city streets and alleyways; where despite narrow passageways, a colorful berth opened big and wide with the acceptance of varying pigments of skin. South Calhoun Street, in particular, is so diverse at times that you could easily imagine a certain Someone has placed you in some type of incubator for a crash course in cross cultural awareness.

You see, Fort Wayne just so happens to be a resettlement city for international refugees, and so, each year, hundreds of people from distant places and continents find their way here to make a home. They come from Burma, Vietnam, Laos, Columbia, Peru and various African and European nations. They receive $400 per person from the U.S. Government, and some initial assistance for their first six months here, and after that, they’re on their own. Many don’t speak English and are even pre-literate in their native tongue. Some, from tribal cultures, well, they’ve quite literally been dropped off into a city like mine that might as well be located on another planet. They’re confused by city streets, and neon signs, and traffic and thermostats and technology; not to mention the fact that they’re still stinging from the loss of family members and suffering from the cause of their refugee status, whether it was war or famine or ethnic cleansing.

And so, if I’ve never told you before, well, here’s the sidebar scoop: The Reclamation Project, the story of which is told throughout the pages and chapters that precede this, simply exists to offer friendship, life skills training, employment, and ultimately home ownership for our new international neighbors. Many of these dear people have started to rebuild their life right around the Rialto, and so we keep working on that crazy old porn theater, different colors and creeds side by side; to not only elevate attention to their needs today, but to hopefully house all of these efforts within its walls tomorrow.

By the way, please don’t think me noble for starting this organization because, quite frankly I stumbled backassward into it while attempting to find Jesus, or more appropriately, while I was I perfecting and promoting the ritual that was my faith.

But, getting back to the ritual at hand, the very one in the making, you should know that the timing of our discussion regarding 41 shots and race relations and such seemed a bit odd, or maybe serendipitous, when held up against the reason for our trip to the Rialto. It’s just that, well, Gabe got a pellet gun for Christmas, a double action semi-automatic Crossman Repeat Air CO2 rifled steel pistol, to be exact; a rite of passage for boys his age. And living in Suburbia with its associations and its rules has essentially kept him from actually shooting it anywhere.

So, three months later, we were off to the broken down movie house to shoot his new gun, inside, amidst the debris and the rubble and the scaffolding and such. We set up cans and milk cartons everywhere and put on our goggles and turned on the construction lights and had a big old time of target practice, right in the same spot where fifty years ago, I suppose kids of all ages watched John Wayne shoot his trusty gun.

But despite this scene, there are just some songs, especially when you hear them a gazillion times, that you can’t get out of your head. With the repetitious and lingering words of 41 shots still pounding, I watched as Gabe unloaded a few dozen pellets into helpless targets, the irony and the gravity of it all not lost on me for a moment. And yes, I wondered what or who he was shooting at in his imagination, which maybe wasn’t so healthy on the heels of our conversation. I don't know, maybe it was.

Afterwards, we went up on the roof. It was unseasonably warm on that day and so we kneeled for a long time without speaking, behind the old brick parapet walls, and we looked down together at the streets below. Walking south on Pontiac were two African refugees, from Chad, both of whom have helped regularly with work days at the Rialto. We waved at them, Gabe and I, and they waved back with beautiful smiles of hope and recognition that lit up the corner.

Just across the street, an Asian family was unloading supplies to take into their market.

Just south, down Calhoun one block, an ambulance was taking an Hispanic man away from a Mexican restaurant, his loved ones looking on with concern.

The city was alive and vibrant, its rhythm rich and its beat resounding with culture and diversity, right here on the corner of Calhoun and Pontiac in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Gabe and I were fortunate enough to be looking down upon a microcosm -- a bird's eye view of maybe what God intended when He took out His palette and His brush and His paints, with each color offering unique tints and shades and bold splashes of radiancy -- on their own, perhaps, or mixing, complimenting one another. From what I know of the color of my skin, and the God who created me, this whitish, peachy, ruddy exterior of my body was always meant to accent another hue; not to dominate it, but instead to bleed and saturate into it, to overlap and bring texture and tone and, yes, beauty in the very mosaic harmony that the Artist intended.

That’s quite simply why the call of this corner never fails to reach me way out on the corner where I live, as it beckons me from the uniformity of my safe and soft lair; it’s nearly palpable at times -- haunting even -- like the mythological Siren’s voices. But, by comparison, what invites me and what awaits me here is always good and promising and true.

~~~

So, in this wandering chapter, much like the bleeding and the saturating of colors, Springsteen songs have overlapped into righteous anger; and rites of passage have evolved into warm smiles from African immigrants. I'm not sure that I'm left with any solid answers because really, the racial injustice of this globe we walk on is almost too much to absorb, to take in, to grasp. The wounds seem too gaping to ever heal, and if one gash should miraculously mend, it seems another is ripped wide open. Different colors and different customs have rendered us broken, seemingly until the end.

The only thing I know to do is to keep at it, little by little. To somehow make this town a more accepting place; to bust out of silhouettes and rhythms and begin enduring rituals that give birth to healthy discussions, new experiences, side by side immersion in different cultures and maybe, just maybe, appreciations which can hopefully be passed on to another generation.

41 shots

41 shots

41 shots

41 shots

41 shots

41 shots

41 shots

41 shots....and we'll take that ride

'cross this bloody river to the other side

41 shots...

cut through the night

You're kneeling over his body in the vestibule

Praying for his life

Is it a gun, is it a knife

Is it a wallet, this is your life

It ain't no secret It ain't no secret

No secret my friend

You can get killed just for living

In your American skin

41 shots

Lena gets her son ready for school

She says "on these streets, Charles

You've got to understand the rules

If an officer stops you

Promise you'll always be polite,

that you'll never ever run away

Promise Mama you'll keep your hands in sight"

Is it a gun, is it a knife

Is it a wallet, this is your life

It ain't no secret It ain't no secret

No secret my friend

You can get killed just for living

In your American skin

Is it a gun, is it a knife

Is it in your heart, is it in your eyes

It ain't no secret

41 shots...

and we'll take that ride

'Cross this bloody river

To the other side

41 shots... got my boots caked in this mud

We're baptized in these waters

and in each other's blood

Is it a gun, is it a knife

Is it a wallet, this is your life

It ain't no secret It ain't no secret

No secret my friend

You can get killed just for living

In your American skin

~~ Bruce Springsteen