Gangs and Violence

In Vickery, there are always problems. The interesting thing, though, is that the problems tend to isolate themselves, coming at me as individual issues one at a time, rather than all come at once. For example, last summer, every weekend there was a medical emergency for people without insurance, so I had to find a means of dealing with that. Soon after, we started having lots of pregnancies with parents who didn’t know how to apply for WIC or get assistance for their newborns, so I had to learn and teach how to do that. Soon after, we had families express they didn’t have enough money for food, and their food stamps ran out and they didn’t know how to reapply, so I had to learn and teach how to do that. Last month, every day I was contacted daily by the boys’ teachers (I'm taking on the role of 'parent') about their poor grades and study habits, so I started an after-school homework initiative with my kids (the first problem I actually had prior training and experience in) to deal with that. This month, it’s kids (and adults) being targeted by gangs and violence, and this month, I find myself again unaware and ignorant as to what to do to combat it.

It all started when I got an email from a friend who teaches middle school in Richardson, Texas. She forwarded me a chain of emails going around about Burmese students in Richardson being targeted and beaten up on a daily basis after school. My friend asked me if I’d heard anything about this in Vickery, or if I had any advice. Prior to receiving this email, my middle school boys (all Bhutanese-Nepali who come to the house every morning for breakfast, prayer, and then I take them to school on my way to work) had verbalized that there are bullies at school, so we made it a daily routine to pray for protection from bullies. That said, I’d never heard about anything more than that, especially not violence-related.

The very next day, Thursday, when my “breakfast crew” (the 4 boys who come every morning) came over before school, one of my boys, *GP, was a bit frantic and told me that yesterday he was walking from our apartment complex to the apartments across the street. While walking, a group of African and black American kids circled around him and asked him where he went to school. He answered, and they repeated the question 2 other times, both of which he answered again. As they got closer to him with each question, one boy, an African, came up and punched him in the head. He ran from the boys and made it to his friend’s apartment safe, but shaken.

When *GP told me this, I was, of course, furious and desperate. I asked the kids if this had happened before and they started telling me floods of stories of being bullied (physically) before/after school by other middle school kids and middle school gangs. They shared that it’s always black or Hispanic gangs targeting the Nepali or Burmese kids. The anger (we’ll call it “holy discontentment”) I felt all day (and into the following week) was like anger I don’t know I’ve ever felt before. Since I first involved myself in these kids lives and was welcomed into their hearts and trust circles, I really have taken on a maternal role (while they call me “big sister”/Didi, they often talk about how I’m like their "American mother") and the “Momma Bear” inside of me came out to its full capacity.

I have to be honest: this is not something I have experience in. While I by no means grew up at the Ritz, I certainly didn’t grow up in the inner-city, and never dealt with racial targeting, gangs, etc. When I moved to Vickery, I moved in knowing there are gangs in our neighborhood, many of whom are big-name gangs in Dallas, but for the 7 months I’ve lived here, I’ve never encountered any issues with them.

As naïve as I was, I was more infuriated and ready to tackle these little monsters with my bare hands, if necessary. After dropping the kids off to school, I immediately began my morning expedition of finding out everything I could on gangs, violence, and how to prevent such things from happening and protect kids from this nightmare. I called everyone from the Dallas City Police Department, to the Dallas Gang Unit, to my local “Crime Watch,” to local YMCAs, etc. in an attempt to get answers. None came. I asked for an officer to come talk to my kids, I asked for even a handout on how to keep safe in the inner-city, I asked for a website to be directed to, free self-defense classes for my kids to take. “We don’t offer services like that,” was the response from everyone.

The next day, Friday, while still working to find answers, I learned that two Nepali-Bhutanese families were targeted in their homes on Thursday when a group of blacks/Hispanics in the neighborhood threw rocks at their windows and shattered the glass.

Yesterday (Sunday – all of this has been in the past 5 days), I went to visit my Burmese family. Their son, *JD, is a middle school student at the same school as my Nepali-Bhutanese boys. When I got to the Burmese home, his family brought out a police ticket invoice and started telling me how JD was beaten up and had to go to the hospital a few days ago. The anger, frustration, desperation again rose up within me as they explained that JD, when he was walking home from school, was walking with his friend (on a very public, busy street) and had his MP3 player on. Without any indication, a group of Hispanic kids ran up, punched him in the back of his head, knocked him to the ground, started kicking him in the side, stole his MP3 player and ran away (while they held back and threatened JD’s friend, who is also Burmese). JD, not knowing what to do, ran back to school and told his teacher, who, fortunately, called the police. Aside from that, their teachers/the school cannot do anything about this since it’s not happening on school grounds.

In the midst of all this, I’ve been trying to figure out what to do to combat this issue: sit in on a city counsel meeting? Go knock on these little punks’ doors and talk to their parents? Threaten the schools or the police departments? Front the million dollars it would take to enroll all of my kids in karate?

Sunday night, at about 5:30 pm, after finally calming down about hearing JD was beaten, Esther, Rachael and I had 7 of our Nepali-Bhutanese middle school boys over for a Christmas party (it was a blast! That will be for a new blog post in and of itself – a much happier one, at that!). While waiting for the second half of our 7 boys to show up, suddenly one of them, *GD, came bursting into the door panting and said they were being “chased.” When he calmed down enough to talk, he said they (4 middle schools boys and one of their sisters, who is in 5th grade) were walking from the bus stop in front of our apartment complex (again, on a busy, very high-traffic street) and were followed by a group of 3 black men. The men started intimidating them as they got closer, so the kids started running, only to have the 3 men chase after them. Fortunately, the kids were close to relatives homes so they all dispersed and ran into different apartments and were safe.

After going to the various apartments, collecting the kids, and gathering each of their stories, I called the police, outraged, insisting they send someone to the house immediately. More than an hour later, two officers (who looked very taken aback as I opened the door, and later admitted I didn’t fit the normal ‘mold’ of the neighborhood) stepped in. I explained what was happening, and was told I could put in a request for additional officers/patrol in the neighborhood (which I will do immediately this afternoon), but otherwise just have to deal with the fact that my kids are easy targets. They gave us this advice: stay on busy streets, travel in groups. Both of which my kids already do.

Last night, at about 10 pm, after our amazing Christmas party (!!), I escorted each of the kids home. I admit I made a ridiculous, stupid (!!) mistake; because we had too many kids for my small 4-passenger car, rather than shuttle them in separate runs, I had us all walk 3 of the kids in our apartment complex (who live in the buildings right beside mine), with the plan of driving the last 4 home. While walking the last four back to my car, we suddenly found ourselves in the company of 4 other kids: 1 African, 1 black American, and 2 Mexican kids. I felt them sizing us up, lurking closer to us, and immediately my instincts kicked into gear and said there was trouble.

Before I go much further, I have a confession in regards to my own stupidity: this mistake that I made last night, walking in my parking lot at night, is one I’ve made quite a few times (but never with any trouble, and never have I felt unsafe doing so); whether walking to my car, escorting a neighbor or a neighbor kid home, running over to a friend’s house quickly, etc. That said, I've made this stupid mistake many times because I've always, in spite of what I know, felt "safe" in my neighborhood, and never had any problems acting as such.

But last night was different, and I knew it (and I've learned from it). I said a quick prayer, and instantly knew I needed to act. I put on my Iowan-charm, laid the accent thick, looked straight at the boys and said “Well hi, boys! What are you doing out this late at night?” They stopped, startled, and sized us up again in quiet surprise. Finally, one boy, the ring leader (a Liberian refugee, I later learned) walked up very close to GP, sized him up, and then answered, looking everywhere but at me, “roaming.”

I acted like I didn’t notice his intimidation factor. I leaned over and forced eye contact with him, smiled, then played it even sweeter. “Well, dear boys, you know this isn’t a safe neighborhood. You boys need to be careful out here! Where do y’all live?” They answered, a bit reluctant, and then I again played the “innocent, curious adult” role, trying to take the upper hand, asking them where they’re from and where their parents were, sweet as I could be. All the while, they had their shoulders back and “attack” stance up, staring down my boys. As I started to walk away, leading my boys with me, words came to my mouth before I had a time to process or think through what I was saying, “well, dears, tonight is too late, but if you boys like hot chocolate, my house is a haven for hot coco and y’all are always welcome to stop by during the day!”

Immediately, things changed. “Really?!” Their voices perked up, and suddenly, these 4 intimidators became what they’re meant to be -- kids. “We love hot coco, miss! Can we really come get hot coco at your place?” Suddenly, they acted as buddies. They loosened up not only with me, but also with my boys. They turned friendly, actually made eye contact, and thanked me for talking to them. They left us then, echoing back for us to be safe, too.

I quickly shuffled my kids back to my apartment. When we got inside, GP started shaking and explained that the Liberian was the one who punched him on Thursday.

I don’t know what all this means, or how any of this is going to look in the future. I do know we need help, we need prayers, and action needs to be taken immediately. Every time things like this happen all at once – whether its families going hungry and in need of food stamps, medical emergencies without insurance, babies being born into poverty, or academic failure without parental assistance – God has used bombarding me with a particular issue in Vickery as a means of getting me to respond. This one is one I’m a bit overwhelmed with, and not at all sure what he wants me to do with (although, I admit, every other issue I was confronted with, I was also 'a bit overwhelmed, and not at all sure what he wanted me to do,' either, and he's always provided faithful and shown the path and action I need to take).

So, all this to say, prayers are requested, big time. Prayers for the safety of our Burmese and Bhutanese-Nepali kids and families (a few of our Burmese and Bhutanese-Nepali men have gotten beaten or held at gunpoint at night, on their way to work third shift), prayers for the kids (and their families) in gangs, prayers for guidance and wisdom on what I’m supposed to do with all of this.

A New Family Comes to Dallas

The Sunwar family is one who is incredibly near and dear to my heart. When they told me more of their relatives were approved to leave the refugee camps and come here to the U.S. – to Dallas! – I was overjoyed for them. When they asked me to go with Nar, the father, to greet them at the airport, I knew this was an honor I couldn't pass up!

So today, bundled up and masking bronchitis, I had the honor of going with Nar and Sam, the caseworker assigned to this new family, to the airport. I could feel the anticipation coming from Nar, who was going to see his brother, sister, aunt, brother-in-law, and 5 year old nephew for the first time in a year and a half.

The Sunwar family, much like all of the Nepalese/Bhutanese refugees, were victims of ethnic cleansing in their home country of Bhutan, due to their Nepali heritage and Hindu religion. For 17-18 years, they lived in overcrowded refugee camps in Nepal (where they were again considered outsiders because of their former Bhutanese citizenship), making homes out of bamboo and thatch, growing accustomed to inadequate healthcare and rationed supplies.

This new family, unaccompanied on their flight – the first time they’ve left rural Nepal – of course got lost inside the airport, not knowing where to go or where to find us. We waited, and waited, and waited. We had their bags with us, asked for security’s help, but still, all we could do was wait. After an hour and a half, the family, tired from two day’s and four layover’s worth of travel, came stepping out the door, accompanied by a sweet airline worker. They looked shell shocked. And exhausted.

It was a beautiful and unique experience, to escort the 5 of them back to Vickery, to watch them interact with their relatives for the first time in 1.5 years, and absorb all there is to absorb in a new country, stepping into carpeted and heated apartment complexes and take in their new surroundings, coupled with the handicap of jetlag. I have not yet been to Nepal, let alone to the camps, but from the videos and photos that have been shared with me, I cannot imagine a place as different from Dallas, Texas as the refugee camps in Nepal.

This is the first family I’ve had the pleasure of getting to meet immediately upon their arrival to the U.S. I cannot help but think back to when I first arrived in Chengdu, China, shell-shocked with the noise, the busyness of the streets, the smells – I wonder what is most overwhelming or most identifiable aspects of Dallas for this family as they take in all there is to take in of this new place they are now to call home.

Bronchitis

This past week, I have been out sick with bronchitis (hence the time to finally get this blog going). Typically, I spend my evenings and weekends (especially the weekends) running people to the ER, help identify and counsel how to take over the counter meds, help fill out forms at pharmacies, etc. This week, however, is really the first time where I’ve fallen ill, and the community – oh, my sweet, sweet neighbors – are overwhelming me with blessings!

Take this evening, for example. While taking a two-hour nap on the couch, the door was tapped on not once, not twice, but seven times by six different groups of people who just wanted to make sure I’m ok and see if they could do anything to help (and were lovingly escorted out by Esther, my protective “momma” of the house) their sick sister. One guy, Khem, said “My dear Didi (big sister), you are my sweet and best friend and you always take care of me when I am sick – if you need anything, even if I am busy or I am sick or I am going to an appointment – I will drop everything to come here and take care of you, my Didi!”

Yesterday, too, was an incredible testimony of the love these wonderful people possess. Every morning before school, four of my middle school boys come over for breakfast. Yesterday, the “breakfast crew” came over, but insisted they could make their own breakfast, and mine, too. They served me my cereal (bless their sweet hearts!), and then asked if they could pray to Jesus for my health. After school, word had spread to the high schoolers and adults in the neighborhood that Valerie is sick, and so, within the course of an evening (having already had friends come and tend to my physical needs all afternoon), 4 of my high school boys, one of their fathers, and a few more middle schoolers stopped by to “pray to Jesus” for me and to see if I needed any medicine, any food, etc.

It’s hard to feel sick amongst so much love and compassion.

Beginnings

For months, I’ve wanted to write a blog, accounting my journey through living in Vickery Meadows with all of you. And yet, for months, I’ve just not known where to start. So here I am, still unsure of where to begin, but ready to delve in, regardless.

I guess, with anything, I’ll start with the beginning. For me, it began on Easter of 2010. I had just began a “fast from planning,” having spent months toiling over what I was going to do for my next life step (Get a Masters in Social Work and focus on refugees? Move overseas and try to work in refugee camps? Stay in my current apartment or move to another with roommates? Stay working with the government? Find a teaching job?...); getting nowhere, I felt the Lord telling me to just stop worrying, stop trying to control things, and just allow Him to work in my life. The fast had been freeing (and difficult), to say the least.

On Easter morning, I had breakfast with a group of people from my church who I was just starting to get to know. Like any ‘get to know you’ conversation, I found myself asked to describe “what I do.” I explained my job, and also felt the desire to share that I had been volunteering as a mentor and ESL tutor to a refugee family from Burma through International Rescue Committee. At that, the conversation took an unexpected turn; the gentleman I was talking to shared that he used to live in Vickery Meadows (a very urban, low-income, high-crime neighborhood where my Burmese family lived) and do ministry there with his neighbors. That got me excited, as I had often thought, on my ventures to Vickery Meadows “I’d love to live here!” (and dismissed the thought just as quickly with a “don’t be ridiculous! You’d be raped and robbed the moment it got dark outside!”). In all my months visiting the Burmese family, I had never met or encountered anyone (I hate to say it) white in Vickery Meadows, so the very idea in and of itself was exciting! I listened to him recount his tales of living in one of Dallas’ most dangerous neighborhoods, careful to guard my heart from getting too excited, knowing how easy it is for me to start to daydream/plan, and I was, of course, fasting from planning.

After breakfast, I went to Easter service at church, where the sermon spoke beautiful things to my fasting heart. I remember finishing worship with a sense of absolute freedom. I wasn’t ready to leave church, wanting to just sit in the Lord’s home for a while. As I was wondering whether or not it would be a good idea to sit through a second service, my good friend Daniel turned to me and said “you know what you should do? You should go volunteer with the African Refugee Fellowship that meets in our church – they’re always looking for children’s volunteers.” I jumped at the opportunity.

Stepping into the African Refugee Fellowship’s (ARF) room, I sat down beside two volunteers, Emily and Jessica, who were readying plastic eggs for an Easter egg hunt. I went to work with them, and as we were sitting there, the girls started talking amongst themselves about the preparation they need to make for their upcoming move. I casually asked them where they were thinking of moving, and, sure enough, they said “a place called Vickery Meadows, but we’re not sure yet because it’s dangerous.”

I hid my shock, but couldn’t help but wonder, “God, is this you telling me something?” I immediately dismissed the though, confident that no, God wouldn’t put this kind of temptation in front of me while I’m fasting from planning – surely not!

Moments later, another volunteer, Danny, came in. We started talking, he asked me how I got involved with volunteering with ARF, and I shared with him how my heart has shaped towards refugees for some time and I was looking at various avenues to work with refugees in the future. Danny casually mentioned that he was running a ministry “in Vickery Meadows, an area of Dallas where refugees live.” He then shared that he lived there – there, in Vickery Meadows – amongst the refugee populations. This time, I couldn’t hide my shock, asking him what it was like to live in Vickery Meadows. Danny picked up on my excitement, and said if I ever want to volunteer with his ministry, they’re always looking for help. We exchanged numbers, and then went about the day.

Following volunteering (this is all still on Easter, mind you), I went to a friend’s home for a giant Easter lunch and party. It was a great time, allowed me to meet more people from church, and just have a fun, relaxing day. While sitting around the table getting to know a few new people, it came up in conversation that one guy just got licensed as a real estate agent, and his job was to help people find apartments. I laughed and told him my short-term lease was coming to a close and I was going to be looking for an apartment soon. That turned the conversation towards apartments and my desire to have roommates for the first time in ages. One girl at the table, Esther, said casually, “well, we’re looking for a roommate, but you’d never want to live where we live!” I asked her where she lived, and, sure enough, she stated “a place called Vickery Meadows – have you heard of it?”

By this point, I was certain something was going on. “God, is that you?”

That night, Miah (who I met and befriended in my first year living in China – she lived below me and taught at the same Chinese university-- and who just happened to be living in Dallas upon my moving here) came to my apartment to spend the night and re-celebrate Easter together, for old time’s/China’s sake. I started telling her about my crazy day with all of these connections to Vickery – Miah then gasped and said she had been thinking of my apartment search, and wanted to propose I think about moving to an urban area to do “intentional living.”

I was convinced, at this point, that the Lord was talking to me. But I was still scared, so I asked Him to show me the way, if this was His will, and open the door wide.

And open it wide, He did. God hadn’t finished showing me that this was His will for me. All of the events thus far had all been in one day. The next two weeks to follow continued in such an overwhelming manner. A former professor who I hadn’t had contact with in a while mailed me a book on refugees and people’s duty to reach out to these populations, Danny called me and offered me a position within Love is Vickery Ministry, daily conversations with even the most random people (including a jewelry seller in Wyoming on a work-trip) suddenly turned towards refugees and intentional living. The final kicker was when Esther contacted me and offered me a place to live with her and her roommate, Rachael.

So I moved in. May of 2010.

That move rocked my world in the most amazing way. Almost immediately (Day 1), neighbors (primarily Nepali/Bhutanese) started coming up and introducing themselves to me; I was immediately connected and found purpose living within the community, particularly with the youth, but also with families needing assistance meeting their daily needs. Whether it was taking someone to the hospital, helping prepare the way for a new baby, teaching people how to drive, assisting with filling out food stamp/welfare renewal forms, helping people fill out applications for employment, hosting a clothing drive or a job fair – the Lord immediately began moving in and through my life, getting me connected, building relationships, and showing me how to better love His people living in Vickery Meadows.

But the youth – oh, the youth – are what have captivated my heart in the most amazing way. The youth I work with are primarily Nepali (Bhutanese refugees with Nepali heritage), which is appropriate, considering my best friends in college were all from Nepal and my heart has always yearned for that country. Prior to moving in, I wasn’t even aware that there were Nepali/Bhutanese refugees in the community. But God knew, and it was His desire for me to enter into their community; this I now know without a doubt.

So I’ve been befriending and living life with primarily Nepalese (and continue to work with my initial Burmese family, as well as a few Congolese). Almost immediately after moving in and beginning my “work” in Vickery, I determined it wasn’t fair, as was it a conflict of interests, to continue to claim my “hours” as a volunteer with International Rescue Committee, so I asked them to remove my name from their database of volunteers and just became another individual living in the community. The youth (primarily boys) came and came, and before I knew it, I was (and continue to be) helping raise/mentor 20+ middle school and high school boys.

I continue to work full-time; my life, during the work hours, looks quite normal. But the non-work hours are what fill my heart and life with purpose, joy, and excitement. Every morning, at 7:15, my home is occupied with 4 middle school boys who come over to have breakfast and pray with me before school. I drop them off at school on my way to work, and then when I get home from work, I have anywhere from 1-12 middle/high school kids waiting at my door to greet me and begin an evening of working on homework, hanging out, going somewhere fun (like a movie theatre, the lakes, a tree farm, etc.), eating a meal together, etc.

There are so many amazing stories and testimonies of God working in Vickery Meadows and with this amazing population, who I now call family, but this entry is already quite long, so I’ll try to break the stories up throughout the blog as I work on being faithful and catching up with my entries. These 7 months (has it really been that long?!) have been such a time of growth, of experiencing God’s love, grace, and mercy, of showing Christ’s love to my neighbors, and deeper fellowship with members of my church. Within a few months of living here, Emily, Jessica, and Miah all moved into Vickery, as well, to begin their own “intentional living” journeys with populations here (!!!). My roommates, Rachael and Esther, have been tremendous assets to my life – blessing me beyond measure, putting up with my crazy hours and welcoming “my kids” into their home without protest or resentment, allowing me to cry to them when I feel overwhelmed with burden for a family or person… It’s been a tremendous – TREMENDOUS – 7 months.

It is my desire, through this blog, to allow each of you to be a part of this amazing journey; to allow you to join in prayer, in praise, and in witnessing the incredible work God is doing in this community. It would be selfish of me to keep this to myself. J