BCE Blogs: The Surreal City

BC to Big J: Not in our house

I spent some time in the courtroom today observing a portion of the closing arguments in the trial of the killer of Kieaunta Ward. I looked at the clean-cut Calhoun County folks on my right, and I looked at the Detroit guy known as "Jack" or "Big J" and I knew that if the prosecution had put the facts together, the jury wouldn't hesitate to convict. After just 40 minutes of deliberation, the jury slam-dunked a guilty verdict into the prosecutors' hands.
Count this one not only as a victory for justice and for a criminal justice system that works, but also for the persistence of Kay Pierce, Kieaunta's mother, who never let up on the Battle Creek Police Department to keep investigating and the Calhoun County Prosecutor's office to keep working the case to its conclusion.
And credit Kevin Kendall, who threw the first punch in the fight outside Green's Tavern that night and then, three years later, remembered the guy he'd hit -- who didn't remember him -- and found a way to make him say, with another witness present, that he "took care of business" in the 2002 shooting of Ward.
I visited Ward's grave this evening -- Kay Pierce was one of the most down-to-earth, no-bull-talking sources in my violence package last year -- just for a little mental closure on that case. I was happy for his mom, glad to see justice done, proud of the police and prosecutors again, and glad the jury saw through the maze of statements from convicts to see that a murder had occurred, and that the chain of stories connected Michael Thompson to the 40-caliber gunshots that took Kay Pierce's beloved Kie-Kie in the early morning hours of July 22, 2002.

Oh you $#^#^%$ StoryChatters!

I tend to stay away from the places where the evenings end with brawls in the parking lots.

Testosterone is about as helpful in civil discourse as jet fuel is in extinguishing car fires.

I never really figured that I'd be hanging out regularly in a place where all that "Not only am I right but you're an idiot" talk was just part of the daily ritual, but here I am. Pop into any of the StoryChat discussions and you'll see anonymous Battle Creekers woofing at each other with the kind of respect that U.S. Rep. Henry Hyde and President Bill Clinton saved for each other in the later years of their morally challenged terms in office.

Democrats belittle Republicans; hawks verbally abuse doves. Global warming believers mock skeptics; those who believe police are too tough on criminals trade vicious insults with others who believe crime suspects deserve every bruise they get and more.

And we all know why that is: It's because you can remain anonymous in StoryChat. For me, I wish it weren't so. I'd rather see civil discussions of the facts of the matter, and for respectful people to learn from one another about the facts of the topics they discuss. So I wish you had to register as yourself to join the discussion.

How often does someone enter StoryChat to post a comment with an open mind, seeking guidance from the group? Far less often than they make the most strident, forceful argument they can. The predictable response: Simple refutation. Like a schoolyard argument, it's usually "Is so." "Is not!" "Is so, jerkface!"

This isn't your Jerry Springer moment, folks. This is intended to be the most intelligent place on the planet to discuss issues of importance to the Battle Creek area. Dragging it down with personal attacks, simple refutation, goading, cheap shots and the same old tattered lines out of the 2004 national political party playbooks is no path to enlightenment.

Here's a bit of advice for those of you whose posting totals are up over, oh, let's say, 100. Maybe you find yourself posting the same message more than once, and you've picked out a few chatters with whom you have a beef and on whom you rail mercilessly.

Try the All-Bran this morning. Take a nice walk around the neighborhood. Admire the signs of spring. Grab a little cat-nap mid-morning. Immerse yourself in your work. Double-check your NCAA basketball bracket. Are you sure Creighton's going to beat Nevada? Whatever you do, stay off StoryChat. Just this once. Please.

And before you go back on, think it over. Does it really feel good to snipe back and forth at the same folks, over and over? You're Creighton; they're Nevada. Creighton. Nevada. Nevada. Creighton. Wow. How exciting, for you and everyone else.

Of course, none of this goes for Danimal and Warthogg, who used to fight like little brothers to the point of being entertaining, but now make me sick with their syrupy sweet moments of agreement.

CRANKY BOB

While I'm at it, I might as well get back into the swing of things and have a go straight at the very worst of StoryChat — or at least the most revealing. For in that anonymity, we've seen pure, straightforward homophobic comments and the most bitterly white-against-black racist statements I've read in the North since the 1960s. It was all stunning stuff, and I haven't forgotten the names of the posters and the contexts in which they posted. But don't get me wrong: They are us, and we have a long way to go together to get to where we all want to be.

The crankiness factor

I have to say, with all that's happened in my life, I'm not sure when I'll be pulling out my Cranky Bob persona. There's plenty to be cranky about, of course. It's just that I'm a little out of touch with that side of my personality right now. Grieving will do that to you, I guess. Give me a little time, please. I know it's in there. When it's back, you'll be the first to know.
Bob

Life, from beginning to end

Here's my Sunday column:

Twice in my life I've seen things that forever changed the way I thought about myself, the world around me, the way I relate to my family and how I fit into it all.

One was the first glimpse of my daughter's head as she was born on a rainy January night in Bloomington, Ind.

The other was holding my mother's hand as she fought for one last gasp of air, and then another, and another, and another, a week ago last Thursday in Bronson Methodist Hospital in Kalamazoo.

I never talked to anyone, not even my wife, about how the sense of impending responsibility for a human life transformed so viscerally into reality when my daughter, Kate, was born. So real that I suddenly had an umbilical cord to cut — a grand opening for the life of a human being who could rise to the pinnacles of success or wind up a homeless crack whore, dead on the streets, thanks to our parenting.

And then, 27 years later, I knelt beside the woman who wouldn't let me fail to use my gifts, though so many obstacles stood in my way. A couple of days earlier, before the pneumonia that so quickly ravaged what was left of her emphysema-damaged lungs had run its course, I was able to tell her something I'd never shared before: That I knew that my creative talents, my way with the language and my vocabulary, certainly had come straight from her.

She tried to shrug it off at first, but in the end, she accepted the praise, along with the knowledge that I also picked up her quirky ways of busting out into song and turning what had been a normal conversation into a Monty Python-esque word-twisting exercise.

Many people have talked to me since my mom died about what it had meant to them to lose their moms. Among them, it was the loss of a friend, a consoler, a processor of life events, a chatting partner, a simple comfort, and in one case, a burden.

My dad died nine years ago, and both of my parents were only children, so this is a generational loss. The oldest person in my family now is my sister, who's 52.

The essence of family is shared experience. My sisters and I have been more of a family these past two weeks as we've talked about life events than we had been in the past two decades. If my big sister brings up how she loved the sound of the old neighbor men playing horseshoes in the backyard, my little sister instantly imitates our old next-door neighbor's hilarious way of laughing. As we snort and giggle over it all, I'm thinking about how that same old guy used to invite me over to help him make a big barrel of pickles, and then, when they were ready, would let me sample the first one.

Those shared experiences with my mom have no echo now. Remember when I was on your shoulders and you touched John Kennedy? Nothing. Remember when I used to shoot off the green cannon on the Fourth of July? Silence.

Part of what I was letting go as my mother's breathing grew shallower and her hands went cooler was a renewed bond between us that stretched back to a crisis a decade ago.

After an extended period of isolating herself from her children, I suddenly got a call from my dad that she was headed to the hospital by ambulance. She was coughing up blood.

It seemed nasty as the nurses shoved a tube down her throat and pumped brown crud out of her stomach.

It was more than nasty. I just didn't get it.

A nurse helped me with the reality of what I was seeing.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters in town?" she asked.

"Yes, two sisters," I replied.

"Call them," she said. "Get them here right away."

And so I called my sisters. "Come quick. Mom's in the emergency room. And she might die."

That was the day that we finally set a place at the table for the member of the family that had been locked in the basement for 20 years.

Alcohol had been my mother's escape from the insufferably insecure and often verbally abusive ways of my father. We all knew too much, but no one did enough before it was too late.

To her credit, my mother quit smoking and drinking cold turkey right then and there.

The alternative, pretty much, was dying right then and there.

My mom's extended hospital stay back then coincided with the start of a two-week vacation for me, so I spent all of every day and much of each night there with her. She told stories, she sang, she caught up on my life.

And as I helped her through the toughest time of her life, we bonded as never before.

At first, the doctors gave her little chance of survival. She'd arrived with the worst complications of liver failure, and her emphysema was severe and advanced.

Later, I looked up the statistics. She'd had a 20 percent chance of surviving 6 months with her liver condition, and a 20 percent chance of surviving 18 months with her lung condition.

We considered every day after she got out of the hospital as bonus time. We'd make her happy, not trouble her with the medical stuff unless she expressed an interest, do things she liked to do, enjoy her while we could.

So there we were, more than 10 years later. Heather had flown up from New Mexico on Wednesday, my Mom's 84th birthday.

Early that Thursday morning, I'd been alone at her side, with Heather and Laurie in the hallway, when her breathing became quite labored. It continued for quite a while. I called out in a deep loud voice so my sister could hear me though the door was nearly closed.

"Heather! Heather!"

The second time I called her name, my mom's eyes fluttered open.

She looked over at me, and when my sisters walked into the room, she looked up at them and smiled.

The doctor had already told us that she would not live another day, so we knew we had been given a moment of grace.

We told her we loved her, and that we would not leave her side, and that everything was OK, and that she could let go. She tried to talk, but couldn't. She seemed frustrated, and eventually just closed her eyes and resumed her restless breathing.

From my side of the bed, though, I got the message the only way she could send it.

"Mom, I see that little tear, and I know what it means, and we want you to know that we all love you too."

For all of you who have lost your moms, I am beginning to understand just what it really means.

And if your mom is still with you, please, give her a hug. Tell her it's from me.

So you know

You may be wondering about my sudden and unexplained absence from the pages of the Enquirer. My mother died Thursday after an extended illness. After some time to recover from this with my family, I'll be back on the beat.

What we could tell Tony Blair

The headlines all week in London have been screaming about the shooting deaths of three young men in gang-related cases. On Saturday, Prime Minister Tony Blair announced a crackdown on firearms possession and possibly on teenage gangs.
In classic British news-speak referring to No. 10 Downing Street, the Times of London was reporting early Sunday that "No 10 also announced an emergency meeting of ministers, police and community leaders to discuss how to respond to the gang killings."
The opposition was quick, as they are over there, to deride Blair's moves as insufficient.
The BBC quoted opposition leader Sir Menzies Campbell as saying that besides a stronger enforcement approach, "All young people should feel they have a stake in society - effective schooling, more engaged youth services and better community support are all needed to help young people escape the cycle of deprivation and gang culture."
Sound familiar?
Those thoughts are among the things that those closest to the gang problem in Battle Creek have been saying.
It's what we heard from the community a year ago in the Violence: A Cycle of Neglect series.
Yes, enforcement is needed. But along with it, the leaders here and there both say, we need to take care of the generations ahead before they pick up guns, too.

Reflecting further on the gangs issue

Here's my  Sunday column, which refers to our front-page stories here and here.

Still reeling from the gang stories today?

Let's chill together here for a few minutes.

 First, let's acknowledge the obvious: Just because you didn't know about the depth of the problem doesn't mean it wasn't there all along. So nothing has changed but your perception. 

 Then let me get this off my chest. I've  known more about this than I've said for a while. The recent surge in violence spurred me to try to explain it, and I found the right sources at the right time to do that. 

But plenty of people have told me that we could have told the story sooner. Here's how Calhoun County Prosecutor John Hallacy put it:

"I won't point a finger at the newspaper, but to a certain extent it is representative of the community. And when I read your article actually naming the gangs and putting the acronyms in the paper, I thought, 'That's the first time I ever read that in the newspaper.' One could say, 'Why haven't you told us?' The flip side would be — were you willing to listen?"

I didn't feel like I was off the hook when he said that. I wished that I'd delved deeper into the specifics of the gang issue when we did our "Violence: A Cycle of Neglect" series last year.

So here we are. Instead of just a bunch of random acts of shooting, many of them are MOB vs. CMB. Money Over Bitches vs. Cash Money Ballers. Yep, Ballers. I got it wrong a couple of columns ago.

Rather than thinking of them as a bunch of thug wannabes, we have to realize it's more that they're organized and taking orders from above.

Know this: Some guys are gonna go to prison. And I'm sorry to say it, but some guys probably are gonna go to Oak Hill. But some guys are gonna go to the Advocates and find out Dana Berkes is straight-up honest and will do anything she can to help them. They'll be the ones we celebrate.

I asked Hallacy a hard question when we sat down to talk about all this on Wednesday, and it took him a long time to answer.

The question was, "How should people think about all this after they've read these stories?"

When he started talking, he spoke with more passion than I've ever heard from him. Here's what he said:

"This may surprise some people, and it may stir some paranoia. Again, this is a good place to live. It is. You can highlight all the bad things about any place in the world and there are always more good people than bad. A lot more. A lot more good people than bad.

"And there are a lot of good people who are already and have been working on this issue and are dedicated to not just alleviating this issue, but helping the people with kids who are involved in it.

"So don't walk away from this article thinking that everything is bad and we're all going to hell in a hand basket, 'cause that's not true.

"Now, are there issues of grave concern? Yes, there are, but there's nothing that a good solid community like this cannot overcome.

"This is a wakeup call, but I think it's a wakeup call that's been long coming."

CRANKY BOB

Double homicide on Territorial. The trial of Detective LaVern Brann's accused killer about to start. Unemployment's up. It's cold outside. The Christmas bills are here. Now the gang problem is worse than you thought.

Catching the next stagecoach out of town?

Hold your horses, there, pardner.

Nothing is over until we say it is.

John Mellencamp's line "Suck it up and tough it out and do the best you can" has been running through my mind the last couple of days, but that's not what I'm really thinking.

I'm really thinking that the grindingly difficult times are when people realize how strong they can be — how much inner fortitude they can muster to not just survive, but to find a way to make things better for themselves and those around them.

Maybe we're in for a time like that around here. Maybe we'll all learn something like that about ourselves. Maybe we'll never be the same again.

When paternal becomes eh?

I tread lightly here, because I cover Kellogg Co. these days under my other hat as business reporter, but if you read the news today that Pfizer Inc. is closing its downtown Kalamazoo research and development operation and doing away with the 250 jobs there, you have to look back 25 years and be thankful this town chose to merge city and township to keep Kellogg's corporate headquarters here.
If you're not familiar with the disparate stories, let me quickly recap:
In Battle Creek, Kellogg Co. said it would move its HQ elsewhere if the merger did not occur, dissatisfied as it was with the inefficiencies and other problems in separate governments for the two areas. Some cried "corporate blackmail" while most voted for the change. The landmark Kellogg HQ and W.K. Kellogg Foundation buildings symbolize the commitment, while the real difference is the paternal attitude of the company seen in its United Way giving and in its workers involvement in the community. Over the long haul, although it may seem less so today, it also has been embodied in strong consideration of the effects on Battle Creek of business decisions.
In Kalamazoo, Pfizer, once Pharmacia, once Pharmacia & Upjohn, originally The Upjohn Co., went from a family-run business with worldwide markets and operations but a Kalamazoo-first company with a paternal streak a mile wide for its home town to an increasingly distant corporate entity. Now, as part of the largest pharmaceutical company, it seems Kalamazoo is a speck on the map. What have you done for me lately, speck? My shareholders aren't big on paternal, speck. How about a little return on investment, there, speck?
It coulda been like that right here. I'll take rubbing elbows with the corporate leadership over speckdom any day.

Cars, nicknames and stuff

I think the commercial in which drivers carry on one-sided conversations with their cars is the stupidest thing.

I haven't changed my opinion, even though a new poll shows that more than a third of drivers thought their car had a personality of its own.

And 30 percent thought of their vehicles as male or female, with the vast majority owning she-cars.

I must confess that my first car, an orange 1973 Volkswagen Super Beetle with a crank-it-yourself sunroof, had a nickname.

It was "The Balky Bitch." Any mechanic would have told me when I bought it that the recurring hiccup in its engine was gonna be big trouble.

But I was 18 and naive, and Balky — female, you'll note — waited a couple of months, until a 100-degree day in Martinsville, Ind., to blow up her engine on State Road 37.

Since then, a car's just been a car, or a pickup truck or an SUV to me.

It's not that I don't get attached to 'em. I just don't name 'em.

And I sure don't talk to 'em.

The Associated Press-AOL poll made a connection among many of those polled between a driver's personality and the kind of car they own.

Look in the Enquirer parking lot and you'll see a bunch of plain vanilla vehicles and a newsroom full of characters. No fit there, except one colorful editor's bright yellow vehicle. That car doesn't have a name, the editor says, but does get a talking-to from time to time.

Metro Editor Eric Greene said his old Ford Taurus, which he drove to the 221,000-mile mark, was named T-Rex, short for Taurus Rex.

CRANKY BOB

After I served as the medium to convey Carl Word's wisdom about the current violence in the community last Sunday, I read about a similar situation in another place where hopelessness had led to senseless shootings and death.

A newspaper reported over the weekend that this place had "rates of homicide, assault, robbery, rape and suicide stunningly above the national average."

A government report on the problems blamed the "education system, its high-school dropout rates, illiteracy rates and rates of smoking, suicide and sexually transmitted diseases."

The reporter writing the story said that alcohol and drug abuse were fueling the rage and despair felt by a segment of the community.

One man, asked about the problems, said, "There is already lots of help. Most people just don't want it. I don't know why."

The story said after a long pause, he added, "It's just too late for a lot of them, I guess."

The place? Nunavut, the new territory carved out of Canada's Northwest Territories seven years ago. Its mostly Inuit — indigenous — people have struggled mightily, the Globe and Mail of Toronto reported Jan. 13.

So if you're thinking of escaping all this, maybe it's time to think about doing the opposite of escaping — getting involved.

Keith Matthews on the violence

Here's my Jan. 18 column, repaired with the correct name of CMB:

Maybe you've seen the initials on walls or Dumpsters or somewhere else around town.

C.M.B.

M.O.B.

They stand for the names of rival gangs — MOB is "Money Over Bitches," while CMB is "Cash Money Ballers."

CMB's turf is the north side — Washington Heights in particular. Its colors are black and red.

MOB is referred to as "south side," but it's more of an "anywhere but the north side" kinda group. Its colors are black and blue.

Kids all over town know this stuff. I figured you might want to know, too.

I've gotten several backgrounders on the gang situation here since undertaking a series of stories about the roots of the 2005 outbreak of violence in Battle Creek.

Word from police and on the street is that last week's shootings apparently were gang-related.

One side went on the offensive for its own reasons, and the other side responded, I'm told.

Keith Matthews finds himself living this stuff as outreach director at the Boys and Girls Club of Battle Creek.

He's on the streets trying to bring in the kids that need help, working to strengthen the bonds between kids and the people who want to help them lead good lives.

Matthews speaks clearly and calmly as he plainly lays the blame for today's situation.

"Black men," he says. "It's our fault."

"Black men," he repeats.

"It's our fault."

Long silence.

"Our black men have to show the way, and we're not doing it," he says.

"You can't blame the Kellogg Foundation — they've done everything they could do for us. You can't blame the Battle Creek (Community) Foundation, you can't blame United Way. They wanted to dump everything in (Battle Creek Public Schools Superintendent Charles) Coleman's lap, but if you read an article from 1995, we had these problems before he got here. Now, they want to dump everything in (Police Chief David) Headings' lap, but we had those same problems before he got here."

It's not enforcement, or education, or do-gooders, in other words. It's just like Carl Word of the Urban League said in this space on Sunday: Parents need to step up and take responsibility.

And Matthews narrows his focus to black males.

"It just tears my heart out to ask people to do something that they just should do naturally," he says.

"It's almost making yourself into a maverick or a little Malcolm X because you're telling people what needs to be done. ..."

I finish the thought for him: "Which is your basic duty in the first place."

"Exactly. And it shouldn't have to be said, but it needs to be said," Matthews says.

He says the former Washington School, where the Boys and Girls Club opened in the fall, is a fortress against the violence. Indeed, while members of both gangs participate in the club, Matthews says, there's not even a hint of tension there.

While Matthews wants to outlaw gang colors at the club, it hasn't happened yet. Still, he knows the kids and feels certain of the safety of the club setting.

When things get heated on the basketball court, the game stops and the young men are engaged in a discussion of the right way to resolve a dispute, says Tim Reynolds, the club's executive director.

Both Matthews and Reynolds have street cred — a term that, now that I've used it, probably is passe. That is, they have community respect that transcends their official roles.

As each night at the club winds down, there's a telling period of time, Matthews says.

"Every night we have 10 to 12 kids that can go home, but don't want to go home," he says. "They're trying to figure out what friend's house they can stay over. What aunt's house they can stay over."

Matthews remembers growing up in another era where everyone looked out for one another. Today, he says, it's more like, "I've got mine, now you get yours.

"And if that's the mentality that we're gonna have, then these young people are gonna continue to kill each other, and basically what we're doing is allowing them to commit genocide — black-on-black crime."