Our Kids in Long Beach are Being Murdered

by Brenda Knepper

On a Halloween evening a little over a year ago, a close friend of my son’s was shot and killed in a drive-by shooting. Up until Richard’s death, I had been oblivious to how many of our young people in Long Beach were being murdered.

Did you know that the candlelight vigils honoring those who have been killed, are rituals that kids seem to know to perform, without deliberation, in order to begin to heal? I didn’t, until I went looking for my son a few nights after Richard’s death and found him and his friends sitting around a makeshift altar on the sidewalk in front of Richard’s house. They were clearly in shock, trying to process what had happened. Money that would usually have been spent on something else had been used to purchase altar candles at the 99-cent store. Was this not a plea for help? Instead of being angry with my son for not letting me know where he was, I felt compelled to drive to the 99-cent store and buy candles to join the group. Although I’m not Jewish, the term “sit shiva” came to mind, as we sat there by the sidewalk memorial honoring this young man whose life was too brief. These boys seemed to innately know what they needed to do to mark the tragic passing of their friend.

Did you know that the weekend car washes put on by teenagers around Long Beach are frequently held to raise money for funerals for friends or relatives who have been killed? I didn't know that -- until kids who knew Richard and members of his family quickly put together two car washes over the weekend following his death to raise money for his funeral and provide funds for his girlfriend who was pregnant at the time. One was held at the AutoZone parking lot on Atlantic in North Long Beach near my home. These Hispanic kids knew what needed to be done as soon as they heard the news, because they had probably been through it before. I hadn’t.

A couple weeks following Richard’s death, a car wash was held in that same AutoZone parking lot for a 24-year-old who had been found in his car in Compton, riddled with bullets. According to one of the girls that I spoke with who was helping at the car wash, the young man had fallen asleep in his car in front of a friend’s house, waiting for the friend to come home, and had been killed as he lay there sleeping. Okay, so he wasn’t killed in Long Beach, but his car wash took place in Long Beach. Close enough.Several times since then I've passed car washes as I drive through town and I've wanted to cry because, inevitably I find that it's for a young person who is no longer with us. I had never noticed. For some reason, I thought that most car washes were put on by church groups to raise money for youth retreats. As I passed corner lots with kids busily washing cars and soliciting donations, I had never looked closely at the posters tacked to nearby telephone poles, with their photos of slain young men.

Do you think that reporters from the local newspaper always know when someone from your community has been killed and will automatically report the story? Such as when an 18-year-old from Jordan High has been killed in Wilmington by someone wearing a wolf mask on Halloween night . . . wouldn’t you think that a young man being shot in front of his younger sister who was in the back seat, and his cousin who was driving, would be a newsworthy event? I thought so. I thought that the reporters closely monitored police scanners or logs, but after weeks of there being no mention of Richard’s death in the Long Beach Press-Telegram, I finally wrote a letter to the editor, because I wanted my son and his friends to know that the adults in the city cared that their friend had died. The young people knew that they themselves cared, because they were texting each other and paying homage to Richard on their MySpace pages (R.I.P. RICHIE! Ill nVr fGet U!). Without a peep from the adult community around them.What’s a boy to do? Seek revenge? I’m sure it happens -- when it seems like no one cares, or that nothing can be done.

As it turns out, no one had called the paper about Richard -- it's not that the editor didn't want to write the story; they were just unaware of the story. I think there's a lot of apathy in communities where drive-byes and murdered kids are a common occurrence. And unfortunately, three white girls in the Bixby Knolls neighborhood were beat up by black youths from North Long Beach that same Halloween night and you can be sure someone called the paper about that. That made headlines, even national news, for months afterwards.To their credit, the Press-Telegram did finally write about Richard several weeks after his death and they wrote a follow-up front page story when, unbelievably, Richie's girlfriend gave birth to the first baby of the New Year in Long Beach that following January 1st.

Do you think that the reason some of our teenage drivers recline their front car seats so far back is to keep their heads out of the range of a bullet? I didn’t think that -- until the bullet went through Richard’s head, causing his mother to have to make the awful decision to take him off life support two days after the shooting. He was made a vegetable upon impact, with no chance of recovery. After that, I not only worried about how vulnerable my son’s head was while he was out driving in his car, I also worried about my own head.

Have you ever thought about how the term "drive-by" waters down and minimizes what it really is? Murder or attempted murder. I mentioned this to someone recently and they said, 'yeah -- like someone was just out for a nice Sunday drive and whoops! shot your kid. They were just driving by.' My son visited Richard in the hospital before he was taken off life support, and you can imagine that Richie was not looking or feeling too good. In fact he was in a coma, with his face swollen and bandages wrapped around his head. What happened to Richard was not merely a drive-by; it was a violent, bloody act that not only ended his life, but ripped through and devastated the lives of his friends, his family -- many people, for many years to come.

His son will grow up without a father. And although he was young, Richard was really looking forward to being a Dad. And I'm really angry that, for my son, losing his friend in this manner was undeniably a defining experience in his young life. Something I would never have wished on him.

I know what you’re thinking: ‘She’s not talking about my neighborhood or my kids.’ But you're wrong. Long Beach is our neighborhood. Our kids in Long Beach are being murdered. They are being brought up in a war zone. And we just aren’t angry enough yet to stop it. But I’m getting there.

The Height of Perfection

by Janet Levine

When I was younger, my sister never failed to remind me that I should be careful of what I wished for. I might, she always said, actually get it.

I should have listened.

What I wished for most when I was young was to be “a perfectionist.” I thought that those were people who did things perfectly. And I so wanted to do things—any things at all—really well. No matter what I did, I didn’t think it was good enough.
And so my wish became true. I became a perfectionist. Hell, I was one already. I just didn’t understand that perfectionists don’t DO things perfectly, they just want to and, because they (we!) are such stickler’s for detail and so demanding of everything they do, they never, ever believe that they do anything well enough. I resemble that greatly.

The problem, of course, with perfection is that you can’t ever get there. From anywhere. It’s kind of like living at the tip of a promontory or high in the beautiful but distant hills. The bigger problem, however, is the fact that you continually have to motivate yourself to do things. Things that you just know will never be good enough. For you.

The other thing my sister always told me was that no one really pays that much attention to anyone else other than them. Or, as I frequently tell my daughter when she is freaking that she is not beautiful or smart enough (what? You didn’t believe that the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree?), to the degree that anyone is looking at you it’s not to giggle at your real or imagined flaws. They are not really thinking of you at all. They are thinking, “I wonder what that person thinks of ME.”

Thoughts on Beauty

by Brenda Knepper

In 1973, as a freshman at George Mason, I wrote an essay for an English comp class that comes up as a topic of conversation every now and then. In it I ranted about how unfair it was that women “had” to wear makeup and girdles and pointed-toe shoes throughout their lives to keep up a certain level of attractiveness; whereas, men could allow themselves to get fat, go bald, and never feel the need to apply a speck of face powder (remember that?) to their aging skin, all the while accumulating power and wealth.

I argued that a line of cosmetics should be developed for men and that they should feel just as compelled as women to “keep up their appearances.” After all, why should women be required to work so hard to stay beautiful, while living with fat, balding, possibly disgusting, spouses? My professor seemed highly amused by the paper and read it to the class. It got some laughs and I remember being surprised, because I was serious.

At that time in my life, I was spending an hour or more each morning applying thick, black, clumpy mascara to my delicate eyelashes to make them appear longer, darker, fuller; and using all the other cosmetics that Seventeen magazine told me were necessary for a beautiful face . . . foundation, eye shadow, lipstick, gloss, blush . . . all that on a pretty-enough 18-year-old face.

I also used an eyelash curler prior to applying mascara. That’s a scary contraption. They are still on the market and haven't changed much over the years. To use, you have to bring the curler close enough to your eye so that your eyelashes can be caught in its “mouth,” and then squeeze it closed so that two rubber-covered bars clamp down and basically bend your eyelashes upwards. You have to be careful not to get your eyelids caught in the thing, or it could really hurt. Who thinks of these things? Not only that, who thinks them up and then convinces lots of women in the world that they are necessary?

Are men ever that concerned about the hairs on the ends of their eyelids?

Each morning, I also plugged in a set of hot rollers, waited five minutes until the dot on the top of each turned red, and then wrapped clumps of my hair around those heavy, spiked, hard plastic curlers, so that Voila! my hair would be lovely for about two hours. I would then hurriedly put on an outfit that I had composed the night before and then finish off my "look" by cramming my young feet into a pair of too-small, too-high, or too-pointed shoes. I envied men who had only to wet their hair and comb it back, put on a uniform suit without much thought, and slip into shoes that fit.

Thoughts about beauty and gender inequity came to mind a few years later, when I happened to see Tip O’Neil emerging from an arrival gate at National Airport (now Reagan National) one evening. It was the early eighties; he was Speaker of the House and I recognized him from seeing him on the news. He was walking with an entourage of colleagues, exuding power. You couldn't help but notice him in the center of this important group of men. I took all this in and thought: my, he is HUGE . . . a really big fat man . . . and what a large, bulbous nose he had on that mug of a face -- yet he has position and power.

I don't recall the media making an issue of his weight, unlike poor Liz Taylor, whose ups and downs we were made well aware of. If Tip were a large woman with a big nose, his political career would have been quite a different story, wouldn't it? Or no story at all. Twenty-some years later, the first female Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi, illustrates my point. You have to admit she looks like a cute Barbie doll . . . petite, well-dressed, with impeccable hair and make-up. Just the type of woman we want to look at when Congress is in session.

I say three cheers for former Attorney General Janet Reno; I'd like to see more like her.

A few years ago I was up past midnight reading, with the TV turned on in the background. At one point, I glanced up at a program that featured Priscilla Presley and other celebrities. These women were sitting around chatting with each other and exclaiming about a wonderful product they had discovered -- miraculous hair extensions that turned limp hair with no body, into gorgeous, fluffy, sexy and majestic manes. One after another, the infomercial showed “before” shots of the actresses with lifeless, bland hair and then incredibly beautiful “after” clips. Not only did their hair look beautiful, after applying these wonderful, easy as 1-2-3 hair extensions, the women found they were more confident and energetic, more prosperous and successful.

As I watched one story after another, I realized that this too, was my problem: thin hair.

No wonder I was feeling low and unloved, with my career stalling and an angry adolescent at home -- I had thin hair. It was getting late, so I quickly wrote down the 800 number so that I could order the extensions first thing in the morning. And if I ordered quickly, I would get a free brush or extra extensions or something! It was going to be a new day!

The next morning I got up, took a shower and started getting dressed; I seemed to have forgotten about the miracle extensions I needed to order. When my eye caught the scrap of paper with the 800 number laying on the coffee table, I slowly remembered how I had gone to bed thinking that thicker hair was surely going to change my life . . . and yet . . . this morning . . . I began to have second thoughts. And the more I thought about, the more I realized that I must have been out of my mind.

Yes, actually I was. Did I really think that I was going to be able to glue or tape locks of hair all over my head, fluff it out, and then feel better about myself? Yeah, right. You know where those hair extensions would end up very quickly -- in the Halloween box out in the garage.

That’s almost as crazy as the rising plastic surgery trends due to “makeover” reality shows.

Think about this: we think the practice of Chinese foot binding was bizarre -- what could be more barbaric than having someone slice open your chest, insert round “perky” gel bags into your mammary glands, and then sew it back up? Perhaps having someone slice the backs of your thighs open and suck out the fat in them with a vacuum cleaner.

I realize now that the thesis of the college paper I wrote when I was younger, was incorrect. We do not need to have men wear make-up or toupees, or squeeze themselves into tight corsets or the latest body stockings the way that women do. We do not need for men to adopt the insecurity and self-hatred that drives women to slice and dice their bodies, attempting to freeze-capture fleeting youth and beauty.

My grandmother is in her nineties. I love the way her age and her life's history are written on her face and body. She was a very beautiful young woman in the 1920s and 30s, without makeup. And now she’s 95. Her cheeks sag and there are lines around her mouth. She laughs and will show you how, if you pinch the skin on the back of her hand and lift it up – it will stay there for quite awhile because the elasticity is gone. Her white hair still curls the way mine does naturally without hot rollers and the blue eyes that I also inherited shine in a way that lights up her face.

She is slowing down a little, finally, but is still healthy. When you sit down to have a conversation with her, she is totally present. I called her recently and she said she had been sitting on her front porch, watching a squirrel carry a heavy ear of corn partly up a tree, drop it, and try again -- over and over. She is easily amused.

As often as possible, I remind myself to aspire only to the health, beauty and contentment of my grandmother.

My first post is "in the bag... "

Joanie: I wrote this in the early '00s as a recent college graduate trying to break into print... it's a bit sentimental, but always gets a laugh... and it bears the distinction of being the second-most-viewed story on www.pursestories.com... I have two other posts on the site, "The Perfect Man is in the Bag" and "Where Have All the Purses Gone?".

So, without further ado, here is:

Man-Purse Interface

by Joanie Harmon (2004-ish)

When all the psychobabble and checkout stand magazines have failed to decode the mysterious behavior of men, it may be time to turn to a more primitive, yet no less canny method. Your Man from Mars can be easily read by his attitude towards that omnipotent symbol of Womanhood, the handbag.

Ever since his first encounter with his mother's purse as a child, modern man is perplexed and terrified by this quintessential female accoutrement. He doesn't know why it has to match your shoes. He doesn't understand that a woman's purse holds the tools needed to build and rebuild, when necessary, with safety pins and paper clips, civilization as we know it. A man's comfort level with this supreme proof of woman's resourcefulness and femininity is a good indicator of his comfort level in the relationship.

The most common dilemma of Man-Purse Interface (MPI) is the unwillingness of a male to hold onto one's bag when one is engaged in an activity that is not purse-friendly. This includes trips to unclean restrooms, trying clothes on in a fitting room and changing the baby's diapers. No woman would willingly abandon her Coach bag unless there was an awfully good reason. Men who protest and fidget when asked to do this simple favor are uncomfortable with their "female" side. Their concern is not for the well being of your patent leather, but for their reputation as a manly man. However tempting, try to resist the urge to whisper "Sissy" when passing an obviously disgruntled Steward of the Purse.

A unique hazard of MPI is the guy who swoops in and puts his arm around you while walking, regardless of the large tote bag that is wedged between the two of you. He often ignores your attempts to gently move it to your other shoulder. Until he is actually stopped in his tracks and told that this is an uncomfortable way to walk, he won't budge. The red flag here is a fear of intimacy and the need for a buffer zone to function in a relationship. It also displays an oblivion to immediate surroundings that is disconcerting and possibly dangerous. Steer clear of the guy who decides to make the best of it by switching sides and walking backwards. He is either mentally unstable or a long-lost Marx Brother.

Men whose MPI results in making you carry their "extra" stuff in your purse are needy and extremely high-maintenance. The most frivolous item the average man carries is a comb or among models of a certain vintage, a handkerchief. Don't let them fool you into thinking that these basic human necessities are too much of a burden for their square shoulders. They have failed to realize that the average woman worth her salt carries at least these items and the contents of a small medicine cabinet. If they were such solid and dependable men, they wouldn't need a woman to schlep their things for them. At best, they are incurable mama's boys. Worst case scenario: closet crossdressers who couldn't find a bag to match their loafers.

The most valuable litmus test provided by MPI is the ability to witness the greatest fear of all men. Somehow, being asked to fetch something out of the "forbidden" conveyance is akin to asking them to pick up Tampax at the store. Reactions range from complete refusal to simply bringing you the entire bag with the attitude of someone who is handling a dead cat. The childhood training that says "Stay out of Mother's purse" is ridiculously adhered to in the context of an adult relationship. This may mean that he does not want to get to know you on the inside. He is afraid to learn what makes you tick. It may also mean that his mother kept loaded mousetraps and live grenades in her Louis Vuitton satchel.

The House Next Door

by Brenda Knepper

One of these days, I’m going to go over and introduce myself to my new neighbors.

A few months ago, the woman who lived next door to me was killed in a drive-by shooting. I had often seen her sitting out on her front porch smoking cigarettes for the year or so that she and her three children had lived in the house next to mine. She was a young, pretty African American woman with very well-behaved kids -- two boys and a girl, all under 10. She had a boyfriend who was there some of the time. The boyfriend was very outgoing and usually had a big smile on his face. He chatted with me a few times -- he was a driver for a towing company in Compton and I had once told him the only tow truck story I have in my repertoire. She was quieter than he was, but would usually give me a little wave whenever I pulled into my driveway.

The family was a welcome change from the psychotic weirdo and his perpetually angry girlfriend who had lived in the house previously. This other guy stalked the young neighborhood boys -- slowly driving along side of them in his car as they rode their scooters down the sidewalk, glaring at them and cursing them. What the hell?? I saw him do this on a couple occasions and took to calling the police regularly to report this and other threatening behavior he exhibited, such as pacing in his front yard, swinging numchucks over his head on any given day. He seemed to want all the neighbors to know that we had better not mess with him. Why would we want to?

His mad-faced girlfriend would occasionally come out and fanatically spray, what I think must have been pet repellent, around the bushes in front of the house whenever a stray or our little cat, Sassy, wandered into their yard. Sassy didn’t know any better -- the neighbors before them had put food out for her. They LIKED her to come over.

When these two whackos finally moved out, many of us on the block were very happy. And relieved.

After a year of truly enjoying the new family with the friendly-enough adults and polite children, a few months ago I was shocked and saddened to hear that the young mother had been killed by a bullet from a passing car as she was coming out of a local mini-mart. Hit in the chest and died at the hospital a few hours later.

Within a week and a half after her murder, the house was empty again. Her poor, bereft children went to live with their poor, bereft grandparents. I have a picture, permanently etched in my mind now, of their young mom sitting on the porch, never growing any older.

I wish I had taken the time to walk across the yard and say hello. I didn’t know her well, but God I miss her.

This I--Maybe, or Perhaps Not-- Believe

by Janet Levine

For some time now—maybe months, maybe years, time really does fly when you---I’ve been hearing the This I Believe essays on NPR. I’ve long known that religiously I’m pretty much a live and let live non-believer. That is, I don’t much believe, but it’s okay with me if you do. Mainly, I don’t want to argue about it. What I didn’t realize, until I was listening to This I Believe, is that I’m pretty much that way about everything.

I wanted to write a This I Believe essay. But I couldn’t figure out what I believe. At first I thought about randomness. Then I realized that I don’t particularly believe in it, I just accept that it happens. Or that, maybe, there is a causal reason. So I believe in acceptance, except I think that I am in charge of most of my own life. I won’t ever go quietly into any day or night. In short, I’ll accept what suits me. And reject everything else.

Does that mean I believe in self-determination? Yes, to the degree that we can determine. Sometimes there is that randomness. Or other’s self-determination which impedes your own.

And then there’s…but, wait. On the other hand. But perhaps. Then again. And so forth.

A friend tells me she believes in the power of yes. I like that. But I’m not sure I believe in it. I’m not sure I can commit to something so concrete, any more than I could commit to any other ideology. And then it hits me.

I believe in But. And Maybe. And even Perhaps.

Then again, it’s possible that I don’t.

The Vision Thing

by Janet Levine

All it takes is standing on the back patio of Beatrice Wood’s former home/studio in Ojai to understand what is missing in my life. Vision. Well, actually view.

I know, when I look out across the valley that if I had this in my life, I wouldn’t always want to be doing something else. I would be content to sit in my garden, thinking deep thoughts (deep because they wouldn’t be fettered as they are now, confined within the walls of my living space).

Deep thoughts are as essential to my well being as is my rich fantasy life. For deep in whatever passes as my soul, I know that if I had a view like the one Beato got to look at daily, I would still be craving something else, something new, something different.

Maybe, after all, it is better to drive off with friends, go to beautiful sites, eat interesting and different foods, and above all, don’t expect any of it to translate into your every day life.

Okay, so it's this easy

Well, we all thought that creating a blog would be difficult, but this took two minutes. -- Brenda Knepper

MINI-REVIEW
Black-Eyed Pea Cakes at The Village Jester

These were very tasty, reminiscent of crab cakes I enjoyed years ago on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, only without the crab meat. Oh, and using black-eyed peas instead. And using a spicier bread crumb mix and serving diced mangos on the side. Hmmm . . . maybe they were nothing like those crab cakes after all.

Nevertheless, eating them in the company of my dear, dear friends Ann and Janet at The Village Jester restaurant in Ojai made the experience very enjoyable. Well, after Janet requested that the annoying rock music be turned down.

The Village Jester
139 E Ojai Ave., Ojai CA 93023
805-640-8001