"Making a bold stand for peace"

In Richmond's tough Iron Triangle neighborhood, residents frustrated with a spate of killings erect an encampment to help stem the violence

Chip Johnson, SF Chronicle
Wednesday, October 11, 2006

The law-abiding, God-fearing residents of the Iron Triangle, a tough neighborhood in central Richmond, have pitched their tents in a bold and unusual stand against a deadly wave of violence that swept through the city like an end-of-summer wildfire.

Those who live in the area, named for the railroad lines that define its boundaries, already cope with routine daily crime, from prostitution to gunfire. But even the most hardened of them were outraged by brazen shootings involving rival gangs, drug dealers and family factions that left six people dead and more than a dozen injured.

It began Sept. 10, when 16-year-old Sean Melson was shot in the head and killed in nearby North Richmond. And it reached its worst point two weeks later at the funeral of Sedrick Mills, 25, at a mortuary in downtown Richmond that was packed with 200 mourners -- including Eugene Moore, 45, the cousin of a 25-year-old man charged in Mills' death. A pallbearer walked up to Moore and shot him in the face, seriously injuring him in an apparent act of revenge, police said.

Shocked funeral patrons were too intimidated to identify the gunman, who remains at large. But they had seen enough -- and could take no more. The Rev. Andre Shumake contacted the local NAACP chapter president and an ex-con-turned-savior, and the three of them hatched plans for a community sit-in.

The day after the funeral, Sept. 24, Tent City was born at Nevin Park at Fourth Street and Macdonald Avenue, the epicenter of the violence. And in the 17 days since two dozen courageous souls took over one of the Bay Area's most notorious crime spots, there has been just one killing, fewer gunshots and no drug dealing in sight.

Richmond's understaffed police force says the spontaneous community stand is making a difference.

"The people have started to take the city back," said Lt. Mark Gagan, "and they've started in the most dangerous part of the city. They have pitched their tents within a few hundred yards of where at least five people have been murdered ...."

Not surprisingly, Nevin Park for years has been a largely forgotten city park. It is known more for the memorial shrines that sit on three sides of it than the children who come to play there. On Friday night, when I was there, a prostitute strolled at Fifth and Macdonald, the only empty corner of the park.

But it's not all bad. City officials did turn on park lights for the campers, telling them it was the first time the lights had been on in six years, said Shumake.

Tent City sits across from Rancho Market, the site of three shootings in the past 18 months. There is a shrine in the store parking lot, and gunmen fired more than 40 rounds at Reginald Collier, who died of his wounds Sept. 14 across the street from the market.

A wrought-iron fence divides the lot from the sidewalk, and it's covered with balloons and flowers and a sign that reads, "Stop the Killing."

This is Tent City's third week, and there are a dozen tents and one RV. Food is prepared in an area covered with a tarp. Chairs ring a 55-gallon drum converted into a stand-up fireplace for warmth.

The camp is a mix of Richmond's African American community, church folk and street denizens. There is a sound system that, under a prearranged agreement, plays both gospel and rhythm and blues. Rap music is not allowed at the sites. People mingle, share stories, show visitors the memorial table and tell their stories.

Albert Lee, 48, lost his niece Sheila Givens and friend Donald Bonner, shot dead "for nothing," he said, right across the street. He reminisced about the dead, referring to them by their street names: Fat Dan, Shiny Bow, Kool-Aid. All dead and gone.

And while the Nevin Park encampment doesn't have all the creature comforts, it will do for now, said Tent City visitor Debra Clark, 50.

"I'm here trying to stop the violence the only way I know how," Clark said as she pointed out photographs of more than half a dozen relatives on a table covered with obituary programs. Nary a soul past 30 years old is among the photos of more than 100 people killed over the years.

"We're losing too many loved ones," Clark said. "Pretty soon there won't be no more tears."

North Richmond resident Wilma Miller said the recent violence has overwhelmed her ability to comfort and console friends who'd lost relatives to the violence.

"I've been cooking meals and taking them to people who've lost loved ones, but there's been so many, you can't do that much cooking," said Miller, a Tent City stalwart. She was one of about 30 people who mingled at the camp as night fell on Friday, talking, laughing and standing vigil.

The encampment attracts homeless residents and people who stand across the fence and watch the goings-on.

No one is turned away, everyone who's hungry is fed, and the community is trying to settle its own differences to make the project a success.

In the process of bringing the community together for a common goal, some members of the faith-based community had difficulty accepting all of the players. Some felt it was inappropriate -- or just plain wrong -- to work with former criminals, the very people who laid the groundwork for what's going on now, said Shumake.

"It took three days to convince the faith community to stop judging the others, but what we've figured out in Richmond is that we can't do this on our own," he said. "The community has tried, the churches have tried and we've all failed.

"There are guys who were caught up in this life, some are former (drug) dealers and these are the people with the street reputations the youngsters will listen to," he said. "Our sole purpose is to stop these homicides."

One of the former street soldiers is Freddie Jackson, 42, who says his criminal record goes back to when he was 10 years old. He spent about 13 years in prison for crimes including attempted murder, assault and armed robbery, but now he attends church, holds a steady job and feels responsible for what's been left in his wake.

"We dropped the ball in the 1980s and picked up the guns, and we've reaped what we sowed," said Jackson. He said the bond between those committing the violence rested on a dysfunctional premise. "It's based on a messed-up kind of love, because you're not supposed to wake up somebody in the middle of the night to go kill someone else across town," he said.

Even Jackson admits he must choose his words carefully when speaking to the younger kids, the ones who think the gangster life is one worth living for or dying for.

"What do I tell a 14-year-old boy who just lost his 6-year-old brother?" he asked. "I can't talk to them about God, because they don't know God in their life. They don't want to hurt nobody, but on these streets they know they can't afford to look soft."

The organizers want to use the momentum of the Tent City to spark a community awakening to end the killings, and it's a good start. They've set two more encampments, using Army tents on loan from the California National Guard, at Shields Reid Park on the north end of the city and at John F. Kennedy Park on the south side.

But they deserve and are going to need far more help than city government has shown so far.

Rep. George Miller, D-Martinez, visited the site last week. Other visits have come from members of the Richmond City Council, but only Mayor Irma Anderson has pitched in.

She brought a box of grits and a pound of bacon, and workers on her re-election campaign showed up in "Elect Irma Anderson" T-shirts for one day.

A week after Tent City was erected, Jesse Woodson, 24, was killed three blocks away in a drive-by shooting at 1st and Macdonald. But that did not kill the hopes and dreams of those living where hopes and dreams could have been dashed long ago.

"The energy of the Tent City is to stop street-level violence, provide an opportunity for families of murder victims to come together and build some good will," Gagan said.

"There's a palpable feeling on the streets because of it -- and we could sure use it."

For now, organizers are grateful about simple things that most people take for granted. Shumake marveled that two young girls, probably out too late, were able to walk across well-lit Nevin Park last week.

"Wouldn't it be nice if it was like this all the time?" he asked.