I found out yesterday that Ángel was killed in a motorcycle accident. Maria Hoisington and I were privileged enough to share a bit of this life with him when he took part in our poetry project while in juvenile detention in
El Salvador. He was 20 years old. I had
just been chatting with him about how he wanted to try to make it up to LA so as to get
a job and send money back to his wife and 2-year old daughter whom he loved a
great deal. He was to embark on this risky journey this month, since it is
merely impossible for young people to “turn their lives around” in a country whose
legal system and law enforcement officials assume their guilt unless they can
afford a lawyer to prove their innocence. I want to share four pieces he wrote
for the book “Beneath a Gangster’s Mask,” as a tribute to his resilience, in
gratitude for his openness, and as a reminder that there is so much work to be
done to create a world where violence is not at the center of so many young
lives.
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| Ángel and his daughter. |
Abuse
Ángel
When my dad would come back drunk we would hide all of the knives
and broomsticks. He always took out his anger on us. He had a shit ton of women
and children. He even stole one of my girlfriends.
I have younger twin sisters. I remember that just for crying, he
used to hit one of them. One time he put his hand in her mouth to choke her.
Then he broke a broomstick on my mother’s head. A splinter got stuck in her
head and if she removes it she can die.
On Sundays we used to rest from selling all week at the market. I
would fix the car with my dad and he’d hit me with anything he had in his
hands; pliers, hammers, and screwdrivers. I would much rather have been working
on the street. When he didn’t beat me with sticks, he’d kick me and leave me
kneeling in sorghum seeds crying.
I didn’t say anything to my mom because I was too embarrassed,
until one day she found me crying. She asked, “are you hurt?” and she began to
cry. I knew that if she babied me, my dad would beat her.
When I didn’t sell enough avocados, he beat the shit out of me.
When he beat the shit out of me, I was filled with rage, and with this rage
inside I felt hatred and the urge to kill. I fear finding him because I don’t
know whether I’d kill him or hug him. Sometimes I love him, and sometimes I
hate him.
I wanted to hear that he loved me. I envied other happy families
because I was beaten all of the time. I wanted to hear that my dad was proud of
me and that I was intelligent. I didn’t want to hear that I was worthless and
that he wished I’d never been born.
Children exist to be cared for. They don’t exist to be beaten,
treated like slaves, and manipulated. A parent’s role is to care for them and
give them a good example and all that they need, not to obligate them to
provide for the family. Be good parents. If not, your children will feel the
same hatred for you that I feel towards my father.
Ángel always had a far off gaze in his eyes when
he re-imagined his childhood. His pain was palpable, but so was his
determination to change the course of his life and to shower his own daughter
with all of the love he had never received. His wife used to visit him at the
detention center as their child grew in her stomach, and after one of those
visits he wrote the piece below:
She Seeks My Warmth
-Ángel
She Seeks My Warmth
-Ángel
On Wednesday she brought me the ultrasound,
all rolled up.
You could see her tiny eye, nose, and mouth
at three and a half months.
I felt happy and nervous
as if I already had my daughter in my hands.
I kissed the photo and I kissed my wife.
I couldn’t wait to meet her!
I kissed her belly and I said:
“I love you my love.”
I started playing with her belly
and the baby pushed back on my hand.
My wife says that my daughter seeks me
when we are together.
She seeks my warmth.
When he was released from the detention center,
she became the center of his world. He loved her dearly, and it pains me to know
that she will grow up without his warmth and without a single memory of him.Ángel spent years in juvenile detention, and he was well aware of how gang members are treated as scapegoats for all social ills in El Salvador. They are treated as the problem, rather than the symptom of years of exclusion and marginalization. He wrote the following piece as he reflected on the injustice and discrimination that had defined his life and that awaited him upon his release:
To Those in the System
-Angel
They
say no to robbery
No
to extortion
No
to killing.
But
they won’t
provide
work or support.
Just
because we’re gangsters
they
discriminate against us
They
don’t let us live in peace.
How
do they have the right to demand things of us
when
they offer us nothing?
They
say yes to massive round-ups
Yes
to “capture them all”
Yes
to “give them a ton of years in jail”
Yes
to eliminate gangs
Yes
to social cleansing.
I
say no to abusing people
No
to discrimination
No
to humiliation.
Yes
to support
Yes
to being taken into account
Yes
to being helped
Yes
to opportunities.
A
gangster is no better or worse than a civilian.
We
all have the same value
No
matter who we are.
See
me for who I am, not for who I was.
 |
| Ángel with his partner and his daughter shortly after being released from detention. |
A Man’s Desire
Ángel
If
I were a bird
I
would go far away from where I am.
I
would fly away until I found a tranquil place
with
no problems
without
anyone telling me what to do
just
to enjoy a moment of peace.
If
I were a turtle
I
would enjoy the slow life.
I
would see the beauty of the sea
feeling
free
soaking
up the solitude.
I
would submerge myself into the depths
leaving
all of my problems in the waves.
If
I were a bat
I
would hang from a branch
and
see the beauty of the sky
the
brilliance of the stars and the moon,
to
feel myself alone
without
anyone looking at me or criticizing me.
If
I were a dog
I
would care for the people I love most,
I wouldn’t
let anyone near them.
If
someone wanted to rob them,
I
would defend them.
I
would stay with them all of the time.
But
I am a man.
I
can’t become an animal
but
I have hopes of becoming
a
good person.
I hope that on this Easter Sunday, we can
recommit ourselves to breaking down the fortresses we have constructed to
protect our fragile lives. I hope we can step out of our nicely decorated
churches, our comfortable homes, and our minds full of fear and self-doubt, and
that we can encounter those whose stories just might break our hearts, but
whose resilience and wisdom will surely astound and inspire us. After all, it is in and
through this union that we might come to know the daily practice of
resurrection as we work together to build inclusive and loving communities.
