On an early Saturday morning, several members of an enemy gang, with faces obscured in ski masks, enter a part of the projects where they are certain to catch some rivals "slippin'." They turn a corner and see three brothers enjoying the bright early morning sun right outside their kitchen door. Clearly, the older two, Rickie and Adam, twenty and eighteen, are targets for the invading masked men, but in the frenzy of bullets flying, their twelve-year-old brother, Jacob, not from any gang, is felled, and his brothers' lives are altered immeasurably and forever.
I had known this family since 1984 and watched how, almost imperceptibly, the older brothers would dance close to the gang life and then drift back to other, safer boundaries. Eventually, they were in, and the death of their baby brother, from a bullet inscribed with other names, would be their pervasive and enduring wound for some time to come.
I hired them both shortly after their brother was killed, and they worked in our Homeboy Merchandising division, selling T-shirts, mugs, mouse pads, and a variety of items sporting the Homeboy logo. They worked closely with enemies--even those who belonged to the gang surely responsible for their brother's death.
A speaking gig to San Francisco came up, and I invited them both--thinking a change of scenery would restore them. They were very excited but completely confounded to discover (once we were at the airport) that, well, we were going to fly and not drive. I guess I thought I had made this clear. Seeing their panic, I decide not to calm them down. Instead, I stop under the wing of the Southwest Airlines plane (at Burbank Airport you walk the tarmac and climb the steps) and stare up, with consternation. "Uh-oh," I say as they rush to my side in a breathless "What?" "What?" unison. I point. "I don't know--is that a crack in the wing, or am I seeing things?" It takes them both a while to see what I'm doing, and they say in brotherly chorus, "You ain't right." "Damn, don't be doing that."
We climb the stairs and find our seats. Rickie lets his younger brother, Adam, get "SHOTGUN" (which I suggest is usually not a thing one tends to yell on planes nowadays). Quickly they discover the laminated emergency cards in the pouch before them, and Adam thinks they're menus and that we're in a flying Denny's. "Two oxygens, please, when you get a chance," he says to the "waitress," who fortunately for all involved does not actually hear him. The pilot speaks over the intercom and drones on in his pilot cadence, "We'll be traveling at an altitude of, etc. . . thank you for flying Southwest Airlines." I shake my head with some force. "Damn, I hate that." Again they turn and begin the "What?" "What?" refrain. "It's ten a.m., and I think our pilot has had a couple of 40s already," making tippling gestures with my hand. "OK . . . cut . . . that . . . out." They seem to be catching on more quickly now.
"Well, what I want to know is, where's the parachute at?" Adam asks, searching everywhere one might search for such a thing. "Well, there is no parachute," I say, becoming Mr. Rogers on a dime. "NO PARACHUTE?" Adam squeals, a bit worked up. "Well, what we sposed ta do if THIS SHIT CRASHES?" Now I'm Mr. Rogers on Valium. "Well, I'll tell you what to do in the event of a crash." They could not be one bit more attentive. "Are your seat belts securely fastened?" They check and nod earnestly. "Okay, now lean forward." They are very compliant. "No, you have to lean as far as you can--is that as far as you can go?" They are so low, I can barely register the nodding of their heads. "Okay," I say, steady and calm as she goes, "Now . . . if you can reach . . . kiss your asses good-bye . . . cuz that's all you'll be able to do if this thing goes down." They can't even believe that their chain has been yanked so egregiously. "Que gacho, right there." "You . . . ain't . . . right."
Takeoff (as is always the case with novice homie flyers) transforms these two big gangsters into old ladies on a roller coaster. As usual, there is great sighing and clutching and rapid signs of the cross. Adam and Ricky can't take their eyes off the tiny window to their right and manage plenty of "Oh, my God's" and "This is proper." Terror melting into wonder, then slipping into peace. The peanuts and sodas are delivered, and they feel special (they were later to report to those back at the office, "They EVEN gave us peanuts!"). Then, after we climb above the bounce, Ricky pats Adam's chest, as they both look out above their own clouds, and whispers, "I love doing this with you, brother."
Life, after unspeakable loss, becoming poetry again. In this together, two brothers, locked arms, delighting in the view from up here.
Thomas Merton writes, "No despair of ours can alter the reality of things, or stain the joy of the cosmic dance which is always there . . . We are invited to forget ourselves on purpose, cast our awful solemnity to the winds and join in the general dance." The cosmic dance is simply always happening, and you'll want to be there when it happens.
--Gregory Boyle, from Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion. New York: Free Press, 2010, pp 163-166.
