Dedan's Reflections: A Different Kind of Shooting in Watts
By Dedan Gills

Our plan for that day was to pick up Demaria from his home in the Nickerson Gardens Housing Project and have breakfast at Jordan's Café. From there we would attend a memorial service being held in memory of Dadisi Sanyika and spend the remainder of the day filming and interviewing family and friends back at Nickerson. These are some of my thoughts and observations of that journey.

William Nickerson, Jr., the founder of largest Black-owned insurance company in the history of America, Golden State Mutual, was an exemplary businessman and civil rights activist, a man of high standards that had a commitment to uplifting the race. He was a visionary who lived and died dedicated to this dream. Nickerson died in 1945 leaving a legacy that continues to thrive until this day. In 1955 a housing project was built to accommodate approximately 5,000 people on 66.6 acres of land set aside for government housing for the poor. The intent was to provide low cost transitional housing, giving the residents an opportunity to save money and get a new start in life. After over fifty years it has been generally agreed that the concept of concentrating so many poor people geographically contains the seeds of a poor design. Ironically this project located in the community of Watts was named after the late William Nickerson, Jr., a man of high hopes and dreams.

The Nickerson Gardens is considered by many as the most violent, drug infested, crime riddled neighborhood in the country. Contrary to its name there are no gardens in this place, just dwindling hope, broken dreams and nightmares that never end. Despite the bleakness of their situation, like the lotus blossom, sometimes the noblest of souls are spawned in the quagmire of human despair. Nickerson may have turned over in his grave, appalled that his good name is attached to such a toxic place, but he might want to turn and take another peek. Like lotus flowers that bloom in murky waters, there are young people with vision and dreams growing here, and Demaria Perry is one of them.

When we arrived at around 8:00AM, the projects was still sleep. Demaria met us outside dressed and ready to go. We asked Demaria if we could we take a look around his unit before we left in order to get a feel for how life was for him at home. He agreed and motioned us to come in. I thought about how it was when I lived in the projects as a child with my four sisters and grandparents and felt a flush of embarrassment at the thought of a film crew walking through our unit while we still slept. I was the last one through the door. As I stepped in I could see a body wrapped up in a blanket with his head covered. I remembered how I used to sleep on the couch in the living room and on Saturday mornings when my sisters' friends came over to get their hair curled and pressed, how ashamed I was when I had to pee and couldn't hold it any longer and had to walk pass them in my drawers. In the early morning shadows of Demaria's living room I almost felt that I was looking at myself lying on that couch. Feeling uncomfortable for us both I retreated to the car. Oblivious to my discomfort and his, Damani continued the shoot.

As we were preparing to leave for breakfast, Demaria suggested that we go and view the memorial wall. The wall, erected in 1985, is about twelve feet high and twenty feet long, built in memory of those who have lost their lives to the violence that stalks the place. Over seven hundred names grace the wall forgotten by most every one except a mother's love. As I watched the innocence of children playing in it's shadow I wondered how many of their names would someday be scrawled across the memory of its ugly face. Unlike the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, DC, there are no flowers, no wailing, no tears, just cold cinder blocks and unfulfilled dreams. Right across the street Blank Baptist church stood silent. I bowed my head in shame and sorrow as I watched the beauty of the glitter of sunlight bounce off the tragedy of the broken crack pipe on the ground near my feet. I remembered the Contras, the cocaine, and through my tears I read the names on the wall. I wondered how many children and grandchildren of the children I had played with as a child in these projects whose names might be on this wall. I thanked God for rescuing me from the tragedy of this place. I knew that this violence was like a virus-it was in Nickerson today, but if we didn't do anything to change this horror it would be at our doorstep tomorrow.

The car was almost silent as we left for breakfast. Damani obviously shaken, kept repeating to himself while shaking his head, "This is unreal! I can't believe this s***! Did you see all those names? This is just one housing project in one corner of Los Angeles. Multiply the number of those names across the ghettos of America...across the world Oh my God," he whispered. "Oh my God!" Seeking to escape the pain of Damani's words I peered out the window only to be reminded how real it was by the poverty of the streets of Watts.

Thankfully, there was temporary relief as we arrived for a delicious home style breakfast at the historic Jordan's Café, known for its huge pancakes, catfish, home made, biscuits and eggs. Jordan's is one the last Black-owned businesses on Wilmington Avenue, what used to be a thriving thoroughfare of nightlife, churches and other small shops. Now Wilmington is filled with abandoned storefronts and littered streets. But on Saturday morning a whisper of its old glory is re-ignited when old Watts alumni come from miles around to reminisce about the good old days, talk business and commune with old neighbors. The air is filled with the succulent smell of homemade sausage and fried fish. The waitresses are sassy and down home and don't take no stuff. The atmosphere is happy and contagious. Out bursts of raucous laughter seemed to be the driving force that fueled the energy that kept the memories of better days alive in the magic of this place. Walking into Jordan's was like entering another world for a moment. It almost seemed as if the squalor and despair outside its doors disappeared into the oasis of its joy. There was also a subtle sadness here, no one spoke it out loud, but everyone knew Jordan's last days were upon us.

Demaria was at home here, you could see that these were his people and his community. He moved with the grace of a smooth and seasoned politician. He exuded a confidence and charm way beyond the seventeen years of his young life.

Over breakfast he talked to us about how he tries to help the troubled young people of his community. He shared with us that he often counsels young girls who are already pregnant in their early teens on the importance of taking care of their unborn children. In very simple and passionate language he spoke of how he tries to be a positive and living example to his peers by treating these young girls with honor dignity and respect no matter what they have done in the past. "In my opinion," he said, "the majority of the men in my generation do not respect women and this is a curse that must be broken. Despite the many challenges," he went on to say, "I am proud of myself and the work that I do here. I love the people of this community. This is where I work and play." We would learn, as the day went by, that the people of this community seemed to love him equally in return.

After we gorged ourselves with Jordan's delectable fare we headed for the memorial service that was being held just a few short blocks away to celebrate the life of African drummer, dancer, educator, and spiritual leader, Dadisi Sanyika, who had recently passed away. As we were leaving Jordan's one of the local Watts community leaders took the opportunity to confer with and share some inspirational words with Demaria. The gentleman perhaps in his late forties or early fifties afforded young Demaria the attention and respect normally given from one adult to another. However, by the tone of their exchange it was made patently clear that Demaria is deeply respected for the positive energy, hard work and vision that he brings to challenge the demons of poverty, mis-education, benign neglect, drugs, and the gangs violence that has haunted this community long before he was ever born.

Just a few blocks from Jordan's, as we entered the memorial site, we could hear the beat of ceremonial drums as hundreds of people gathered to honor the life and work of Professor Sanyika. Unlike the boisterous working class atmosphere of Jordan's, this was the remnant of the activist community inspired by Malcolm X and the political activism of the 60s. The unique gift of Professor Sanyika is that he did not stop there. He went on to become a yoga master and martial artist, but his passion was the study of ancient Kemet (Egypt) and the belief in what he referred to as "the religion of the heart." Professor Sanyika remained eclectic in his approach to learning until prostrate cancer cut short his life. One of my fondest memories is witnessing his delight when he received his certification in perhaps his last wisdom pursuit on this plane, the relatively new and exciting world of permaculture, a technique of problem-solving by mimicking the patterns of nature. One of his last dreams was to pass this wisdom to the South Los Angeles community so they could make better use of the land and environment in order for them to live in a healthy and sustainable way.

I thought it odd, although Demaria knew of Professor Sanyika, that for two people in such close geographical proximity, as well as sharing the same dream of uplifting the condition of their community to have never met. I wondered what unseen energy could have kept their worlds apart in their common quest to bring healing to the suffering in this place.

As we sat and listened to the speakers I took the opportunity to read from the program honoring Professor Sanyika's life. There were some quotes that I felt where relevant to our discussions on consciousness and social/global healing. He stated: "The level of a persons or community's consciousness determines reality. If we want to change reality, we must first change the consciousness that creates that reality, as one cannot create for themselves a new and better world while that consciousness that created the old remains to perpetuate its mistakes. To create a world of Health, Prosperity and Happiness we must first develop a culture of higher consciousness with the courage to follow the wisdom of the heart." It went on to quote Professor Sanyika's last words as he passed from this world. They were, "Love is the only thing." "Touch is the key." and "This is not home." As I looked over at Demaria, I sensed that he struggled to understand this "other world" that lived right in the midst of his own community. I prayed in my own heart that he would someday grasp the meaning of Professor Sanyika's words and their dreams would then merge into one.

As we returned to the Nickerson Projects a menacing group of young men belonging to the Bounty Hunters, the street gang that claims the Nickersons as their territory, confronted us as we got out of the car near the memorial wall which is adjacent to the gymnasium. This is the heart of the projects; it was now teeming with life. The gangs of Los Angeles identify themselves by color and the city is literally divided by gang territories. The largest of those gangs being the Crips, whose color is blue. The other major gang is the Bloods, whose color is red. Each territory is characterized by smaller gangs who operate under the Blood or Crip color. Therefore the Nickersons is in Blood territory, but their gang name is Bounty Hunters.

"Put the f***in' camera down," a tall, strikingly handsome young man shouted menacingly as we walked towards the gym. There must have been about six or seven of them. They all wore some article of clothing that bore the notorious blood red color signifying their gang affiliation. There is one thing about street gangs that is of grave importance to understand. If you concede to their demands too easily they demand more and become more aggressive. If you become immediately and aggressively resistant than it will immediately escalate into confrontation. There is a delicate balance where you can't show fear or aggression. We were all pretty street savvy and used the intuition of unspoken conversation (body language) which held them at bay long enough for one of the members of the Watts Neighborhood council members (who we later learned was trained in nonviolent conflict resolution) to signal Demaria over to discuss the matter. Meanwhile the tall young man snorting, prancing and gesticulating with his arms, like an angry young bull elephant about to charge, snarled menacingly, that he "was tired of motherf***as comin' down here makin' money off of us. If you want to take pictures of us you gots ta pay."

Demaria and the young man, Calvin Hodges, conferred for what seemed like an eternity when suddenly Demaria turned smiling confidently while waving us over. Calvin informed us that he sounded so aggressive because he said that's the only language those fools understand. He escorted us through the gym where we resumed filming and interviewing.

I must admit I was a bit shaken because I know how easily violence and death can erupt in the world of gangs and despair. Demaria assured us that there was never anything to fear. I asked him why and he said, "This community respects me and what I try to do here." While laughing, he said, "They was just posturing they wasn't going to do anything to you while you were with me." I won't share my thoughts on that one.

Dedan Gills, a poet, writer and former 60's activist grew up in Watts and is a long time resident of Los Angeles. Currently he is an active member and participant in one of the first urban eco-villages in the country. He is also a member of the Los Angeles Permaculture Guild and a board member of the Watts Garden Club, a non-profit community-based organization that works with at-risk youth in South Central Los Angeles. For the past several years he has worked as a counselor for the Mary Lind Foundation, a community-based healing and treatment center.