How Long Will I Cry?

by Miles Harvey

  Then during that two-month time period, I met my daughter’s father on a street corner. I was waiting for the bus and he was at a gas station. And he stopped. He said hello. We talked. We exchanged numbers—pager numbers. I didn’t have a phone. We just started talking, and then we went out on a couple of dates with some friends. I didn’t want to go out with him by myself. And I would say about two or three months afterwards, I found out I was pregnant. And in some sick kind of way, it was almost like, “Yes, now I’m pregnant. I got somewhere to live.”

  And so I moved in with him into an apartment where he had no gas and no light because he couldn’t pay the gas or light. They shut it off. I’ll never forget. It was February 1991 when I moved into that apartment, and it was horribly, horribly cold. I was still in school—Wells High School, which is in West Town. Even though I ran away from home, I was still going to school, but I was always afraid that my parents would show up there trying to find me. Now I was pregnant and didn’t want my parents to find me, so I said that’s it and I decided to drop out.

  But I didn’t even know this guy, clearly. After three months, he started to become physically abusive. And I didn’t want to say anything to anybody. And at the same time, in some sick kind of way, I had developed a love for him. I was in love, or whatever that was, at the time. He wasn’t only physically abusive, but he was psychologically abusive. He would do things like go out and not come home, and I wouldn’t know where he was. There was this whole fear: Is he dead or is he alive? I would imagine that he would be with somebody else. That was very difficult. I couldn’t sleep, and here I was pregnant. I had no job. I had no education. I had no insurance. I had nothing, so now I was fully dependent on him.

  For months, my parents didn’t know if I was dead or alive. But my best friend was in total disagreement with what I was doing. So one day, she figured out a way to get in contact with my mom, and my mom showed up at the apartment. My parents were basically, “We don’t want you to struggle. We want this to be over and we want to help you.” That pretty much mended the relationship with my parents. My dad just wanted to make sure that I was okay. And I let them back into my life and started over with them.

  My parents helped us get a nice little apartment, and my dad gave us the security deposit. They gave us a whole bunch of furniture. We had a pretty nice place to live in Humboldt Park. But the day that I was giving birth, the moment I was giving birth to my daughter, I could hear him on the phone with another woman and that changed my life—I mean, big time. The rage and the violence just came back. I was tremendously hurt, because here I was having this baby. I was a mother, and now I had to deal with something I’d never dealt with. It affected me so much psychologically and emotionally that I found myself fighting a lot with him. And this time, when he would fight me, I would fight back. I’d come out really beat up.

  And so in 1993, when my daughter Syra was 2 years old, we had a really big fight, and I called the police. And the police came and he was just wearing jogging pants, no shoes, no socks, no shirt, and it was winter. It was December 10th. And there was so much snow outside. And so they were going to take him into custody and he was begging me, “Don’t let them take me. Don’t let them take me. Don’t press charges. Please, please just don’t.”

  I was just done. I looked at the cops. I just said, “Take him.” When I said that, all I felt was a fist right in my face. He punched me so hard and I hit the ground and there was blood everywhere. And the cops were struggling with him to handcuff him, so they started beating him to restrain him, to handcuff him. And they were walking him out the door, and, the moment they got out the door, they all slipped and fell because of the snow. So when the two police officers and my daughter’s father slipped and fell, he jumped up and took off running. And he was handcuffed. They took off running and they couldn’t find him.

  They looked and looked and looked. They called other cops, and other cops came, and when they couldn’t find him, one of the cops came in and said to me, “You’re under arrest.”

  And I looked at him and I was like, “What do you mean I’m under arrest?”

  “You’re under arrest for obstructing the police.”

  And I’m like, “What are you talking about? What do you mean obstructing the police?”

  And he’s like, “Ma’am, just come with us.”

  Now, I had my 2-year-old daughter and my 4-year-old stepson with me, because at this point, his son was living with us because his mother had abandoned him. They put me in the police car with these two kids and took me to the police station. While I was sitting in the police station, confused, a cop came up to me and told me, “This is off the record. If you ever say it, I’m going to deny it. The only reason we are taking you into custody is that he escaped handcuffed, and we can’t find him, and we need to blame somebody. If we don’t, we could be suspended for two weeks with no pay. If you say it, I’ll deny it.”

  When we went to court, I chose not to press charges. I was 20 years old with no money. I didn’t know anything about the law. I didn’t know anything about rights. I was threatened with two or three years of jail time if I didn’t plead guilty, but if I plead guilty, they would plead for six months of supervision. So I pled guilty and walked out of there.59

  I didn’t leave him right away, but a few months later, when he went to work one day, my best friend and her brothers came with a moving truck, and in a matter of three hours we packed up the apartment and cleared it out. I left him with a mattress and a roll of toilet paper. We put all of my furniture in storage and I went to live with my parents. At that point, I decided I had to do something with my life. I said, “I can’t live like this.”

  And that’s when my best friend and I decided to go take our GED test. The moment I looked at those results, I went straight to Northeastern Illinois University in Chicago and I started college. From then until I graduated, I went to school full-time and I worked full-time in a pharmacy and I was taking care of my daughter.

  My initial plan was to go on to law school, but I began to volunteer at the Juvenile Temporary Detention Center here in Cook County, and I would visit kids who didn’t receive visits, and I became interested in kids that were involved in the juvenile-justice system.60 So I applied in Lake County as a juvenile probation officer, but I couldn’t be a probation officer right off the bat because I didn’t have experience, so I had to work in the Detention Center. I came in with a law-enforcement kind of attitude. I was like, “I’m going to tell these kids what to do. And if not, there’s a consequence.” That was my thinking.

  I walked in and got a wake-up call real quick, because now I was dealing with kids who had the same attitude I had when I was 13, 14, 15: “I don’t feel. I don’t care. Lock me up in my room.” I mean, I had never been to jail or anything, but some of these kids had been in and out of juvenile detention, so me saying I’m going to put them in their room was not a threat. They would curse me all the way there and sometimes they would have to be restrained. What it did was change my attitude with the kids.

  It involved me doing less talking, and I started doing more listening, just to kind of understand who these kids were, what they were doing, where did they come from. Because of legal reasons, I couldn’t talk to them about the offense they committed. But where did they live? Where did they come from? Is there a mom? Is there a dad? I would notice the kids who didn’t get visits or some of them that got visits that would be very contentious. The kids would come back very upset. And then there would be those who had visits every week, very positive visits, so I saw there were all different types of kids with different types of experiences.

  And after I became a probation officer for juvenile offenders, I began going into their communities, into their homes. Here I saw kids who didn’t have parents, or girls who had a dad but didn’t have a mom, or Mom was a drug addict. What I realized is that people judge these kids on their behavior in the communities and schools, and they have no idea what they’re going through
at home. Just like how people judged me when I was their age, and I was acting like this, a little delinquent. But they had no idea what I was going through at home, no idea. I was not going to say, “Oh, poor kids, I know you’re having a hard time at home. Go out and act a fool.” But I felt a sense of connection with these kids.

  I dealt with some of the most thuggish gangbangers. I dealt with some of the snottiest kids from the snootiest suburbs, and they were still kids that came from dysfunctional homes and were judged just by their behavior. That was a whole new awakening for me.

  I wanted to have all of them understand that there is a better way, and that there is hope, and that there are things you can do to get out of your situation. You cannot make this the rest of your life. You have to change. And when I told them my own story, they felt like, “She understands. She’s not okay with what I’m doing, but she understands.”

  So now I had them listening. I had their ear.

  There was this young girl that I met. She was probably 15 years old when the case was first assigned to me and I’ll never forget, when I drove up to her house there were all these gangbangers in front of her house. I mean, our policy was if you don’t feel safe, drive off, but I was like, “No, no, no. This girl’s not going to be hanging out with gangbangers.”

  So I got out of my car and I walked up to her and she just had this mean look on her face. I identified myself and said, “They got to go. We need to talk.” I explained my role and told her what was acceptable and what was not, and then I set up appointments to meet with her at the office. When I started to get to know her, I realized she lived with her aunt, uncle and cousins. And then I found out that the mom was in and out of prison, and when she wasn’t in prison she would just be gone. Mom was a crack addict.

  This girl was a fighter. Oh my God! All this girl would do is fight. She was on probation for hitting a kid over the head with a padlock at school. She ran around with the Satan Disciples in Waukegan61 and she got high. Smoked a lot of marijuana. That’s what she did, smoked a lot of marijuana. She was this angry, angry girl, and it was almost like I was seeing me at her age. Me and her would butt heads all the time and I would give her a run for her money and she would get very angry with me. And then I started to realize that she didn’t have her dad. Her mom had prostituted herself. She had witnessed this as a very young girl. I’m sure she went through some sort of abuse. She cut herself a lot.

  In one of our moments, I said to her, “You know, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry you went through what you went through, but it’s not your fault.”

  I think that was like a breakthrough for her. Somebody had given her

  permission to be angry. And I don’t think anybody had ever said that to her. All of a sudden I discovered this little girl. This little girl. I just think she was just trapped in that traumatized body of hers. I mean, I have lots of stories, but for me that was probably the most impactful because that’s where I knew that what worked for me was going to work for her. That was just accountability, structure and someone to listen, to say, “It’s okay.” And to celebrate the rewards, dish out the consequences when needed, and let it work for her own good. She was on probation for a long time. She would email me every so often to ask me how I was doing and tell me she was doing well.

  The last time I Googled her name, just to see, oh my God, what am I going to find? Was she arrested as an adult or something like that? And what I found was an article of her with a bunch of other people in Mississippi after Hurricane Katrina. She was down there helping to rebuild homes. So it was a proud moment. It was almost as if she was my daughter, and I was like, “Wow! Here was this thug, wreaking havoc in the town of Waukegan and she’s now in this town in Mississippi, helping people rebuild.” That was awesome.

  See, if you’re not going to try to figure out what is going on or what has happened with a young person, then you’re simply punishing the kid; you’re not dealing with the behavior. So you can’t restore. That’s the real question: How do you restore?

  —Interviewed by Emma CushmanWood

  Endnotes

  59 Figueroa reports that, when she wanted to become a probation officer, her guilty plea “came back to haunt me. It was going to ruin my career.” Luckily, she was able to get her record expunged.

  60 According to the Cook County website, “The Juvenile Temporary Detention Center provides temporary secure housing for youth from the age of 10 through 16 years, who are awaiting adjudication of their cases by the Juvenile Division of the Cook County Courts. The Center also provides care for youth who have been transferred from Juvenile Court jurisdiction to Criminal Court. These youth would otherwise be incarcerated in the county jail.” See http://www.cookcountygov.com/portal/server.pt/community/juvenile_temporary_detention_center/304/juvenile_temporary_detention_center

  61 Waukegan is a racially diverse suburb about 40 miles north of Chicago.

  WHERE IN THIS COMMUNITY DOES IT

  SAY WE CARE?

  DIANE LATIKER

  Diane Latiker has been a resident of the Roseland community for more than two decades. This South Side neighborhood has one of Chicago’s highest homicide rates and is plagued by poverty and unemployment. In 2003, Latiker, a mother of eight, opened her home to at-risk youth seeking a positive alternative to gang involvement. Her living room became a place for tutoring, mentoring and artistic expression for the young people of the neighborhood. Ten years later, Latiker’s nonprofit organization, Kids Off the Block (KOB), has helped more than 2,000 kids.

  In 2007, “Miss Diane,” as young people call her, created a memorial near KOB that contains rows of carved red paving stones. Each stone bears the name of a child who was killed by street violence in Chicago. The memorial currently has 376 bricks and, even though she has already rebuilt it nine times, Latiker still needs to add the names of 118 murdered children. In October of 2012, the Chicago City Council passed an ordinance for a 12,500-square-foot site to be made into a public park and expanded memorial so that KOB can continue its work.

  A charismatic woman with a quick smile and big laugh, Latiker is both passionate and resilient. In one moment, she welcomes a youth at KOB with a gentle greeting; in another, she pounds her fist on the table when advocating for change.

  I grew up with unity. To me, unity consists of not just that word, but also love, caring, respect, relationship and trust. I grew up with Mrs. Stone down the block knowing who I was. And if I got out of line, she’d tell my mother when my mother got off work. If I came over there doing my thing, I’d hear, “Diane Latiker, if you don’t get back over there, I’m gonna...” It was unity. I was surrounded by people and a support system. I’m not saying it was perfect because we always had knuckleheads. But growing up I always remember that it was this tight-knit community. I could walk through and not be afraid.

  We had the gangs, but for some reason they were more like protectors. They would kill each other, but they wouldn’t hurt the innocent people in their communities. If we had a barbecue or something, they would make sure nothing happened around that area. It was crazy, but it was beautiful to me as a child, because I knew that I was protected. I knew that I was supported.

  I have memories of people wanting to come together. Barbecuing on the street, you know, eating together, laughing together. But the younger generation never saw that place. And the reason that they didn’t see it was because we didn’t teach it to them; we didn’t show it to them. I say “we” because it was my generation that dropped the ball. And I don’t only mean in Roseland. I mean, period. We dropped the ball on teaching our young people about how important it is that they help in the community and be a part of a community and not separate themselves. I know the young people thirst for that. I know they do because, when we do community events, they don’t want to go home. They love it. They talk about it for days. That’s what I would like to see. I think there are some good parts in Roseland, and there are some bad parts in Roseland. I want to stay here and make it all the
good parts.

  As a young girl, all I wanted was to be married and have a lot of kids. Well, be careful what you ask God for, because He’ll give it you. I got pregnant on my 16th birthday, and my mom made me get married. I wanted to get married but was scared at the same time. I was married nine years to him and 25 years to my current husband. I have eight beautiful kids. I have four boys and four girls. My oldest one will be 38 this year. And my youngest one, she’ll be 21. I love them. They are, wow.

  I was a licensed hair stylist. Hated it. I hated doing hair. I did it because of my family. My daughter, she’s the one that had the talent to do hair. She wanted to drop out of school. And I said, “Don’t do that. What do you love to do?” And she said, “Hair.” So I enrolled her in hair school, an after-school program. To keep her in there, I joined. I didn’t want to. But in the meantime, my other two sisters went to hair school, so my mother said, “I’ll open up a shop for you guys,” and then I was stuck. I couldn’t say no to my mother. My mother is my mentor, my best friend. She believes in everything we want to do. So for eight years, I did hair. But when I found KOB—well, when God helped me find it—I knew: This is me. This is it.

  My youngest one, she was 13 when I started Kids Off the Block. I was hanging with her, trying to keep up with her because all my other kids were gone off to college and married and she was the only one at home. She had about nine friends, and they were running up and down the street all the time. They didn’t have anything to do. They were just tearing up people’s grass and fences and stuff. Not intentionally, just playing in it, you know? I started to take them skating and fishing and swimming, all that kind of stuff. And my mother saw it, and she said, “Why don’t you do something with those kids? They like you.” And I was like, “No, no, no, no, no.” I thought my youngest daughter would go off to college, and I’d be free.