A Sad but Ongoing Story in the World of Intervention and Prevention
One left to stand against gangs
Crime prevention - Portland police officers and activists are dismayed as an outreach program unravels
Monday, August 14, 2006
MAXINE BERNSTEIN
Portland's Youth Gang Outreach Program, born nearly two decades ago when the city was shocked by its first drive-by shooting, is on its deathbed.
Ron Macias is the only remaining foot soldier for the entire city, rushing out to street corners, parks and homes at all hours to mediate between warring gangs.
"It's ridiculous," Northeast Precinct Cmdr. Bret Smith said. "How do you do that with one person?"
Macias is not only struggling to do the work alone, soon he might not have a job. His position is threatened as the money dries up.
Multnomah County paid for the gang outreach program until 1995. Since then, a combination of city and United Way dollars and other public and private grants have kept it going. Today, $35,000 is left in its budget, money from the Portland Police Bureau.
The city has done little to keep the program going, and the county has shifted its focus. Instead of paying for street outreach workers who are visible at school games, parks and crime scenes, Multnomah County has distributed more than $1 million among five agencies to offer intensive case management for targeted teenagers and young adults.
"What we've decided is the touching of young people here and there is not where we want to invest our resources," said Regina Warren, program development specialist for the county's Department of School and Community Partnerships.
Longtime gang enforcement officers and crime prevention activists are outraged by the lack of city or county support for a program they say has helped stop violence and save lives.
One-on-one contact
For more than two decades, police have worked closely with outreach workers who form relationships with teenagers involved in gangs. Police rely on the workers' insights and tips to anticipate and prevent gang shootings or fights.
On a recent Thursday morning, Macias, 48, captivated a class of 14 teenagers for two hours at the Oregon Council for Hispanic Advancement. He chilled them with stories of how his childhood was torn apart by gang violence in Los Angeles as a fourth-generation gang member.
Macias told the teens he's ashamed of the photo from his first birthday party, when his dad dressed him in gang colors, placed a handkerchief around his head, and covered his eyes with dark shades.
"If you're going to be a gangster, get ready for the consequences," he told the youths. He warned them to steer clear of friends who pressure them to join gangs.
Afterward, at least three teenagers pulled Macias aside to share their troubles with gangs. The next night, Macias spent three hours outside the Boys & Girls Club in Northeast Portland, making sure gang members didn't disturb a dance inside. Two days later, Macias was stepping between feuding gang rivals at the Expo Center's Low Riders Convention.
"It's very frustrating trying to be everywhere at one time," he said.
Portland's Youth Gang Outreach Program grew from the passion of former gang members such as Macias who were willing to rush into the line of fire and persuade youths to put down their guns. It began at a time when gang violence reached a crisis in Portland. On Aug. 17, 1988, the city had the Northwest's first fatal drive-by shooting. Joseph "Ray Ray" Winston, a leader of the Columbia Villa Crips, was standing on a playground when rival Bloods gunned him down.
Other cities across the country where gang outreach sprouted amid heightened violence have had mixed results sustaining it. Although Stockton, Calif.'s "Operation Peacekeeper" program is suffering from shrinking budgets, Boston's Streetwalker program remains strong with 25 city-paid full-time outreach workers.
Portland police and crime prevention workers ask how the program was allowed to die here.
The nonprofit Northeast Coalition of Neighborhoods has run Youth Gang Outreach from the beginning, when eight counselors blanketed the streets, mostly in North and Northeast Portland where gang violence was concentrated in the late 1980s and early '90s.
Staff dwindles
Gangs have become less territorial and spread throughout the city. But as the playing field expanded, the number of city-paid gang outreach workers shrank.
John Canda, a longtime outreach worker who became director of the neighborhood coalition, left in July for a $67,000-a-year job heading the new Office of Youth Violence Prevention in the mayor's office. Tonya Dickens, a 13-year outreach worker, resigned weeks later, leaving the program in Macias' hands.
Dickens, who routinely worked 16-hour days, said the stress of not knowing whether her job would last became too much to endure. "It wasn't going anywhere," Dickens said. "I wanted to leave with my head up high."
About the same time, the county contract for another coalition program called New Approaches to Community Outreach, which paid for six outreach workers, ended June 30.
Multnomah County contracted with five agencies for its new intensive case management program: El Programa Hispano; International Refugee Center of Oregon; the Native American Youth Association; and the Youth Employment Institute. Each case manager will serve at least 40 young people a year. The youths will be referred from schools, the Housing Authority of Portland and the juvenile justice system. The goal: to reach kids before gangs do.
When Warren explained the county's new focus at a recent Gang Violence Task Force meeting, police, parole officers, outreach and community activists criticized it.
Gang Enforcement Officer Russ Corno said he's seen less outreach and interaction with gang-involved youths in recent months and questioned the county's judgment. He worries that the county-funded caseworkers won't respond to a gunfight at 11 p.m. on a Friday or keep the peace outside a gang victim's weekend funeral.
"A lot of people feel intensive case management is good, but you've got to fund gang outreach first," Corno told Warren. "There used to be a time when John Canda would call us up, and we'd have time to talk to some kid before they pulled that trigger."
"It's alarming"
Canda says he is sickened by the state of his former program. He chose not to apply for county funding this year because, he said, it was clear the county intended to change its focus.
"It's alarming," he said. "Time needs to be spent out there on the streets. This isn't the population that 'If you build it, they'll come.' You've got to go get them."
Community activist Charles Ford, a member of the coalition board, said the board didn't do enough to save the program.
"We've known for some time this program was in trouble, and we played dumbbell to it," Ford said.
Willie Brown, recently appointed interim director of the neighborhood coalition, acknowledged the coalition might not have marketed the program as well as it should have. TriMet rider advocates, who work for the coalition, are going out to help Macias with gang outreach, although few have knowledge of local gangs. "We're trying to play catch-up," Brown said.
Mayor Tom Potter expects to hire a grant writer to work with Canda to find money for outreach, said Maria Rubio, Potter's public safety liaison. Ford and others say it's a little late.
Meanwhile, police continue to scramble to shootings and gang fights. On Aug. 6, more than 500 young adults spilled onto Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard after the lowrider convention. Police were outnumbered. It took people such as Dickens, who was volunteering her time, to step into the tough crowd and persuade those she knew to move on.
"The relationship. . . . That's the biggest thing we had was the relationship," Dickens said. "The less they see people out there who genuinely care, the more they make bad choices."
Maxine Bernstein: 503-221-8212; maxinebernstein@news.oregonian.com
Crime prevention - Portland police officers and activists are dismayed as an outreach program unravels
Monday, August 14, 2006
MAXINE BERNSTEIN
Portland's Youth Gang Outreach Program, born nearly two decades ago when the city was shocked by its first drive-by shooting, is on its deathbed.
Ron Macias is the only remaining foot soldier for the entire city, rushing out to street corners, parks and homes at all hours to mediate between warring gangs.
"It's ridiculous," Northeast Precinct Cmdr. Bret Smith said. "How do you do that with one person?"
Macias is not only struggling to do the work alone, soon he might not have a job. His position is threatened as the money dries up.
Multnomah County paid for the gang outreach program until 1995. Since then, a combination of city and United Way dollars and other public and private grants have kept it going. Today, $35,000 is left in its budget, money from the Portland Police Bureau.
The city has done little to keep the program going, and the county has shifted its focus. Instead of paying for street outreach workers who are visible at school games, parks and crime scenes, Multnomah County has distributed more than $1 million among five agencies to offer intensive case management for targeted teenagers and young adults.
"What we've decided is the touching of young people here and there is not where we want to invest our resources," said Regina Warren, program development specialist for the county's Department of School and Community Partnerships.
Longtime gang enforcement officers and crime prevention activists are outraged by the lack of city or county support for a program they say has helped stop violence and save lives.
One-on-one contact
For more than two decades, police have worked closely with outreach workers who form relationships with teenagers involved in gangs. Police rely on the workers' insights and tips to anticipate and prevent gang shootings or fights.
On a recent Thursday morning, Macias, 48, captivated a class of 14 teenagers for two hours at the Oregon Council for Hispanic Advancement. He chilled them with stories of how his childhood was torn apart by gang violence in Los Angeles as a fourth-generation gang member.
Macias told the teens he's ashamed of the photo from his first birthday party, when his dad dressed him in gang colors, placed a handkerchief around his head, and covered his eyes with dark shades.
"If you're going to be a gangster, get ready for the consequences," he told the youths. He warned them to steer clear of friends who pressure them to join gangs.
Afterward, at least three teenagers pulled Macias aside to share their troubles with gangs. The next night, Macias spent three hours outside the Boys & Girls Club in Northeast Portland, making sure gang members didn't disturb a dance inside. Two days later, Macias was stepping between feuding gang rivals at the Expo Center's Low Riders Convention.
"It's very frustrating trying to be everywhere at one time," he said.
Portland's Youth Gang Outreach Program grew from the passion of former gang members such as Macias who were willing to rush into the line of fire and persuade youths to put down their guns. It began at a time when gang violence reached a crisis in Portland. On Aug. 17, 1988, the city had the Northwest's first fatal drive-by shooting. Joseph "Ray Ray" Winston, a leader of the Columbia Villa Crips, was standing on a playground when rival Bloods gunned him down.
Other cities across the country where gang outreach sprouted amid heightened violence have had mixed results sustaining it. Although Stockton, Calif.'s "Operation Peacekeeper" program is suffering from shrinking budgets, Boston's Streetwalker program remains strong with 25 city-paid full-time outreach workers.
Portland police and crime prevention workers ask how the program was allowed to die here.
The nonprofit Northeast Coalition of Neighborhoods has run Youth Gang Outreach from the beginning, when eight counselors blanketed the streets, mostly in North and Northeast Portland where gang violence was concentrated in the late 1980s and early '90s.
Staff dwindles
Gangs have become less territorial and spread throughout the city. But as the playing field expanded, the number of city-paid gang outreach workers shrank.
John Canda, a longtime outreach worker who became director of the neighborhood coalition, left in July for a $67,000-a-year job heading the new Office of Youth Violence Prevention in the mayor's office. Tonya Dickens, a 13-year outreach worker, resigned weeks later, leaving the program in Macias' hands.
Dickens, who routinely worked 16-hour days, said the stress of not knowing whether her job would last became too much to endure. "It wasn't going anywhere," Dickens said. "I wanted to leave with my head up high."
About the same time, the county contract for another coalition program called New Approaches to Community Outreach, which paid for six outreach workers, ended June 30.
Multnomah County contracted with five agencies for its new intensive case management program: El Programa Hispano; International Refugee Center of Oregon; the Native American Youth Association; and the Youth Employment Institute. Each case manager will serve at least 40 young people a year. The youths will be referred from schools, the Housing Authority of Portland and the juvenile justice system. The goal: to reach kids before gangs do.
When Warren explained the county's new focus at a recent Gang Violence Task Force meeting, police, parole officers, outreach and community activists criticized it.
Gang Enforcement Officer Russ Corno said he's seen less outreach and interaction with gang-involved youths in recent months and questioned the county's judgment. He worries that the county-funded caseworkers won't respond to a gunfight at 11 p.m. on a Friday or keep the peace outside a gang victim's weekend funeral.
"A lot of people feel intensive case management is good, but you've got to fund gang outreach first," Corno told Warren. "There used to be a time when John Canda would call us up, and we'd have time to talk to some kid before they pulled that trigger."
"It's alarming"
Canda says he is sickened by the state of his former program. He chose not to apply for county funding this year because, he said, it was clear the county intended to change its focus.
"It's alarming," he said. "Time needs to be spent out there on the streets. This isn't the population that 'If you build it, they'll come.' You've got to go get them."
Community activist Charles Ford, a member of the coalition board, said the board didn't do enough to save the program.
"We've known for some time this program was in trouble, and we played dumbbell to it," Ford said.
Willie Brown, recently appointed interim director of the neighborhood coalition, acknowledged the coalition might not have marketed the program as well as it should have. TriMet rider advocates, who work for the coalition, are going out to help Macias with gang outreach, although few have knowledge of local gangs. "We're trying to play catch-up," Brown said.
Mayor Tom Potter expects to hire a grant writer to work with Canda to find money for outreach, said Maria Rubio, Potter's public safety liaison. Ford and others say it's a little late.
Meanwhile, police continue to scramble to shootings and gang fights. On Aug. 6, more than 500 young adults spilled onto Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard after the lowrider convention. Police were outnumbered. It took people such as Dickens, who was volunteering her time, to step into the tough crowd and persuade those she knew to move on.
"The relationship. . . . That's the biggest thing we had was the relationship," Dickens said. "The less they see people out there who genuinely care, the more they make bad choices."
Maxine Bernstein: 503-221-8212; maxinebernstein@news.oregonian.com
posted by Braye Cloud at
1:46 PM
1 Comments:
Thank you for reporting this. I started as NE Coalition Director in mid-July '07 and have been working hard to study the history and context for youth outreach and the work of prevention and intervention with gang affected youth and families.
Was this printed in the Oregonian?
I will be passing this on to my Board.
Sincerely,
Joseph Santos-Lyons
503-823-4575
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