Let's
Remember Dexter By Making Time For Kids
By
Valerie Shaw, M.PR
I promised myself that
after Efren Diaz Junior's funeral nearly a year ago,
I wouldn't go to another one for a pre-adult manchild
whose life was cut short by a bullet. I couldn't take
the pain of seeing another young corpse laid out frozen
in his Sunday best prom clothes. I couldn't stand
to hear the groaning wails of bereavement from a family-especially
a mother like myself-nor the reading of an obituary
that was much too short, just like the young life
cut down by the deranged act of a teenage killer.
And I kept that promise
until yesterday, when I attended the homegoing for
Dexter Derel Rideout, age 20, the youngest brother
of my dear friend Joy, who was slain in broad daylight
while innocently walking down a street in Central
Los Angeles. Because of my love for Joy I had to attend.
I arranged my "funeral"
clothes the night before, but managed to procrastinate
until one o'clock in the afternoon, just an hour before
the services, which were being held a full hour away
from where I live. Maybe if I didn't go this nightmare
wouldn't repeat itself, I thought. But I knew in my
heart that I had to go and now that I had no time
to dress, I went as I was, in a white t-shirt, jeans
and my hair tied in a fuzzy knot at the top of my
head. At least I was clean, even if I didn't have
time to put on makeup or dress "respectfully."
Traffic moved along
at a fine clip and I found myself at the funeral home
ten minutes early, early enough to take my seat at
the back of the chapel, right next two a few of Dexter's
homies, most dressed in black, white or gray tees
and jeans, just like me. I felt right at home besides
them. In fact, to tell you the truth, I felt more
comfortable with these young strangers than I would
have with the more formally attired adults my own
age.
The seats filled quickly
and silently with Dexter's friends, classmates, loved
ones and family. By the time Rev. Ozzie Dunn-Dexter's
Minister at Baptist Temple Church-began his officiation,
the homies and homegirls had occupied every seat around
me. It took me a minute to realize that I was the
only adult standing with them. The room was distinctly
divided into "them" and "us."
The "them"
was the well-dressed and well-mannered adults who
barely recognized the throng of young people who came
as they were to pay their last respects to a fallen
friend. Had I not procrastinated in my dressing, I
too would have been a "them," for I would
not have felt comfortable sitting with the homies
dressed in my fine funeral attire. "Us"
were set apart by the way we looked, and for everyone
but me, by youth.
I wept throughout the
services, as did many of the homies. The young man
next to me sobbed with his head tucked into his baggie
jeans. He was a boy about my son's age, maybe 17,
and I wanted so badly to console him with a mother's
touch. I wanted to hug all of the boys and girls who
had only each other to turn to in this agonizing moment
of grief.
It was not the first
funeral for most of the homies, I surmised by the
occasional whispers, reminders to each other of so-and-so's
funeral and when so-and-so died. And, judging by the
way things are going, it won't be the last.
They needed an adult's
perspective and we, the adults, desperately needed
to reach out to these wandering youth, for they are
our future. Why should they care for us in our old
age if we barely acknowledge their existence? While
everyone in the chapel was experiencing the same grief,
there was an invisible partition between the two groups
of human being that kept us apart as keenly as a brick
wall.
Wouldn't it be wonderful,
I thought wistfully, if every adult grabbed one of
these kids and said, "I'm going to be your mentor
and your friend. Let's talk and get to know each other
one-on-one." Wouldn't it be wonderful if each
adult, in honor of Dexter Rideout's memory, would
commit to helping one child reach the safe passage
to adulthood with love and guidance. Surveying the
chapel I figured that it would pretty much be a one-to-one
match.
I snapped out of my
reverie when Tom Riley, a hulking blond white guy
who'd brought his entire family to the funeral, began
to speak about his love for Dexter as his official
Big Brother ™ and a dear, dear friend for the
past 10 years. When he spoke of Dexter's love of pizza
and barbeque, the homies all laughed and gave each
other high-fives. They appreciated Tom Riley's words
and applauded, I think, louder than anyone in the
chapel.
Rev. Dunn concluded
his brief interpretation of the 27th Psalms, Dexter's
favorite Bible verse, and we all filed out to view
the body and proceed to the internment. The homies
piled into their cars, some four deep, and the adults
proceeded to theirs. I stood in the shadow of one
of the marble pillars for fifteen minutes, watching
the sea of people drift apart, like water poured from
the apex of a steep hill, drifting down on both sides,
never to meet up again.
I just stood there alone,
weeping. Unencumbered by makeup, I was free to sob,
rubbing my eyes and frequently blowing my nose. I
cried for Dexter and I cried for the family that loved
him. But mainly, I think, I cried because we, as a
society, are missing so much by not embracing this
second hip hop generation to come of age. It would
be easy for us to emulate Tom Riley, who adopted Dexter
into his family, taking him on trips, enjoying sports,
and mentoring the youngster into adulthood. It would
be easy and it would cement a bond between the generations
that could never be broken.
What an enriching experience
it is to get involved in the life of an at-risk youth.
You can see the results before your very eyes when
they start come to you with questions about Life and
eventually begin reciting the lessons they've learned
from you.
A small knot of youngsters
stopped for a moment beside me at my semi-concealed
post.
"You goin' to the
gravesite, man," one young man addressed another.
"Yeah man, you
need a ride?"
"Naw, man, I'm
with my homies over there."
"You goin' to that
repast thing," the first one asked.
"Naw, man."
He bowed his head, wiping a tear from the corner of
one eye. "I'm jus' gonna kick it with the homies."
"Ah'right then,
man, I'll definitely catch up with you later."
As they departed, I
hung my head in shame. Shame for me not reaching out
to help these youngsters cope with their loss, and
shame for my entire generation, so bent on achieving
status and material things that we forget that when
we go we aren't going to take a dang thing with us.
The very least we could do, it seems to me, is leave
behind a generation of young people who will truly
mourn our passing. Call me naive, but isn't that the
true stuff that legacies are built on?
# # #
Writer's Note: Joy Rideout,
Dexter's devoted eldest sister, would like to initiate
"Dexter's Friends," matching adult mentors
with young mentees for the purpose of bridging the generation
gap. If you are interested, or would like more information,
please contact her at amcdart@pacbell.net.
© Valerie Shaw 2003 All Rights
Reserved
All contents are the exclusive rights of the author
and may not be copied, excerpted, nor duplicated without
the expressed written permission of the author. For
questions regarding duplication of this work, send email
to author
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