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I've learned some of
my most important life lessons
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from drug dealers
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and gang members
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and prostitutes,
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and I've had some of my most
profound theological conversations
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not in the hallowed halls of a seminary
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but on a street corner
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on a Friday night, at 1 a.m.
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That's a little unusual, since I am
a Baptist minister, seminary-trained,
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and pastored a church for over 20 years,
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but it's true.
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It came as part of my participation
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in a public safety
crime reduction strategy
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that saw a 79 percent reduction
in violent crime
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over an eight year period in a major city.
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But I didn't start out wanting to be
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a part of somebody's
crime reduction strategy.
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I was 25, had my first church.
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If you would have asked me
what my ambition was,
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I would have told you
I wanted to be a megachurch pastor.
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I wanted a 15, 20,000 member church.
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I wanted my own television ministry.
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I wanted my own clothing line.
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(Laughter)
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I wanted to be your long distance carrier.
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You know, the whole nine yards.
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(Laughter)
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After about a year of pastoring,
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my membership went up about 20 members.
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So megachurchdom was way down the road.
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But seriously, if you'd have said,
"What is your ambition?"
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I would have said just to be
a good pastor,
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to be able to be with people
through all the passages of life,
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to preach messages that would have
an everyday meaning for folks,
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and in the African American tradition,
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to be able to represent
the community that I serve.
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But there was something else
that was happening in my city
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and in the entire metro area,
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and in most metro areas
in the United States,
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and that was the homicide rate
started to rise precipitously.
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And there were young people
who were killing each other
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for reasons that I thought
were very trivial,
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you know, like bumping into someone
in a high school hallway,
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and then after school shooting the person.
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Someone with the wrong color shirt on
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on the wrong street corner
at the wrong time.
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And something needed
to be done about that.
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It got to the point where it started
to change the character of the city.
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You could go to any housing project,
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for example, like the one that was
down the street from my church,
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and you would walk in,
and it would be like a ghost town,
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because the parents wouldn't allow
their kids to come out and play,
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even in the summertime,
because of the violence.
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You would listen in the neighborhoods
on any given night,
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and to the untrained ear,
it sounded like fireworks,
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but it was gunfire.
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You'd hear it almost every night,
when you were cooking dinner,
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telling your child a bedtime story,
or just watching TV.
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And you can go to any emergency
room at any hospital,
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and you would see lying on gurneys
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young Black and Latino men
shot and dying.
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And I was doing funerals,
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but not of the venerated matriarchs
and patriarchs who'd lived a long life
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and there's a lot to say.
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I was doing funerals of 18-year olds,
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17-year olds,
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and 16-year olds,
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and I was standing in church
or a funeral home
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struggling to say something
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that would make some meaningful impact.
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And so while my colleagues
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were building these cathedrals
great and tall
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and buying property outside of the city
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and moving their congregations out
so that they could create
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or recreate their cities of God,
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the social structures in the inner cities
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were sagging under the weight
of all of this violence.
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And so I stayed, because somebody
needed to do something,
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and so I had looked at what I had
and moved on that.
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I started to preach decrying
the violence in the community.
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And I started to look
at the programming in my church,
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and I started to build programs
that would catch the at risk youth,
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you know, those who were on
the fence to the violence.
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I even tried to be innovative
in my preaching.
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You all have heard of rap music, right?
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Rap music?
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I even tried to rap sermon one time.
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It didn't work, but at least I tried.
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I'll never forget the young person
who came to me after that sermon.
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He waited until everybody was gone,
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and he said, "Rev, rap sermon, huh?"
And I was like, "Yeah, what do you think?"
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And he said, "Don't do that again, Rev."
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(Laughter)
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But I preached and I built these programs,
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and I thought maybe if
my colleagues did the same
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that it would make a difference.
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But the violence just
careened out of control,
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and people who were not involved in
the violence were getting shot and killed,
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you know, somebody going to buy a pack
of cigarettes at a convenience store,
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or someone who was sitting
at a bus stop just waiting for a bus,
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or kids who were playing in the park,
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oblivious to the violence
on the other side of the park,
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but it coming and visiting them.
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Things were out of control,
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and I didn't know what to do,
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and then something happened
that changed everything for me.
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It was a kid by the name of Jesse McKie,
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walking home with his friend
Rigoberto Carrion
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to the housing project
down the street from my church.
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They met up with a group of youth
who were from a gang in Dorchester,
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and they were killed.
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But as Jesse was running
from the scene mortally wounded,
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he was running in the direction
of my church,
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and he died some 100, 150 yards away.
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If he would have gotten to the church,
it wouldn't have made a difference,
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because the lights were out.
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Nobody was home,
and I took that as a sign.
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When they caught some of the youth
that had done this deed,
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to my surprise, they were around my age,
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but the gulf that was between us was vast.
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It was like we were in two
completely different worlds.
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And so as I contemplated all of this
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and looked at what was happening,
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I suddenly realized that there was
a paradox that was emerging inside of me,
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and the paradox was this:
in all of those sermons
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that I preached decrying the violence,
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I was also talking about
building community,
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but I suddenly realized
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that there was a certain
segment of the population
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that I was not including
in my definition of community.
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And so the paradox was this:
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if I really wanted the community
that I was preaching for,
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I needed to reach out
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and embrace this group
that I had cut out of my definition.
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Which meant not about building programs
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to catch those who were
on the fences of violence,
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but to reach out and to embrace those
who were committing the acts of violence,
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the gang bangers, the drug dealers.
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As soon as I came to that realization,
a quick question came to my mind.
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Why me?
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I mean, isn't this a law
enforcement issue?
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This is why we have the police, right?
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As soon as the question, "Why me?" came,
the answer came just as quickly.
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Why me?
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Because I'm the one who can't
sleep at night thinking about it.
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Because I'm the one looking around saying
somebody needs to do something about this,
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and I'm starting to realize
that that someone is me.
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I mean, isn't that how
movements start anyway?
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They don't start with a grand convention
and people coming together
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and then walking in lockstep
with a statement.
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But it starts with just a few,
or maybe just one.
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It started with me that way,
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and so I decided to figure out
the culture of violence
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in which these young people
who were committing them existed,
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and I started to volunteer
at the high school.
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After about two weeks
of volunteering at the high school,
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I realized that the youth
that I was trying to reach,
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they weren't going to high school.
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I started to walk in the community,
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and it didn't take a rocket scientist
to realize that they weren't out
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during the day.
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So I started to walk the streets
at night, late at night,
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going into the parks where they were,
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building the relationships
that was necessary.
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A tragedy happened in Boston
that brought a number of clergy together,
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and there was a small cadre of us
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who came to the realization
that we had to come out
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of the four walls of our sanctuary
and meet the youth where they were,
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and not try to figure out
how to bring them in.
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And so we decided to walk together,
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and we would get together
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in one of the most dangerous
neighborhoods in the city
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on a Friday night and on a Saturday night
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at 10 p.m.,
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and we would walk until two
or three in the morning.
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I imagine we were quite the anomaly
when we first started walking.
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I mean, we weren't drug dealers.
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We weren't drug customers.
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We weren't the police. Some of us
would have collars on.
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It was probably a really odd thing.
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But they started speaking
to us after a while,
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and what we found out is that
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while we were walking,
they were watching us,
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and they wanted to make sure
a couple of things:
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that number one, we were going
to be consistent in our behavior,
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that we would keep coming out there;
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and then secondly,
they had wanted to make sure
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that we weren't out there to exploit them.
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Because there was always
somebody who would say,
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"We're going to take back the streets,"
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but they would always seem to have
a television camera with them,
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or a reporter,
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and they would enhance
their own reputation
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to the detriment of those on the streets.
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So when they saw that we had none of that,
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they decided to talk to us.
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And then we did
an amazing thing for preachers.
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We decided to listen and not preach.
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Come on, give it up.
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(Laughter) (Applause)
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All right, come on, you're cutting
into my time now, okay? (Laughter)
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But it was amazing. I mean,
we said to them,
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"We don't know our own communities
after 9 p.m. at night,
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between 9 p.m. and 5 a.m.,
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but you do.
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You are the subject matter experts,
if you will, of that period of time.
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So talk to us. Teach us.
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Help us to see what we're not seeing.
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Help us to understand
what we're not understanding."
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And they were all too happy to do that,
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and we got an idea of what life
on the streets was all about,
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very different than what you see
on the 11 o'clock news,
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very different than what is portrayed
in popular media and even social media.
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And as we were talking with them,
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a number of myths were dispelled
about them with us.
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And one of the biggest myths was
that these kids were cold and heartless
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and uncharacteristically bold
in their violence.
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What we found out was the exact opposite.
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Most of the young people
who were out there on the streets
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are just trying to make it on the streets.
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And we also found out
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that some of the most
intelligent and creative
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and magnificent and wise people
that we've ever met
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were on the street,
engaged in a struggle.
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And I know some of them call it survival,
but I call them overcomers,
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because when you're in
the conditions that they're in,
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to be able to live every day
is an accomplishment of overcoming.
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And as a result of that, we said to them,
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"How do you see this church,
how do you see this institution
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helping this situation?"
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And we developed a plan
and conversation with these youth.
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We stopped looking at them
as the problem to be solved,
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and we started looking at them
as partners, as assets,
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as co-laborers in the struggle
to reduce violence in the community.
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Imagine developing a plan,
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you have one minister at one table
and a heroin dealer at the other table,
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coming up with a way in which the church
can help the entire community.
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The Boston Miracle was about
bringing people together.
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We had other partners.
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We had law enforcement partners.
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We had police officers.
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It wasn't the entire force,
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because there were still some who still
had that lock-em-up mentality,
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but there were other cops
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who saw the honor in partnering
with the community,
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who saw the responsibility from themselves
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to be able to work as partners
with community leaders and faith leaders
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in order to reduce violence
in the community.
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Same with probation officers,
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same with judges,
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same with folks who were
up that law enforcement chain,
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because they realized, like we did,
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that we'll never arrest ourselves
out of this situation,
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that there will not be
enough prosecutions made,
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and you cannot fill these jails up enough
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in order to alleviate the problem.
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I helped to start an organization
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20 years ago, faith-based organization,
to deal with this issue.
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I left it about four years ago
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and started working in cities
across the United States,
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19 in total,
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and what I found out
was that in those cities,
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there was always this component
of community leaders
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who put their heads down
and their nose to the grindstone,
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who checked their egos at the door
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and saw the whole as greater
than the sum of its parts,
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and came together and found ways
to work with youth out on the streets,
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that the solution is not more cops,
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but the solution is mining the assets
that's there in the community,
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to have a strong community component
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in the collaboration
around violence reduction.
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Now there is a movement
in the United States
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of young people who I am very proud of
who are dealing with the structural issues
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that need to change if we're going
to be a better society.
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But there is this political ploy
to try to pit police brutality
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and police misconduct
against black-on-black violence.
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But it's a fiction.
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It's all connected.
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When you think about decades
of failed housing policies
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and poor educational structures,
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when you think about
persistent unemployment
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and underemployment in a community,
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when you think about poor health care,
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and then you throw drugs into the mix
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and duffel bags full of guns,
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little wonder that you would see
this culture of violence emerge.
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And then the response that comes
from the state is more cops
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and more suppression of hot spots.
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It's all connected,
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and one of the wonderful things
that we've been able to do
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is to be able to show the value
of partnering together
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-- community, law enforcement,
private sector, the city --
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in order to reduce violence.
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You have to value
that community component.
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I believe that we can end
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the era of violence in our cities.
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I believe that it is possible
and that people are doing it even now.
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But I need your help.
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It can't just come from folks
who are burning themselves out
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in the community.
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They need support. They need help.
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Go back to your city.
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Find those people.
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"You need some help? I'll help you out."
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Find those people. They're there.
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Bring them together with law enforcement,
the private sector, and the city,
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with the one aim of reducing violence,
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but make sure that
that community component is strong.
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Because the old adage
that comes from Burundi is right:
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that you do for me,
without me, you do to me.
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God bless you. Thank you.
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(Applause)