Youth violence What will it take for Worcester City Hall to realize the coming crisis? by Kristen Lombardi Wednesday, November 26, 1997. Forbidding clouds hovered over Worcester, but despite the threat of rain, residents brimmed with Thanksgiving spirit. Volunteers packed turkeys into 3000 charity baskets; students fled their dorms for the comfort of home; and football fans painted posters, or even themselves, in anticipation of gridiron showdowns. In all appearances, it was as normal a day as any preceding a holiday. But for Clara Diaz, a 43-year-old, devoted mother of three, it would become a horrific nightmare, the kind beginning with harmless moments that were ominous in hindsight: an agitated phone conversation, a pizza slice on the run. This would be the day that Diaz's "baby" -- her 200 pound, six-foot-tall, 18-year-old son Nicholas ("Nik") -- waved his last goodbye. Around nine o'clock that evening, Nik, a handsome, bright-eyed freshman home for Thanksgiving from Johnson and Wales University in Rhode Island, was gunned down while walking toward a high-school acquaintance's Chatham Street house. The Worcester Police Department has maintained there was no evidence to link the drive-by shooting to drug or gang activity; it was, simply, senseless violence. This has offered little consolation to the mother left behind, especially since, after six months of investigation, she still doesn't know who killed her youngest son. "I just sit in Nik's room for hours," says Clara, now rocking on a sofa in her May Street apartment. She wipes away tears, then adds, "I wait for him to tell me who did this." Not only has Nik's death forever altered his loved ones' lives, but it marks the first in a recent wave of violence that involve youth in the downtown area -- another murder that has gained attention across the city is the Main Street shooting death of a 21-year-old father, Luis Diaz (no relation). The latest incident, a May 26 shooting on Russell Street, resulted in the arrest of several suspects, including a 17-year-old boy. With all the violence in Worcester's inner-city today, all the "kids killing each other, fighting over nothing," as one streetwise boy says, it is as though Nik died in vain. "Nothing good has come of this," Clara says. If youngsters had learned from his death, it might alleviate the pain. Instead, she says, "The violence is only escalating." Clara is one of a growing number of parents and youth-outreach workers who are frustrated by what they view as ineffective, even disingenuous responses from city leaders to the explosive problem of youth violence. One Main South resident, referring to Luis Diaz, says, "Officials are concerned because someone got shot, but it won't last." Unless leaders take a radical stance at prevention, as big cities like Boston have done, parents say, more kids are certain to perish. If Worcester leaders are concentrating on programs for kids, it isn't obvious to parents and advocates. And statistics indicate they could be right. Violent crime declined five percent across the nation last year, but in spite of a 30 percent increase in its police force, Worcester hasn't seen a drop in that category, which includes homicides and assaults. It may even have witnessed an increase; a recent WPD report shows a 30 percent rise in aggravated assaults (1342 incidents), as well as a 20 percent jump in armed robberies (215) in 1997. Although police say the statistics appear too incongruent with past data to make conclusions, they admit the report shows many violent crime offenders and victims are young (44 percent of assault victims are 24 and under). City leaders say youth violence is a grave problem, which is why they're collaborating around prevention. Considering the partnerships now in effect, they say, Worcester has a hold on the problem. Each time a teenager gets beaten, knifed, or shot, though, critics become more convinced of the opposite. And the longer murders like Nik's go unsolved, the more parents and youth workers wonder how pressing an issue youth violence is for city leaders. After all, youth workers say, officials' quest for "instant success" has resulted in their failure to build relationships with kids on the fringe -- the very activity it takes to save them. NIK'S MURDER, AS WITH ANY tragedy, evoked a gust of emotion. Five hundred people paid respects at his wake. Neighborhood activists organized a candlelight vigil where officials spoke of the need to stop the violence. It was as if Nik became a local symbol for America's societal ills. Yet to the Diaz family -- Clara, her husband, Jose, and sons Michael and Timothy -- Nik remains, in their memories, a young man, dearly loved and sorely missed. He was someone who eased others with a gentle smile and helpful gestures. "He was our soldier," says Clara, a city employee at the Office of Planning and Community Development, who clasps a heart necklace on which Nik's portrait is etched. "He was always doing for us. He wanted to be rich so we wouldn't have to struggle." Nik was a fighter in another regard as well: he wanted a future. After his point-blank slaying, Clara discovered a list of his 10-year goals. Buy a restaurant for Mom. Get married. Live in Virginia Beach. "Nik knew he couldn't fulfill his dreams in Worcester," she says. Because he'd mourned the premature deaths by gunfire of several friends, he felt compelled to leave here to get ahead. And it was this driving ambition that Nik's peers eulogized, in poems and rap lyrics, at the December 12 vigil, where people, clutching photographs, lamented mindless youth violence and proclaimed that "it got to end." Five days later, though, tensions among kids erupted. A fight between three teenage boys outside of the Palladium on Main Street in mid-afternoon ended with two of them suffering gunshot wounds. In March, a noon, drive-by shooting on May Street, which police identified as gang-related, sent three people to the hospital. The next day a boy, 18, stabbed another boy, 18, in front of City Hall. The wave of violence crested on April 27, when Luis Diaz was fatally shot outside Perlman Funeral Home on Main Street at dusk. Violent crime declined five percent across the nation last year, but in spite of a 30 percentincrease in its police force, Worcester hasn't seen a drop in that category, which includes homicides and assaults. Gunshots, in fact, have become so commonplace in downtown that teenagers like Felix Negron, 17, never walk alone. "I always look behind me," he says. Ever since he was 10, he's been a member of Kilby Street Posse, one of an estimated 20 gangs. Negron, who lives on Gate Street, joined for protection; the gang was well-established in his neighborhood and, he explains, "You do what you have to do." He's seen raw destruction at a tender age -- gang members getting jumped, pummeled, shot. He doesn't like hurting people, he says, so he tries to keep a distance. When you're a kid on the streets, though, trouble often finds you. Violence surrounds you, until there's little reason for hope. "I wish everything was perfect, with no gangs or violence. It ain't gonna happen," Negron says. Instead, tensions will worsen, especially with Luis's killing. (He was a known Posse leader.) "I know bad things are gonna happen to retaliate," he adds. Rachel Weir, a soft-spoken mother of two boys, 19 and 18, never used to be afraid for her sons' safety. She raised them in Piedmont but moved to Coes Pond Village off Mill Street to escape turmoil. "I hate worrying they won't come home," she says. The April shooting "shook up" Weir so much, she sent them to her sister's house in Houston, Texas. Youth violence isn't endemic to Worcester. Since the 1960s, rates of violence among youngsters have risen nationwide. Yet this should be put into context, says Wanda Foglia, assistant professor of law and justice at Rowan University, in New Jersey. Teens, typically, commit more crime than other age groups, she says, "because they experiment with risky behaviors." But, she concedes, "Young people appear to be more violent than in the past." It is difficult to blame current trends on one factor. Environment, naturally, plays a role; children who grow up in poor, substandard housing, near drug-infested, gang-dominated neighborhoods get caught in a cycle, experts say. So do kids without opportunity, in school or elsewhere. There's also little doubt of the negative impact of the media and societal tendencies to glorify violence. Thus, says Andrew Safyer, a Boston University assistant professor of social work, "Communities need complex solutions. Violence has underlying causes that must be addressed." By all accounts, the violent tide here stems mainly from easy access to guns as well as gangs, which have gained popularity in spite of official recognition of the problem years ago. Turf battles and warfare are "all about who can beat who. Someone has to be on top," says Negron, whose two brothers, 16 and 14, and sister, 13, already joined gangs. He believes the "violence will continue as long as there are gangs." Recent incidents, mostly gang-related, prompted Police Chief Edward Gardella to beef up WPD's gang task force in early April by assigning 18 officers to aggressively patrol downtown. Officers questioned youths, served 40 warrants, and made 120 arrests in three weeks, police say. The reinforced gang unit will remain in place until less need is determined. "The task force is meant to send a message of no tolerance," says Deputy Police Chief James Gallagher. "It tells youth, `We're watching you and will lock you up if you behave in a violent manner.'" Parents and youth workers don't find much solace in the enhanced police presence, though -- because, they say, it's the city's only consistent, visible response to the problem. When incidents occur, they say, police comb neighborhoods and "shake down" kids. This, in turn, aggravates already hostile relations between cops and youths, many of whom believe that they're unjustly accused or harassed. In short, critics say, this lock-'em-up mentality is simplistic and reactionary. Sean Harris, a team leader for Worcester Community Action Council's Cityworks program, which serves youths age 16 to 25, says, "The city works in suppression. It's the suppress-the-problem-and-move-it-out-of-downtown mentality that we see." Emphasis on strong law enforcement isn't a mere reaction to violence, police counter. Suppression, they argue, is part of the department's proactive approach to the issue, one that includes prevention and intervention strategies. Since violence among youngsters is rising, Gallagher says, "The problem demands strong law enforcement now," but this isn't considered a long-term solution for the city. When it comes to prevention, however, Worcester leaders haven't gained stellar reputations among youth workers -- in particular, those who deal with inner-city kids. Overwhelmingly, critics say, officials fail to demonstrate guidance on the issue. "I haven't seen much from leaders, and what I have [seen] isn't supportive of youth," says Rosa Fernandez, outreach worker at Plumley Village Health Center. Advocates, invariably, point to the downtown Youth Center, which, arguably, attracts the adolescents most in need of services. The center's repeatedly had to justify its location and existence due to fierce opposition from merchants. (Resistance flared recently over a desired Foster Street site; the center settled for its current building, 27 Chandler Street.) Rather than champion the center's work and location, critics say, leaders have remained silent. This is significant, they add, because it reveals how officials regard the city's youngsters -- or, more aptly, the "at-risk youth." If leaders were sincere about prevention, there'd be "safe places" for kids to hang out in throughout the city -- not a struggling Youth Center. There'd be a concerted effort to expand and link up programs for low-income children, who, advocates say, can barely find constructive things to do. "Agencies make a difference," says Billy Ayala, coordinator for Worcester Collaborative for Teen Health. But, he adds, "The city, which has the power and resources to really make a difference, has yet to support a comprehensive [prevention] plan." IT'S NOT SURPRISING THAT MAYOR Raymond Mariano, who claims to spend more time on youth issues than "all aspects of my job," bristles at the suggestion that leaders have yet to address youth violence with urgency. In his estimation, the city's reached out to youngsters, especially those considered at risk, in unparalleled ways. "I've focused more on youth-related issues than any mayor, which tells you how important this is to me," Mariano says. He notes the summer programs started under his administration, the community schools opened for summer and after-school activities, the school initiatives to deter students from dropping out, then adds, "We've done an enormous amount in a short time, more than we've done in decades." Mariano first publicly addressed the increasing violence among young people back in 1994, when he established a 12-member advisory committee on gang and youth violence. To solve the problem, he said, Worcester needed to pool resources, and "bring all levels of government together." His committee, which consisted of "key" leaders like the city manager, police chief, and county sheriff, provided, basically, a chance for better coordination of services. In the past four years, the group, now known as the mayor's advisory committee on youth at risk, has expanded its scope and membership. School personnel, clergymen, and gang-unit officers have joined original members in an effort to "give every child a reasonable, realistic opportunity to succeed," Mariano says. The core body meets monthly to discuss strategies, while subcommittees work in the interim on specific endeavors. Even though Mariano hasn't formally catalogued projects (The list is so long it's impossible to tell the public everything we've done.), he estimates that dozens of programs originated in his committee. Take Work for Worcester Youth, a collaboration of city departments, businesses, and non-profit organizations that places teens in summer jobs (1500 this year). Or the venture between the schools and juvenile court, in which full-time probation officers work at middle schools (Sullivan and Worcester East) to assist principals with mediation. Ultimately, Mariano says, "The most important part of [the committee] is putting people in a room to tackle the issue." The notion of partnership has likely made a difference, since it's spread beyond the mayor's office. Government entities dealing with youngsters worked in isolation five years ago, but now, officials say, they team up around prevention and intervention. School Superintendent James Garvey heads a youth at risk protocol committee with representatives from the district attorney's office and police department; it tries to track gang activity so school counselors can quickly diffuse tensions. "This allows us to keep information flowing and establish protocols between schools and agencies to prevent violence," Garvey explains. Perhaps more visible signs of city attempts to collaborate on prevention are in classrooms. The School Safety Office, which designs antiviolence programs for all 50 schools, recently initiated a gang-awareness project with Worcester police. In three classes for 5th through 8th graders, (an age group commonly known to begin flirting with risky behavior), a counselor and gang-unit officers discuss alternatives to gangs and ways to resolve conflict without physically lashing out. Although School Safety Liaison Robert Pezzella admits that "a three-session workshop won't turn kids around," he notes that the value of cops connecting with kids shouldn't be overlooked. "The program brings officers in laymen's clothes into classrooms [so] students can see [police] as people, not punitive [figures]," he adds. This connection, which helps to dissolve hostility and stereotypes among police and youngsters, is exactly what the WPD's school-liaison unit strives to make, says Chief Gardella. These officers give the bulk of preventive services to schools by sponsoring such things as street-violence programs and youth police academies. Aside from gang-unit and school-liaison officers, four community-service cops work closely with principals on mediation as well. All of this, Gardella says, shows how WPD "isn't just a responsive agency anymore. We're trying to get at root sources of violence." Officials may concede they haven't "done enough" to curb youth violence, yet they swiftly point to other endeavors that are expected to enhance strategies. Like that of the Catholic Diocese's Bishop Daniel Reilly, who, as a member of the mayor's committee, is organizing churches and temples to put forth a systematic approach to youth activities. "We're trying to bring together the resources we have to better serve [youngsters]," he says. Now surveying churches, he will report to the mayor in early June. The initiative illustrates how leaders are always adapting and building upon existing success, they say -- the very qualities that prove they're earnestly addressing the issue. Perhaps it is this sense of constant experimentation that prompts officials to defensively proclaim that Worcester is "far better" than other communities in terms of prevention, as if there were no need for concern. After all, they argue, they're not denying the problem; they're focused on solutions. Mariano concludes, "Worcester has been on the cutting edge relative to collaboration, and I [still] don't accept that we're doing enough. . . . There is much more to do, and we will do it." WORCESTER, UNDOUBTEDLY, has yet to see the violence that cities like Boston have witnessed. From 1983 to 1993, the number of kids murdered in that city jumped an astounding 169 percent; about eight youngsters were shot to death per year from 1988 to 1993. It was record-breaking violence among youths, so undeniable that Boston officials felt compelled to join forces with community leaders, youth workers, even academics to restore peace to its streets. "The city saw the highest number of [juvenile] killings in 1990," recalls Gary French, commander of the city's Youth Violence Strike Force, a coordinated, multi-agency task force of 15 full-time Boston police officers and 15 outside representatives. "That caught public attention and the community started working on the problem." Today, Boston's hailed, by such prominent figures as President Bill Clinton and US Attorney Janet Reno, as a national model for youth-violence prevention. In seven years, the city's watched youth homicides drop an impressive 80 percent. For two years straight, not a single kid perished by gunfire in the whole city. The model works, partly, because it uses an "equal balance" of tough enforcement, prevention, and intervention. The Strike Force patrols neighborhoods and, through covert operations and stings, tries to get serious gang members and criminals off the street. But since most youngsters, even gang members, aren't repeat, violent offenders, French says, "Police can't go into neighborhoods and lock everyone up. We identify kids at-risk and work with them." Prevention and intervention starts with 15 "youth-service" police officers who teach antidrug and antigang programs in schools, and then run sports clinics and organize basketball leagues. Meanwhile, Boston Community Centers send 20 or so street workers to parks and hang-out spots to try to pull kids into centers, hook them up with city services, or give them trustworthy adults to talk to. It is this work with at-risk youth that experts point to as fundamental to Boston's success. The city effectively discerns between kids testing boundaries and those on "some trajectory in life toward violent crime," says Gil Noam, a Harvard University Graduate School of Education professor and adolescent psychologist. Making that distinction, he says, is critical for prevention. "The tragedy is a lot of kids are experimenting, then end up being hurt or hurting others," Noam says. Most troublesome youths aren't fated to be career criminals, but he adds, "They're being socialized into a violent way of life and we need to catch them early." But when devising strategies, experts say, cities often overlook what clicks with youngsters. National research on how troubled teens have turned their lives around points to one, overwhelming influence: adult role models. Because young people need to feel that at least one adult cares, experts say, tactics that focus on relationship-building, such as Boston's streetworker program, are most effectual at generating change -- no matter how much a city collaborates. "Just having agencies working together doesn't guarantee that these critical relationships will happen," Noam explains. If Worcester leaders are concentrating on relationships for kids, it isn't obvious to parents and advocates. Police have played basketball and set up workshops, but critics consider such "positive" projects to be more like special events. If leaders wanted to bolster relationships with youngsters, they'd stop "jumping to conclusions and pointing fingers," as one mother says, and collaborate with kids on solutions -- proving, essentially, that they take kids seriously. Lynne Simonds, a family-services provider in Piedmont, explains, "If young people are being violent, wouldn't it be wise to involve them in discussions? Leaders say they want to stop violence, but refuse to start a dialogue with kids." Despite the fact that not one teen sits on Mariano's committee -- the city's main vehicle for devising antiviolence strategies -- officials insist that they actively seek kids' input. Mariano's group is meant for service providers, he says, but Garvey meets with a student-advisory council, which affords students a chance to give feedback. Mariano says he also talks to kids at school visits, community forums, and neighborhood walks; in his opinion, "There hasn't been a mayor who spends more time talking to kids." Even so, workers have taken matters into their own hands. They're hitting the street in attempts to ease gang tensions and to pull underserved kids into programs -- exactly, they say, the kind of relationship-building that leaders have missed. Because officials expect kids to seek out help, workers say, they're hardly optimistic that the city will embrace frontline tactics. "If we wait for the city to come on board, more kids will end up dying," Harris, of Cityworks, says. Advocates, though, cite the May 16 Youth Summit as reason for hope. The Worcester Summit, which stems from Clinton's campaign on youth, kicked off a two-year, community initiative aiming to assure that kids here have "resources available to them to lead healthy and productive lives." Business leaders, youth workers, kids, and city employees came together in preceding months to draft "action plans" for five fundamentals: mentor, protect, nurture, teach, and serve. The Summit agenda isn't an antiviolence effort per se, but it certainly addresses the problem's root causes. The mentor plan, for instance, would boost the number of adult mentors for kids in citywide programs from 740 to 1490 by the year 2000, while the protect plan promises to create at least 25 new "safe places" for youth throughout the city. That part of the community collaborated on the agenda signifies an encouraging shift toward solving youth violence and other youth-related issues. At last, advocates say, there was a collective effort to determine how to better assist Worcester's youth. Still, since only three city employees assisted in Summit organizing, advocates and parents wonder what exactly will spark city-based reform. Juan Perez, a Plumley Village youth-services coordinator, concludes, "I hope we won't have to wait for 30 young people to die before the city does more than sing a song about stopping violence." If leaders could witness Clara's ritualistic, Sunday visits to her son's grave at St. John's Cemetery -- how she delicately arranges tulips and geraniums on a lifeless mound of dirt -- they might be reminded of how abruptly kids become statistics. It is a lesson that Clara will never forget -- one she believes officials have yet to learn. As she says, "Nik's already a statistic in people's eyes, and that saddens me the most." n Kristen Lombardi can be reached at klombardi[a]phx.com.