The Death of Bo Taylor, Part 2: Funerals & City Politics

This past Friday two events occurred, each of which will potentially affect the future of gang policy in Los Angeles.

One event took place Friday afternoon when the City Council voted to approve the first big chunk of money to be handed out as part of the mayor’s gang violence reduction plan: six organizations chosen by the mayor’s office will each receive $500,000 to handle the prevention leg of the plan—with more prevention and intervention contracts still to come in the fall. (I’ll be posting on the good, the bad, and the potentially ugly of these contracts likely later in the week.)

The vote for the contracts was supposedly held up because several of the council members were attending the day’s other big gang-related event: the funeral for Bo Taylor, the former gangster who transformed himself into an urban peacemaker and one of the city’s most respected gang intervention leaders. Taylor died of cancer on Tuesday at age 42. The service was on Friday morning at Bishop Noel Jones’s big, bright City of Refuge church in Gardena, with Bishop Edward Turner officiating.

At the church, City council member Bernard Parks announced that the Council chambers were standing silent out of respect for Taylor.

“I mean that literally,” said Parks. “They can’t start because they need me for the quorum.” (The same was presumably true for Tony Cardenas, who was also at the service.)

In addition to Parks and Cardenas, the mayor was at the church, as was Sheriff Lee Baca, civil rights attorney Connie Rice, LA County Sup, Yvonne Burke. Actor Danny Glover, former State Senator, Tom Hayden, gang violence researchers Jorja Leap and Billie Weiss, gang interventionists, Blinky Rodriguez and Alex Sanchez, LA Gang Czar Jeff Carr. LAPD Assistant Chief Earl Paysinger, USC Coach Pete Carroll, ….and so on and so on.

Before the funeral began, there was a lot of mournful conversation about the awful void Bo’s death would leave, and how he was uniquely skilled at bridging the once yawning chasm between the police and other city officials….and the gangsters on the street.

Some of those who knew Bo best also talked privately about their grief and frustration because he had refused surgery and other conventional treatments for the cancer that killed him, but instead had used various herbal remedies. “He was hard-headed, our Bo,” said Connie Rice.

Many got up and spoke movingly about Taylor and how much he’d meant to gang intervention efforts in south LA.

During the speeches things got so emotional that several church women walked continuously up and down the aisles of the sanctuary dispensing Kleenex by the handful.

Then after the various city luminaries had finished, Bo’s older brother, Le’Chein Taylor, took his turn at the podium. But instead of talking directly to the audience, he dialed a number on his cell phone—Bo’s number. After the call was answered, and his younger sibling’s voice mail message boomed eerily through the mic, Le’Chein recorded his own heartbreaking good-by message as we listened—and the church ladies scurried around with more Kleenex.

But with all the eloquent words spoken on Friday morning, there was an irony that no one bothered to mention, at least not publically. And that was the fact that, over the years, under the umbrella of the disorganized, unmonitored, and thankfully nearly-defunct LA Bridges program, the City Council has given hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of dollars of city money to an array of gang prevention and intervention programs—-some of extremely questionable merit—but Bo Taylor’s Unity One was never among them.

Instead of running on city grants, Bo pieced together the money that allowed him and his organization to survive mostly through private donations, and a few other sources. Pete Carroll partnered with Bo on a project. Sheriff Baca hired Bo to give classes for inmates in the county jail, when he could. Connie Rice hooked Bo up with Harry Belafonte and others, who became benefactors.

Yet, somehow, year after year, Bo managed to do the hard work of trying to persuade young men away from gangs—not because he was paid to do it (because often he wasn’t), but because he needed to do it, because it was in his heart to do it.

So, although it was wonderful that so many LA leaders recognized Bo Taylor’s importance after his death, it would have been nice if certain of them (cough—city council—cough) had found concrete and practical ways to express those same sentiments while he was still living.

Here are clips from the speeches:



MAYOR ANTONIO VILLARAIGOSA:

At one time, he saw being a Crip as the only path through the minefield of low expectations. [He] just needed someone to hold the door of forgiveness open. And then he held that door open for others.

SHERIFF LEE BACA:

I’m a law enforcement officer. Bo Taylor was a law enforcement officer, but he was enforcing God’s laws. And you do that with love. Bo chose to love men who don’t know how to love themselves.

SKIP TOWNSEND, GANG INTERVENITON LEADER

Around Bo I felt I light growing in me. But I understand now that I was like the moon. I was reflecting the light that was Bo.

COUNTY SUPERVISOR YVONNE BURKE

When I saw him walk from one housing project to another housing project in the midst of his enemies, I knew he was remarkable.

CIVIL RIGHTS LAWYER., CONNIE RICE

[Connie read a poem she’d written for Bo, of which these lines are snippets.]

You screamed out loud: “Not another kid!”

For the Son of Thunder the time to end the killing had long since passed.

USC COACH PETE CARROLL:

I loved Bo Taylor. Bo was my hero. He knew we had to change attitudes one person at a time.

What I’m here to say to you is, we aren’t backing down from this work.

For those of you who doubt it can be done, just be quiet.

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PS: Mandalit del Barco’s lovely NPR piece on Bo aired in the morning as everyone was driving to the funeral.

PPS: Since it likely isn’t clear, in the photo, Pete Carroll is holding Bo Taylor’s grandson.