So then in 2008, our neighbor, Nick Izguerra, got arrested for murder. It had been a case of self-defense. Nick, an art student at a college downtown, had been jumped by a carload of guys from the Four Corners Hustlers gang. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time – when some hot head had responded to a curse and tossed a bottle. Nick was an innocent bystander. The instigator fled and Nick was pounced upon. He went down. He came back up with the small knife that he carried to sharpen his drawing pencils. One of the assailants died when the blade nicked his aorta.
Nick and his twin brother, Ricky, had been Little League best friends with my boys.
I attended back yard meetings of his supporters. It was as if I had been transported back to the ‘70s. There was such a feeling of family among those who had gathered. I flashed on the different scenarios from those days – times when loyalty was the key ingredient. And I identified. After all, I had been a prisoner at that same age. The activist Bill was reborn. My sons were caught off guard as I tried to rally the neighborhood to support the Izguerra family.
We had a very successful fund raiser in the neighborhood. The Movin On band, which includes Nick’s dad, did great Santana covers. All of Nick’s tagger crew buddies were there. The kids put on a dazzling display of break dancing. It almost had the feel of a wedding party, except for the fact that the guy who everybody loved was in lockup at 26th and California.
One Saturday, I went over to Little Village to check out a “Heal the Hood” event. It was a day to offer alternatives to gang life and youth violence. Band stands, literature tables, soccer games, discussion groups. I asked to speak to the main organizer. I wondered if I could speak about Nick’s case. The coordinator was Mike Rodriguez. He has a smile that could earn him a fortune doing toothpaste commercials. I approached him with our “Self Defense is not a Crime” leaflets. He said, “That guy is my cousin.” Wow!
He couldn’t put me on the program but vowed to see how Little Village could help out. After talking at length with Mike’s dad, I was set to leave. An artist named Ricardo Sanchez was teaching kids how to work on murals. I did a double take when I saw the photo he was using for the painting. It was a New Year’s picture of Nick, his brother Rick, the two boys who had died because of a drunken cop on the Dan Ryan, and two other boys who looked exactly like my own sons. I called home and said, “You guys have to get over here pronto. Not only do these guys have lots good youth programe, but a muralist is painting your pictures.” I interpreted their response as a “Screw you, Dad”.
This was the beginning of my alliance with the activists of Little Village. Ours was a neighborhood with few organizations and programs; “La Villita” was bursting with positive activity.
Soon after Nick was convicted and sentenced to seven years. The judge was unswayed by the self-defense argument. He did admit that he dialed back from ordering a 12 year term. He cited the overflow of supporters and the many character witnesses. We set out to hold another fund raiser this time in Hoyne Park – the site of many past baseball heroics by the Izguerra brothers and the Drew boys.
Leaflets, meetings, and plans built up considerable momentum for a day of games and speeches. I was in overdrive hatching plans. I enlisted a low riders club to parade their cars. We broadened the cause to include Mexican ladies in the neighborhood by using the traditional word, Kermes, instead of potluck. We were planning spray painting and break dancing competitions. Nick’s twin, Rick, was organizing a basketball tournament.
It all came crashing down when the park district revoked our permit. It was another example of me overplaying a weak hand. A murder conviction is a heavy stigma. Not everybody knew the Nick that we knew. In many minds, a tagger crew was the same as a street gang. These guys do art on abandoned factories and ugly viaducts. They create art for fun and self-expression — not for profit. I remember boasting that we would attract TV trucks and fill the park. It must have gotten back to park district officials who wanted no association with such an event.
We needed to regroup. Nick’s mom and his aunt found a way forward. They got signatures from their neighbors to support a block party. What a rich expression of community love! The alderman tried to revoke our permit at the last minute. But we had it in writing and were not to be stopped. Nick’s mom, Patty, rented a slide and a bouncy tent for neighborhood kids. She had an array of raffle gifts. We grilled meats for sale.
A DJ blasted the hip hop beat. A team of expert break dancers from the North Side broke moves on a piece of linoleum which we had put down in the street. And the very best of the taggers collaborated on a twenty foot canvas which memorialized five neighborhood kids who had met tragic ends. Two of them had been killed when their car was rear-ended by a drunken cop on the Dan Ryan expressway. One had died in a car accident in Mexico. Another had taken a stray bullet. And, of course, Nick was just beginning his seven year term.