Stories: A Ruby in the Gravel
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| Donald Avery: A Ruby in the Gravel
Richmond, California was an industrial town, built mostly during the 1940's, where it produced a lot of metal used in World War II. Most of the present day city of Richmond is inside and area known as the Iron Triangle, probably because of the metal that used to be produced between a east-west street on the south called Cutting, and two major roads, one heading northeast from Cutting, and the other heading northwest. The old factories have long since been abandoned, but the area retains its name. Now, Iron seems to refer to the color of the buildings in the triangle.
Richmond is a large contrast from its neighbors. The areas around the triangle, such as San Pablo and El Cerrito, have a lot of Spanish-style architecture. To the immediate west of the Iron Triangle is a small community called Point Richmond. ItâÂÂs connected to Cutting, but the most traveled route there is to the I-580, leading to San Rafael and San Francisco on the West, and Oakland on the East. The positioning of the highway onramps ensures that no one in this community has to drive through the "real Richmond." The streets remind me of the tangle of Christmas tree lights after being thrown in a box and transported in a bumpy van across the U.S. The hills are steep, the houses are placed randomly, each decorated with art representing the sea. In all the areas outside the Iron Triangle, the houses have triangle-shaped roofs. In downtown Richmond, however, the buildings resemble large grey boxes lying on top of one another, surrounded by glass, all behind black fences.
This area was inside the first proselyting area assigned to me as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. This area had once been closed to missionaries, due to the occaisional headlines about shootings in the government housing projects.
The residents are more than 99% minority groups, most of which are African-American. The only "white" exception I can remember is the traveling hobo with his high-tech cardboard signs he could flip regularly to change his message. His signs were always jokes, and he always told jokes. Once he told to us is that an officer told him to stop washing peopleâÂÂs windows in the parking lot. He told the officer "washing windows is not a crime," to which the officer replied "well the way you do it sure is!"
Most people who lived around the cities thought we were brave for going inside the triangle so regularly. After interacting with the people for so long, though, we felt like a natural part of the scenery. Instead of being cautious, we boldly greeted every person we saw with a smile on our faces. We got into a lot more doors that way.
As part of the mission guidelines at the time, we were asked to proselyte by knocking on doors, or "tracting," at least an hour each day. We were assigned to work in companionships of two, and sometimes three. In our case, there were three. Elder Mallder, our roommate, was added to our companionship that day since his previous companion got transferred.
As usual, we said a prayer asking for guidance before we chose the street we would go to. Then, as was our usual technique, we would each privately select five streets we thought we could go to. Once finished, we would compare lists and whichever street was all in common we would visit. In this case, there were three streets in common. As the newest of the three, the two senior missionaries wanted me to pick the street. I didn't know the area a lot, but thought about it and said "Florida." Florida was a fairly long street, so they asked me which block we would start on. I felt confident and picked the South 18th Street block.
Due to Elder Shield's last experience with a car (he tried to hit a squirrel but hit a car instead), I was assigned from the mission office to be the driver. We took Cutting Boulevard deep into the Iron Triangle. Navigating to this area is fairly difficult, once you leave Cutting. The smaller roads become one-way roads and have speed bumps and the intersections sometimes are divided crosswise by a gravel median with a yellow arrow sign, directing you to turn right or left. Changing directions is often necessary unless you know the streets.
We got to the corner and started knocking on doors. We had shined shoes, dark-colored suits, ties, and a black name tag with the name of the church in Laotian and then in big letters "Elder" followed by our last names. We walked from house to house, smiled, and introduced who we were and what we were doing. After each house we would write down the results of our interactions. Elder Shields, my original companion, liked to whistle between houses. One of the few people I remember meeting that day had a Spanish lady who accepted my invitation to read The Book of Mormon, Another Testament of Jesus Christ, and my companions praised me for my success.
Most houses did not have a doorbell that worked. We knocked on the strong shiny metal screen the people stood behind. When someone had one of these, we usually could just see a personâÂÂs shadow or outline in the door. Occasionally, we only saw a black screen. With the lack of visual contact, we usually asked a question first, so we could tell the characteristics of the people we spoke to.
When I first started out, it was a trick to think of something to say. Most of the time, we would say something like "We have a message about prophets in our day." Most peopleâÂÂs responses were something like "I'm Catholic," or "I've been blessed already." One of my favorites was when we had visited every house on an extended block but one, having several doors slammed in our faces, or hearing phrases like "I'm too busy" or "we're not interested." On the last apartment we visited, the old gentleman said "I'm not interested. I'm not a Christian. This street is full of Christians who will listen to your message." Not that day, I guess.
Later I would come to know this area very well. Just down the street was a guy named Dontrell who called up to get a video about Jesus Christ. We came to his house regularly. His family and friends called him Lil' Meech. He was a talented, aspiring rapper who knew his way around the dictionary like Spider-Man knew his way around the skyscrapers. The time he rapped for us, he used about 10 different words that end with "-ization" in about that many seconds.
One side of the street was made of old, but well-kept houses. Most of these apartments looked the same. They were short, grey, one-level duplexes made out of what looked like cement. There were small steps leading up from the ground to the door. The duplexes each had a barred window by the door.
We knocked on one grey apartment in a duplex. It was my turn to do an approach. I did my best through the veil of a screen door, but there seemed to be something wrong with the man behind it. He didn't seem to hear me. His speech was slow and slurred, so I attempted a loud and slow introduction. Elder Shields stepped up and took over and did his own introduction. When he asked when we could teach him, the man said "come back Tuesde" in a raspy voice. I wasn't even sure the man understood us, and noted it on our record, along with our Tuesday appointment.
When we came back on Tuesday, the man opened the door and told us to come in, shuffling back to his couch. We entered the dimly-lit apartment and sat on three hard chairs. The man, who introduced himself as Don, sat on a very worn down couch. Directly in front of Don there was a square cardboard box he put his belongings on. Across and to the right of him was a tall, thin, upright TV stand where a small television sat turned on.
The pungent smell of tobacco seemed to almost overcome me. I fidgeted a lot, IâÂÂm sure. Elder Shields noted my discomfort and told me to just be patient.
Don had a raspy, croaking, but not hoarse voice. When he spoke, his l's and r's were pronounced as w's. One of his feet had a plastic leg brace. His was twisted slightly to the side. When he took off his hat, his head was bald at the front, exposing a few dents. His hair was thin and curly. His face had a small amount of wrinkles. He looked to be about 40 to me at the time. We later learned he was starting his sixth decade.
We gave him our first lesson about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith and he gave several exclamations of surprise when we taught something new. His response was often a "heuaaaaaaa" or an "ooooooooooooeeeeeee." We gave him a Bible and a Book of Mormon and set a return appointment.
After Elder Shields returned home from his mission, Elder Mallder and I regularly taught Don the missionary lessons. He was browsing the TV one day and happened upon a three hour documentary on our church. He eagerly told us all about it during our next visit. He said something like "I know if I'm gonna' be a Mormon, I gotta' stop smokin'.... and drinkin' kawfee.â He told us he felt it was about time for him to quit smoking. Because of his enthusiasm to be baptized and to quit smoking, we started the quit smoking program created by a member of the church.
We gave him a list of things to buy including grapefruit, cranberry juice, mouthwash, toothpaste, gum, vitamin c, and other foods good for cleansing the body.
When the big day to start the program came, we put cartoon signs all over the apartment. We used all the Febreeze we had to get the tobacco smell out of the drapes. He had forgotten he was going to quit coffee at the same time. When we told him we were getting rid of the coffee, he pleaded "Just a spoonful! A spoonful on a piece of papeh!" We said "Don, we have to get rid of it all." He bowed his head and went silent for a while. He looked as if he was going to break down in tears. He lifted his head and mumbled some more. We decided to pray with Don.
Don said the prayer. He started with a loud "God......" and paused "I miss my cigawettes and my kaawfee! â¦. But I donâÂÂt need them no mo'"
We came back every day that week to help him. He found a new favorite: cranberry juice. He told us that he felt his body changing. Don used the cranberry juice every time he had a craving. He told us he never had the craving for a cigarette or for coffee again. It was the coffee, he told us, that made it harder for him to pronounce words correctly. His pronunciation certainly did improve after that week.
Each visit we had with Don was a treat. Despite his speech impairment, he would talk for an hour straight about the changes he wanted to make in his life and "the man upstairs," as he liked to say. He said "the man upstaiz's been watchin' out fo' me." Every once in a while one of us would interject a comment, loud so he could understand, and he would say something like "yeeah that's what I'm talkin' 'bout!"
On each visit we learned more about his past. He was born in the more wealthy area of Concord, California. I never learned too much about his childhood, but he did tell us about his later years. He became addicted to alcohol in his fifties and this addiction lasted for several years. He drank more in later years to dull the pain of what he later learned was a tumor in his head.
Through a head operation, the tumor was taken away, but at the cost of some sections of his brain, which caused his difficulty pronouncing things.
We had a member take him to church as soon as he felt ready. Many of the members came and shook his hand and introduced themselves. During the classes he always had at least one comment to add to the lesson.
One day, some missionaries moved from an apartment, and there were no missionaries to replace them. The apartment was closed, and the office missionaries told us to donate the belongings in the apartment to someone who needed them. It wasn't a difficult choice.
With the help of a member of the church, we brought a truckload of furniture to Don. When we started bringing in the furniture, Don, even with his bad legs, dropped down on one knee and began to pray out loud to God.
I was transferred out of the area, but Elder Mallder stayed behind. A few weeks later, Elder Mallder told me that Don got baptized. After about two months, I was transferred back to the very same area, where I saw Don very often for the next year. Don wanted to feed the missionaries like most other members did regularly. He made us bologna sandwiches with Hostess-type pies and cranberry juice. When he noticed I only put one slice of bologna on there, he said "hey, put some mo' boloney on theaâ¦. Hehe⦠now that's a meaty sanwich!"
Don takes the para-transit taxi every Sunday morning to church. He sits by the entrance of the chapel and shakes peoples' hands with his own partially crippled right hand. He often will say "How ya doin'?" or if someone passes him he might say "Hey! Come back hea and shake my haend! hehehe"
This June, my wife and I visited him. He's still the same Donald Avery I know and love. He made us grits from a can. Once again, he talked our ear off and we had to say goodbye to him a lot sooner than we wanted to. As we left his house he said "next time don't wait no two years t' com'n see me." As we walked across the green lawn to our car, Donald Avery kept waving and waving with the biggest smile on his face I've ever seen displayed on a grown man. It was hard to turn to the steering wheel and drive away. Tears filled both of our eyes as we turned the corner and watched Donald Avery's apartment disappear. |
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