Like Vince Lombardi
Tonight I arrive in the St. Ben’s meal hall much later than usual. Things are well underway; there’s no line, so I grab my tray. I don’t see any of my usual buddies, so I choose a seat and feel a little lost as no one around me wants to engage. Except for one person who is very engaged in a conversation with someone I can’t see.
A weary-looking man across from me finishes his meal and leaves, a volunteer quickly wipes down the table and a tall, wiry man takes the seat. He asks for two red plastic cups filled with milk. I wonder if I should complement him on his expensive looking Milwaukee Bucks hat, but he seems to be inwardly focused behind his dark sunglasses. Soon, he cries out in pain and cradles his jaw. I know that expression. It reminds me of the time I needed a root canal.
“Are you okay?” I ask him. “Is your tooth hurting?”
He nods, waiting for the pain to subside. After a few seconds, he pulls his sunglasses down on his nose and peers at me over the rim. His eyes are red, puffy, a deep blood spot darkens one side. Wicked green bruises cover his dark skin. “I was attacked.”
I set down my plastic fork and gasp. “That’s awful.”
He replaces his glasses and takes a tentative bite of his food. Then another. He looks like he could hold his own in a fight, and has the demeanor of a tough guy who knows his way around the block, somebody you wouldn’t want to mess with.
I figure he may not want to talk about it, but then again, maybe he needs to. “Where did this happen?" I can feel my face contort into a look of concern. I may never get used to hearing these kinds of stories.
“Close to where I stay. Up on 20th and Wisconsin. They came up on me so fast, I didn’t have a chance to fight back. My face hit the pavement. They grabbed my wallet and tore off my watch.”
“Have you been to the hospital?”
“Yes ma’am. They checked me all out. I had a Cat scan, an MRI, ex-rays – everything. I have a bad concussion.”
“Nothing’s broken?”
He shakes his head. “At least that’s good. But I don’t have any insurance. I just started my new job two weeks ago.” He takes another careful bite. “They were good to me at the hospital, very helpful. There’s resource people who get you past all the insurance issues.”
“Did the police catch them? Were there any witnesses?”
He leans his arms against the table. “The Marquette police got it all on video. They were there right away. I don’t really remember too much. Good thing they saw it. I never saw it coming.”
“I hope you pressed charges.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I know there are bad consequences for this on the street. Payback. People will come looking for you, will send their thugs to hurt you or worse for identifying attackers.
He takes another bite, chews carefully. “The Marquette police drove me over to Sinai last night. This morning, they came and picked me up in a van, and took me to the DA’s office.”
This amazes me. Above and beyond what campus security has to do. Maybe they went out of their way because they’re doing everything they can to facilitate a safe campus. “How many people attacked you?”
“Two. I’m glad they caught them. Marquette has their hands full. That area is messed up. All those students living there - they’ve got to watch everything.” He leans in. “No offense, but I think they need to move the Rescue Mission down into the valley or something. Having it right there just means trouble on the streets.”
He’s talking about the Menomonee Valley, just south of downtown, where the casino is, and the Hank Aaron trail. It used to be lined with homeless encampments, but now it’s becoming gentrified, with high end businesses like the Harley Davidson Museum, craft breweries and restaurants, plus a dose of new industries. I wonder what makes him so sure it was homeless people who attacked him, or if he knew them somehow.
Then he says, “If you have a certain kind of felony, they won’t let you in at the Mission.” He gives me a pointed look that I read as: I have a certain kind of felony. “Not even if you’re homeless. Doesn’t matter.”
A twinge of wariness pricks me. What is he trying to convey? I play it calm. “How do they know? Do they CCAP* you?”
“They ask you. They can check.” He winces in pain again. “I have a concussion,” the man repeats. “I’m dizzy all the time now. Please pray for me.”
I’m grappling with all this information and murmur that I will. He goes on.
“My family wants me to tell them who did it, but I’m not going there. They don’t mess around, you know what I mean? They don’t play.” He gives me another pointed look over the rim of those dark glasses. “Somebody won’t be walking away if they get to them. The DA told me, ‘Please, don’t mention any names to your family.’”
“The DA knows your family?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sips his milk. “But I don’t want any part of that. I don’t get into those messes they create. They don’t play.”
I realize that this man has been talking about some deeply personal things, and I don’t even know his name, so I ask.
“Vince,” he tells me. “Like Vince Lombardi.”
I smile. “I’m Jonnie. Like Johnny Cash.”
That makes him chuckle.
Another man, younger, with a full head of dreadlocks, takes a seat to the right of Vince. We say hello, and he listens in.
Vince picks up where he left off. “Yeah, like I said, if my family goes after them, they won’t be walking away. Myself, I don’t truck with that. I don’t own a gun.” He tilts his head so he can see me above the rim of his glasses. “I don’t even want a gun.”
The younger man pipes up. “Guns are for killing people. Hunting?” He waves his hands dismissively. “What is a rifle? That might be for hunting, so why do you need that in the city? A handgun? That’s made for one thing, and one thing only- to kill people. To shoot a person in they body. Everyone I know who had a gun got shot themselves, before they even had a chance to use it. Some of them are dead, and they had guns. Guns don’t protect you.”
I look at this young black man from somewhere in the city, maybe the inner city, and blurt, “You need to be testifying before the legislature.” He scoffs. “I’m serious,” I tell him. “You’re living with guns in your neighborhood. Your voice is important.”
“Not to those people,” he says.
Vince hums in agreement. “People get excited, they stand in the street and-” he braces his arm as though holding a pistol- “Pow, pow! They just shoot. They aren’t aiming at anything. They don’t know how to shoot a gun. You don’t know who you’re gonna hit. Or they-” he repositions his arm to mime shooting into the sky – “Pow, pow!” He spreads his hands. “That bullet’s gonna come down somewhere. What are they thinking?” He taps his temple. “They’re not thinking- that’s the problem.”
Gun violence in some parts of Milwaukee has claimed the lives of many people, including innocent bystanders and little children. Hearing this opinion on guns coming from a couple of men who seem a little rough around the edges, who most likely see and hear guns in their neighborhoods with alarming regularity, has me riveted.
“You’re never going to stop the violence,” the younger man says. “Guns ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He places a palm against his chest. “I believe that what you put out, you get back. You carry a weapon, you send out a paranoid vibe, or people can sense you think you got it ‘cause you packing. That just draws trouble to you. I don’t want none of that. I put out love and positive energy.”
Vince agrees. “What goes around, comes around.”
I ask Vince, “What happens next? Will they be released? The people who attacked you?”
He nods. “They’ll be out in a couple of days if they can make bail.”
“How do you feel about going home? You’ve been through a trauma. Every time you go home, you’ll relive that.”
“I know. I’ve got to move. That area is just too much.”
“Where do you want to move?”
“Cudahy,” he says.
This takes me aback. Cudahy is a suburb just south of Milwaukee. It's integrated, and there is some low income housing. I tell him these things. “It’s a lot safer than 20th and Wisconsin,” I add.
“I used to work at Patrick Cudahy. Everybody trusted me. I was just a young guy, a hard worker. I had the keys to the tannery. I’d go into that big building all alone on a Sunday morning to check on the shipment – all the leather would be organized. I’d go in, turn off the alarm system, check to make sure everything was ready, then turn the alarm back on and lock up.” His face lights up at the memory. “My car would be the only one in the parking lot. The cops knew my car. It was like, ‘Oh, it’s only Vince.’ That’s how much they trusted me.”
I wonder why he lost that trust, why he lost that job, what series of events landed him on the pavement pounded by robbers who took his watch and his wallet. But the tables are being wiped down, the chairs stacked, and we have to go.
He stands, loses his balance with dizziness, flails his arms and cries out, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He leans on the table for stability. “I have a concussion,” he reminds me.
“Be careful not to stand too fast,” is the best I can muster.
“Be sure to pray for me,” Vince tells me again.
*CCAP is an online record of cases that come before the Wisconsin Court System.
A weary-looking man across from me finishes his meal and leaves, a volunteer quickly wipes down the table and a tall, wiry man takes the seat. He asks for two red plastic cups filled with milk. I wonder if I should complement him on his expensive looking Milwaukee Bucks hat, but he seems to be inwardly focused behind his dark sunglasses. Soon, he cries out in pain and cradles his jaw. I know that expression. It reminds me of the time I needed a root canal.
“Are you okay?” I ask him. “Is your tooth hurting?”
He nods, waiting for the pain to subside. After a few seconds, he pulls his sunglasses down on his nose and peers at me over the rim. His eyes are red, puffy, a deep blood spot darkens one side. Wicked green bruises cover his dark skin. “I was attacked.”
I set down my plastic fork and gasp. “That’s awful.”
He replaces his glasses and takes a tentative bite of his food. Then another. He looks like he could hold his own in a fight, and has the demeanor of a tough guy who knows his way around the block, somebody you wouldn’t want to mess with.
I figure he may not want to talk about it, but then again, maybe he needs to. “Where did this happen?" I can feel my face contort into a look of concern. I may never get used to hearing these kinds of stories.
“Close to where I stay. Up on 20th and Wisconsin. They came up on me so fast, I didn’t have a chance to fight back. My face hit the pavement. They grabbed my wallet and tore off my watch.”
“Have you been to the hospital?”
“Yes ma’am. They checked me all out. I had a Cat scan, an MRI, ex-rays – everything. I have a bad concussion.”
“Nothing’s broken?”
He shakes his head. “At least that’s good. But I don’t have any insurance. I just started my new job two weeks ago.” He takes another careful bite. “They were good to me at the hospital, very helpful. There’s resource people who get you past all the insurance issues.”
“Did the police catch them? Were there any witnesses?”
He leans his arms against the table. “The Marquette police got it all on video. They were there right away. I don’t really remember too much. Good thing they saw it. I never saw it coming.”
“I hope you pressed charges.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I know there are bad consequences for this on the street. Payback. People will come looking for you, will send their thugs to hurt you or worse for identifying attackers.
He takes another bite, chews carefully. “The Marquette police drove me over to Sinai last night. This morning, they came and picked me up in a van, and took me to the DA’s office.”
This amazes me. Above and beyond what campus security has to do. Maybe they went out of their way because they’re doing everything they can to facilitate a safe campus. “How many people attacked you?”
“Two. I’m glad they caught them. Marquette has their hands full. That area is messed up. All those students living there - they’ve got to watch everything.” He leans in. “No offense, but I think they need to move the Rescue Mission down into the valley or something. Having it right there just means trouble on the streets.”
He’s talking about the Menomonee Valley, just south of downtown, where the casino is, and the Hank Aaron trail. It used to be lined with homeless encampments, but now it’s becoming gentrified, with high end businesses like the Harley Davidson Museum, craft breweries and restaurants, plus a dose of new industries. I wonder what makes him so sure it was homeless people who attacked him, or if he knew them somehow.
Then he says, “If you have a certain kind of felony, they won’t let you in at the Mission.” He gives me a pointed look that I read as: I have a certain kind of felony. “Not even if you’re homeless. Doesn’t matter.”
A twinge of wariness pricks me. What is he trying to convey? I play it calm. “How do they know? Do they CCAP* you?”
“They ask you. They can check.” He winces in pain again. “I have a concussion,” the man repeats. “I’m dizzy all the time now. Please pray for me.”
I’m grappling with all this information and murmur that I will. He goes on.
“My family wants me to tell them who did it, but I’m not going there. They don’t mess around, you know what I mean? They don’t play.” He gives me another pointed look over the rim of those dark glasses. “Somebody won’t be walking away if they get to them. The DA told me, ‘Please, don’t mention any names to your family.’”
“The DA knows your family?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sips his milk. “But I don’t want any part of that. I don’t get into those messes they create. They don’t play.”
I realize that this man has been talking about some deeply personal things, and I don’t even know his name, so I ask.
“Vince,” he tells me. “Like Vince Lombardi.”
I smile. “I’m Jonnie. Like Johnny Cash.”
That makes him chuckle.
Another man, younger, with a full head of dreadlocks, takes a seat to the right of Vince. We say hello, and he listens in.
Vince picks up where he left off. “Yeah, like I said, if my family goes after them, they won’t be walking away. Myself, I don’t truck with that. I don’t own a gun.” He tilts his head so he can see me above the rim of his glasses. “I don’t even want a gun.”
The younger man pipes up. “Guns are for killing people. Hunting?” He waves his hands dismissively. “What is a rifle? That might be for hunting, so why do you need that in the city? A handgun? That’s made for one thing, and one thing only- to kill people. To shoot a person in they body. Everyone I know who had a gun got shot themselves, before they even had a chance to use it. Some of them are dead, and they had guns. Guns don’t protect you.”
I look at this young black man from somewhere in the city, maybe the inner city, and blurt, “You need to be testifying before the legislature.” He scoffs. “I’m serious,” I tell him. “You’re living with guns in your neighborhood. Your voice is important.”
“Not to those people,” he says.
Vince hums in agreement. “People get excited, they stand in the street and-” he braces his arm as though holding a pistol- “Pow, pow! They just shoot. They aren’t aiming at anything. They don’t know how to shoot a gun. You don’t know who you’re gonna hit. Or they-” he repositions his arm to mime shooting into the sky – “Pow, pow!” He spreads his hands. “That bullet’s gonna come down somewhere. What are they thinking?” He taps his temple. “They’re not thinking- that’s the problem.”
Gun violence in some parts of Milwaukee has claimed the lives of many people, including innocent bystanders and little children. Hearing this opinion on guns coming from a couple of men who seem a little rough around the edges, who most likely see and hear guns in their neighborhoods with alarming regularity, has me riveted.
“You’re never going to stop the violence,” the younger man says. “Guns ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He places a palm against his chest. “I believe that what you put out, you get back. You carry a weapon, you send out a paranoid vibe, or people can sense you think you got it ‘cause you packing. That just draws trouble to you. I don’t want none of that. I put out love and positive energy.”
Vince agrees. “What goes around, comes around.”
I ask Vince, “What happens next? Will they be released? The people who attacked you?”
He nods. “They’ll be out in a couple of days if they can make bail.”
“How do you feel about going home? You’ve been through a trauma. Every time you go home, you’ll relive that.”
“I know. I’ve got to move. That area is just too much.”
“Where do you want to move?”
“Cudahy,” he says.
This takes me aback. Cudahy is a suburb just south of Milwaukee. It's integrated, and there is some low income housing. I tell him these things. “It’s a lot safer than 20th and Wisconsin,” I add.
“I used to work at Patrick Cudahy. Everybody trusted me. I was just a young guy, a hard worker. I had the keys to the tannery. I’d go into that big building all alone on a Sunday morning to check on the shipment – all the leather would be organized. I’d go in, turn off the alarm system, check to make sure everything was ready, then turn the alarm back on and lock up.” His face lights up at the memory. “My car would be the only one in the parking lot. The cops knew my car. It was like, ‘Oh, it’s only Vince.’ That’s how much they trusted me.”
I wonder why he lost that trust, why he lost that job, what series of events landed him on the pavement pounded by robbers who took his watch and his wallet. But the tables are being wiped down, the chairs stacked, and we have to go.
He stands, loses his balance with dizziness, flails his arms and cries out, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He leans on the table for stability. “I have a concussion,” he reminds me.
“Be careful not to stand too fast,” is the best I can muster.
“Be sure to pray for me,” Vince tells me again.
*CCAP is an online record of cases that come before the Wisconsin Court System.