Four years into running KOB, something inside my brain shifted. I had long since stopped apologizing as I asked for donations, applied for grants, and recruited volunteers. I wasn’t out hitting the streets begging for scraps anymore. I just told everybody, “We over here on Michigan,” and waited for them to come.
And they did. Money from donors kept us supplied with new basketballs, matching T-shirts, and sandwiches and chips. Volunteers helped me keep an eye on the dozens of teenagers filling my house every day. And after countless rejection letters, I finally got a state grant. My chest puffed out a little. My head swelled so big it’s a wonder it fit through the doorway.
It didn’t help that people in Chicago knew who I was now. When people said “Diane Latiker,” everybody in the nonprofit community, and sometimes beyond, knew that meant Kids Off the Block. After more than four years of showing up to every organization’s march and rally, I started thinking maybe I was something too. Maybe I could command the same kind of attention as CeaseFire and Magic. Maybe if I hosted my own event, everybody would show up just like they did for these organizations I’d looked up to since I first started KOB.
I spent a little too much time listening to myself instead of listening to the Lord. If I’d listened to Him, I would have heard Him warning me that pride goes before a fall. But I was so sure I was running the next big organization that I’m not sure I would have listened.
It all started with a boy named Robert. He was just thirteen years old, and his only mistake was winning a game of dice against a couple of older boys about two blocks from me. Thirty minutes after those boys left, they went back and shot him in the street, right in front of his house.
Chicago went through its usual outrage cycle. Everybody wanted to march and rally. My phone rang off the hook with calls from the same old people, inviting me to this event and that. This time, though, an idea came to me.
“I’m gonna host my own march,” I told the kids. “You guys show up with signs. I’ll invite the media and all them other groups to come with us.”
The kids all nodded. “Yeah, Miss Diane, we be there,” a few of them said.
I was confident as I took out my list of twenty reporters and worked the phones, talking with everybody who answered and leaving messages for everybody who didn’t. I called up every nonprofit leader I knew and invited them to my march. Some of them said they were hosting their own events. Some of them said they might try to come.
The kids and I canvassed the neighborhood, knocking on doors, inviting everybody we saw, and plastering every blank surface with flyers. At night, I took out a notebook and pen and mapped out my route, making sure we’d hit the busiest streets in Roseland for the most exposure.
That Saturday, the morning of the march, I woke up and opened the blinds, peeking out the window and praying for clear skies. Even a few drops of rain could be enough to keep crowds and reporters from braving the streets. Sunlight streamed through the glass. Only a few fluffy clouds dotted the blue sky. It’s gonna be a good day, I thought.
I washed my face and pulled on my favorite T-shirt airbrushed with the KOB logo before I pulled my braids into an updo. James and I puttered around the house for a few hours, attempting to put everything back in order after a week of kids tearing the place apart. Then, when the march was a half hour away, I sat on my front porch and waited.
I don’t run programming on Saturdays, but that doesn’t stop a few kids from coming by here and there. Today, though, the street was quiet. A few cars drove by but didn’t park nearby. Neighbors walked right by my house. I checked my watch. The march was supposed to start in five minutes, and I was all alone. My heart sank as I considered for the first time the very real possibility that nobody, not even my KOB kids, were coming.
They couldn’t even show up for me? I thought, my cheeks burning. After all I do for them? After all those marches and rallies I went to?
Ten minutes later, I saw Juan, one of my KOB kids, swaggering up the street, smiling broadly, a poster board tucked under his arm. His smile faded as he looked around and realized he was the only one there.
“Where everybody else at, Miss Diane?” he asked.
I shook my head. It didn’t matter how embarrassed or disappointed I felt, I refused to let this boy know it.
“Don’t worry about everybody else,” I said firmly. “We gonna march.”
I held my head high as I walked down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Juan shrugged and held up his poster board scrawled with the words “Stop the Violence.” Side by side, we marched down Michigan to State Street, over to the side block on 117th, and all the way over to Lafayette, past the burned-out houses and buildings marked with red Xs, past the boarded-up windows, and under the cameras on lampposts. I saw people on their porches snickering as we turned around and walked down to LaSalle before heading up Perry, passing the block where Robert was killed.
A few times, Juan trailed behind, his whole demeanor pleading, “Do we really have to keep doing this?” I kept my resolve. I said I was going to march, and I was going to do it with or without a big crowd.
Cars honked at us as we turned back up Michigan and down 115th to end our march at the lot. I had planned to say a few words in front of the memorial. Now that was pointless.
Juan put down his sign. “That it, Miss Diane?” he asked.
I sighed. It was the first time I allowed myself to show any sign of frustration or disappointment. I’d held it together the whole march, but I was starting to lose steam. “That’s it. You can go.” I put my hand on his shoulder and gave him a half-smile. “Thanks for showing up.”
“Why didn’t nobody else come?” he asked innocently.
I shrugged. “I honestly have no idea.”
I stood in front of the memorial and shaded my eyes, watching Juan walk toward his house to make sure he made it safely. Once again, I was all alone, and I sure felt it. I thought of all the kids who’d said they’d march with me, all the times I’d faithfully shown up for marches and rallies even when I could have been doing something more exciting with my time. Nobody but Juan could be bothered to show up for me, and that stung. I felt hurt, like I didn’t matter to anybody else as much as they mattered to me. I wished I’d chosen a less visible route.
My ego deflated as I trudged across the street to my house. My head was back to its normal size now.
I never told you to march, I could feel the Lord telling me. I never told you that you had it going on. None of this is about you. This has always been about Me.
If anybody had asked me, I would have sworn that I listened to God in that moment. I prayed for forgiveness. I promised to listen and give Him the glory. But deep down, some part of me still longed for approval. Sure, God should get credit for all of it, but I could use a few pats on the back now and then. Was that really so bad? I didn’t think so at the time. But God must not have agreed. He wasn’t done humbling me yet.
I was out on the porch with James one May morning when I saw a nice-looking light-skinned man heading down the sidewalk. He stuck out like a sore thumb on my street, with his neatly ironed collared shirt. A notebook stuck out of the back pocket of his jeans.
“That must be Don Terry,” I whispered to James.
Don was a reporter with the Chicago Tribune, and he’d called me a few days earlier asking to write an article about me and KOB. This was no typical article though. He wanted to follow me for two weeks and write a big feature for the last issue of the Chicago Tribune magazine.
I was giddy when I told James, and I warned the kids that he was coming. It wasn’t exactly my first time in the media or even my first article in the Tribune. But the thought of having a well-respected man like Don Terry tell our story excited me. Maybe people would finally understand what I was doing. I was no fool. I knew some of the other nonprofit leaders whispered about me when I wasn’t around. They didn’t like that I allowed gang members to hang out in my living room. I just knew Don would be on my side, that he’d write the perfect article and win everybody else over to my side too.
James and I shook Don’s hand as he introduced us to the photographer who would take our pictures.
“I want you to pretend I’m not here,” he explained to us. “I’ll sit back and take notes, and I might ask you a few questions when you have a moment. I’ll be your shadow. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
I nodded to James, who was still munching on his bowl of cereal. I wondered what I’d gotten myself into. I wasn’t sure how I felt about somebody watching my every move for the next two weeks. What if this reporter didn’t like what we were doing or got the wrong idea? What if this article ripped me to shreds? I hoped I wouldn’t say anything stupid.
“We about to head across the street if y’all want to join us. The kids are playing basketball.”
The words were barely out of my mouth when we heard somebody scream. We jerked up our heads to look out the window. Corey was already across the street with Joe, who was new to KOB, and a few new kids. Even from my living room, I could see fear on Corey’s face.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
Before anybody could say a word, I threw open the front door and ran as fast as my feet could carry me to the lot across the street.
“Miss Diane’s coming!” I heard somebody yell.
James was panting behind me, still carrying that bowl of cereal. There was Joe with a rock the size of a boulder in his hand, still screaming at Corey. Joe was shorter than Corey and half his weight, but he waved that rock around like he was the Hulk, his body twisting with rage. Corey wasn’t backing down, his fists up, still cursing at Joe and insulting the boy’s mother.
For a moment, I forgot all about Don Terry. I didn’t think about the photographer snapping pictures. My focus was on one thought—keeping these boys alive. I can’t have nobody getting hurt on my watch, I thought frantically. It’s never happened before. Today ain’t gonna be the day.
I jumped in front of Corey and held my arms out. Corey was several inches taller than me, but I felt invincible. “Stop it. Stop it now.”
“You ain’t gonna do nothing!” Corey shouted, still taunting Joe. “You a punk.”
Joe lunged at Corey, his eyes flashing, his arm cocked behind him like a slingshot ready to fling the rock. “I ain’t no punk!” he screamed.
“Stop!” I hollered at the top of my lungs. “Put the rock down. Now!”
I grabbed Joe’s wrists, squeezing them until he dropped the rock. I can’t hold him long, I thought as he struggled under my grip. Before I could stop him, he wriggled away from me and charged Corey. I screamed at him to stop as he flew off the asphalt and flung his fist into Corey’s face.
I didn’t see Joe’s brother Stanley sneak up behind us and grab the rock his brother had dropped. Somebody yelled for us to duck just in time. The rock sailed past Corey, hitting the back fence with a sickening smack.
My heart pounded with fury as I fought back a scream. He did not just do that with me standing right there.
“Give me my phone,” I yelled to my husband, still standing there with his bowl of cereal. “I’m calling the police.”
James shook his head as he handed me my phone and scowled at the boys. “Y’all oughtta be ashamed of yourselves!” he yelled. “All Diane do for y’all, and y’all acting like this?”
I dressed all three of them up and down as I held up my phone, ready to call the police at a moment’s notice. “We don’t play like this over here,” I shouted. “Y’all know better. I’m not gonna keep risking my life to save y’all if y’all keep acting like this. You think I won’t call the police? Think again. You wanna go to jail, you throw that rock again.”
I waited for somebody to make a move. Moments later, it was like nothing had ever happened. Somebody picked up the basketball. The three boys who were ready to kill one another just a few minutes earlier were laughing and passing the ball.
Don Terry was there the whole time, scribbling notes in his book. He must think I’m over here working with a bunch of thugs, I thought, dreading his questions. I walked over to him, bracing myself for the worst.
But instead, Don was curious. “Now, why was Corey saying that to Joe?” he asked. “What happened to his mom?”
I relaxed as I explained to him that Joe’s mama was addicted to drugs and that Joe was especially sensitive to any insult that involved her. We were still talking as we walked back to the house.
Hours passed. Don gathered the kids together to explain who he was and what he was doing. He spoke with James, Aisha, a group of boys, anybody who made time for him. And he was back again the next day and the next.
Don wasn’t kidding about being my shadow. He followed me everywhere. He was there when I visited Curtis Elementary School for a basketball program, waving to kids as they tugged on my sleeve to tell me who they had a crush on or who won the soccer game that night. He was there when I walked the block, saying hello to neighbors who called, “Hey, Miss Diane!” from their front porches. He was there, riding in my passenger seat and interviewing me as I drove out to community meetings. I’d hold my breath through the entire meeting, hoping nobody said anything out of line. I’d cringe when somebody made a comment about the white people gentrifying our neighborhoods. Please don’t use that in your article, I’d think.
At first, I spoke carefully, considering how every word could be taken the wrong way. But as the days passed, I forgot to be nervous. I stopped trying to show everything in a positive light. I allowed myself to get heated in community meetings, only to look over and find Don smiling at me. By the time he shook my hand on the last day, I felt like I was saying goodbye to my best friend.
“I’ll bring you a copy of the magazine as soon as it runs,” he promised me.
I barely slept those few weeks before the article was printed. I lay awake going over every word I’d said, wondering what the kids might have told him. I thought he was on my side. I thought he understood me. But what if I was wrong?
James sighed and rolled his eyes as I brought it up again and again. My kids didn’t even want to come over for dinner, they were so sick of hearing about it. “Just pray about it, Mama,” they’d say, growing less and less tolerant with each conversation. “It’s all gonna be alright. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But what if, in his eyes, I did?” I asked every time.
One day I came home to Don on my front porch with three magazines tucked under his arm. I could see a photo of three KOB kids—Rayshawn, Juan, and Tetey—on the front cover, standing in the alley across the street.
“It printed?” I asked, using every ounce of restraint I had to stop myself from snatching it out of his hand.
“It printed,” he said, setting the magazines on the table.
I thanked him for coming out and interviewing me, the whole time glancing nervously at the magazines and wishing he would leave so I could read it. When I was finally alone, I sank into a dining room chair and opened the glossy cover, turning the slick pages until I saw a picture of me. The only word I could say the entire time I read was, “Wow.”
Don had written the most beautiful article I’d ever read. He truly understood what I was trying to do and what I was up against in this neighborhood. That little incident with Corey and Joe framed the article. I was blown away. I felt a little extra spring in my step as I went about my programming that night and as I drove to my state grant meeting a few days later.
KOB was one of six organizations to receive a Roseland Safety Net Works grant—it wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep us running that summer. One of the requirements was that I attend meetings every week with the organizations that received the grant. We had to talk about summer plans, write reports, plan forums, and go over everything we’d done with the funding. I wouldn’t have minded the meetings if it wasn’t for Terrell. Terrell was the head of a growing nonprofit and never made it a secret that he didn’t like me. It didn’t matter what we were talking about, he’d always find a way to make a snippy comment about “those bad KOB kids.” I tried to be cordial. I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to get into it with him in the middle of a meeting. But if he kept going, I’d shut it down with a “Really? You should just stop talking.”
Nobody told me they were on his side, but they sure didn’t speak up for me. They just sat there, supporting him with their silence, sometimes even nodding their heads. I got to where I couldn’t stand being around him, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to keep going to those meetings to keep the grant funding.
On this day, I was still on a high from Don’s article, but Terrell was doing his best to get me down. We were busy planning an event on Halstead Street when he sneered at me and shook his head.
“Yeah, bring those bad kids from KOB,” he scoffed.
Ignoring him didn’t do any good. He kept pestering me, wanting to know why I let those thugs in my house.
“Everybody thinks you a gang mother.” He was daring me to fight back. “That’s why I sent Don Terry over there.”
My head snapped up at the mention of Don’s name. “What?” In all the hours I’d spent with Don, we never did talk about how he came to write about me in the first place. I felt my stomach churn. I realized he might not have planned to write such a nice article about me.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Terrell was nodding now, pleased with himself for making me upset. “I called him up. I told him to go over there and investigate what you were really up to.”
I felt like somebody had knocked the wind out of me. For five years, I’d dedicated every waking hour to KOB. I mentored kids. I helped them with their homework. I picked them up from school, bailed them out of jail, fixed pallets for them when they slept on my floor. I fed them, clothed them, took them to the barber. Kids who just a few years ago dreamed of nothing but selling drugs were talking about college. They dreamed of life beyond these streets, beyond the gangs, beyond the violence. Maybe I couldn’t measure all of that with a few neat statistics, but it was true. And now this man here still didn’t think I was the real deal. This man, who worked with me week after week through the grant program.
I wanted to wag my finger and tell Terrell just what I thought of him and his little comments. I wanted to shove Don Terry’s article in his face and shout, “Don thinks I’m great. Why don’t you?” Instead, I just said, “Wow.” I might have muttered a few curse words under my breath. I had to repent of that later.
I was still furious as I paced my bedroom that night. I’d already ranted to James about how Terrell had some nerve disrespecting KOB. When I could tell he was sick of hearing me repeat myself, I called my mom and ranted to her too. Now that I was alone, I let the Lord have it.
Why can’t these people see I’m doing what You asked me to do? I prayed. After everything I’ve done. After how hard I’ve worked. And this man can’t even respect me.
And there in the stillness, I felt Him speak to me. But it isn’t about you, is it? I felt him whisper. It never was. This whole thing is about My glory. Not yours.
The truth was, I’d been over here thinking I was something else to make a respected reporter like Don Terry want to write about me. I was sick of trying to prove to everyone that I wasn’t just some crazy lady trying to convince teenage boys to leave their gangs. The magazine article was my proof to all the haters that I was legitimate. With just a few words, Terrell had ruined it. That man had read the magazine article. It didn’t change a thing. He was just mad Don hadn’t dug up what he’d wanted him to find. I wasn’t upset about KOB being disrespected. I was upset that Don Terry hadn’t knocked on my door because I was this big, famous nonprofit director. Once again, my head had gotten a little too big. And the Lord didn’t like it.
You gotta humble yourself, the Lord whispered to me. Don’t worry about lifting yourself up. You gotta lift Me up.
I sat on my bed, wiping away the tears. I felt like a little kid who’d just sat through a talking-to from her daddy. I better listen, I thought. ’Cause I sure don’t want to get chastened again.
And I did. With every success that’s come my way, every victory I’ve experienced, I pointed the glory right back at God. I wouldn’t dare take the credit. I didn’t want to find out if He had any other ideas for chastening me.