COLUMN: Two years in Gangsta’land

Two years with no television, no phone calls home, no sex, not even a casual cuddle session with a cute girl. No, it’s not hell for David Baker – it was my life for two years. While I won’t be cliche and say it was the best two years of my life, though it definitely ranks up there, it was definitely the most educational and eye opening. I had always wanted to be a missionary. Maybe it was the 9:30 a.m. to 9:30 p.m. work day that appealed to me. Perhaps it was getting up early every morning before the sun even comes up to read scriptures. Nothing says job fulfillment like getting doors slammed in your face or playing dodge car with oncoming traffic while on a bike. To be completely honest, I couldn’t wait to be a part of the league of missionaries who are classified as the second sexiest men in uniform. I don’t know what it is about slacks, a white shirt and a tie, but the ladies go crazy for it. It’s kind of cruel too, because that’s exactly what you can’t have as a missionary. Becoming a missionary is a complicated process of going through multiple interviews and medical examinations. I’m pretty sure it’s easier to become a NASA astronaut than qualifying to slap on a small, black name badge and tell people about the LDS gospel. The scariest part though was sitting through my ecclesiastical interview. My bishop sat me down and basically told me, “Tell me everything you’ve ever done wrong in your life. Go.” I proceeded to go through everything I could remember. By the time I had finished, I felt awful about myself. I stared at him, waiting for him to excommunicate me or condemn me to hell on the spot. Instead he broke into a huge smile and through his laughing he managed to say, “That’s it?” Well that’s just great. I felt bad about those things. But, everything was good to go and I was soon waiting for that mission call. Soon enough, it came. The California Long Beach Mission. When I read that, my mind kept hoping I’d read it wrong, or that California was actually some province of a third-world country where I would learn an impossibly difficult language and would be able to immerse myself in a totally bizarre culture. But the fact stared me in the face: California, as in United States California, as in Disneyland is right down the road and so is the beach, but you can’t set foot on either. As my friend put it, it was Boise, with cool people. But my dream for a bizarre culture and strange language came true. You see, my mission had the richest of the rich in it, and the poorest of the poor. It was a completely foreign place, especially for a white boy like me. About eight months into my mission, I was sent to Compton. For those of you not up on gang-culture, Compton is a highly dangerous area that has a large number of murders every year and is dominated by gangs. Houses weren’t painted in Compton, they were tagged with gang signs. Hey, it saves on cost. Besides, spray paint is very soothing. The drug dealers especially think so. Walking around in Compton with my other white companion, we stood out like sore thumbs. People would stare at us in confusion, wondering what we were doing in that neck of the woods and why we didn’t seem scared. As we would knock on doors, I was amazed at what I found. People were always home in Compton. They never went to work, they never went to the store, they didn’t do anything but sit in their little homes watching their massive theater systems. They were always really friendly, though. A typical conversation would go like this: “Hi, my friend and I are missionaries. We have a message about Jesus. May we share it with you?” “What? You’re a mercenary? Look, I paid up. Oh, what, you’re missionaries? I see. What’s a couple of crackers like you doing out here?” “Well, we want to talk about Jesus.” “Oh, I know alls abouts Jesus. Aks (ghetto for ‘ask’) me anything, cuz I’s gots a Bible.” “Great, we love the Bible too. We have a message that God has called a new prophet, like he did in the Bible.” “I’ll bet this profit is a good one.” “No, not money profit, spiritual prophet.” “Oh! Like Moses, right?” “Yeah” “Did you know Moses was black, and so was Jesus?” I had to admit that I didn’t know that. I’m no racial expert, but I’m pretty sure Jesus was neither black or white, more Semitic looking, considering where he lived. The woman I was talking to would go back into her house and emerge a minute later with a giant Bible, called the “Black Bible.” It was pretty much the same Bible I was used to except it was illustrated with a black Moses and a black Noah and a black Jesus. I have to admit, it definitely made the Bible look tougher. Suddenly Joshua looked like The Rock. Compton was a bizarre place. It was dominated by rival gangs who hated each other, but for whatever reason, they were nice to the missionaries. We would go talk to them and try to teach them, and things went well, until a rival gang went by and they’d bust out a gun right in front of us and start shooting. Not even kidding. If it wasn’t gang rivalries, it was being forced to stay indoors by local police as they searched for an armed criminal in our apartment complex. Yeah, those are things I didn’t write home about. “No mother, my mission’s going wonderful. The people are all very friendly and I have never seen anything bad in my life.” So, in the end I got my strange, new culture, I learned to love the people I served around and I even picked up a new language (Ebonics), though I have little chance to use it in Utah. My mission was a great chance for me to grow spiritually, mentally and as my last companion can attest, physically. Nothing says the best two years like gaining 30 pounds and getting a Jenny Craig membership from your parents as a welcome home gift.

Seth Hawkins is a senior majoring in public relations. Despite seeing ‘da hood,’ he still has no clue what gangsta rap is talking about. Questions and comments can be sent to him at seth.h@aggiemail.usu.edu