Let's Remember Dexter
by Making Time for Kids

by Valerie Shaw, M.PR

I promised myself that after Efren Diaz Junior's funeral nearly a year ago, I wouldn't go to another one for a pre-adult manchild whose life was cut short by a bullet. I couldn't take the pain of seeing another young corpse laid out frozen in his Sunday best prom clothes. I couldn't stand to hear the groaning wails of bereavement from a family especially a mother like myself nor the reading of an obituary that was much too short, just like the young life cut down by the deranged act of a teenage killer.

And I kept that promise until yesterday, when I attended the homegoing for Dexter Derel Rideout, age 20, the youngest brother of my dear friend Joy, who was slain in broad daylight while innocently walking down a street in Central Los Angeles. Because of my love for Joy I had to attend.

I arranged my "funeral" clothes the night before, but managed to procrastinate until one o'clock in the afternoon, just an hour before the services, which were being held a full hour away from where I live. Maybe if I didn't go this nightmare wouldn't repeat itself, I thought. But I knew in my heart that I had to go and now that I had no time to dress, I went as I was, in a white t-shirt, jeans and my hair tied in a fuzzy knot at the top of my head. At least I was clean, even if I didn't have time to put on makeup or dress "respectfully."

Traffic moved along at a fine clip and I found myself at the funeral home ten minutes early, early enough to take my seat at the back of the chapel, right next two a few of Dexter's homies, most dressed in black, white or gray tees and jeans, just like me. I felt right at home besides them. In fact, to tell you the truth, I felt more comfortable with these young strangers than I would have with the more formally attired adults my own age.

The seats filled quickly and silently with Dexter's friends, classmates, loved ones and family. By the time Rev. Ozzie Dunn, Dexter's Minister at Baptist Temple Church, began his officiation, the homies and homegirls had occupied every seat around me. It took me a minute to realize that I was the only adult standing with them. The room was distinctly divided into "them" and "us."

The "them" was the well-dressed and well-mannered adults who barely recognized the throng of young people who came as they were to pay their last respects to a fallen friend. Had I not procrastinated in my dressing, I too would have been a "them," for I would not have felt comfortable sitting with the homies dressed in my fine funeral attire. "Us" were set apart by the way we looked, and for everyone but me, by youth.

I wept throughout the services, as did many of the homies. The young man next to me sobbed with his head tucked into his baggie jeans. He was a boy about my son's age, maybe 17, and I wanted so badly to console him with a mother's touch. I wanted to hug all of the boys and girls who had only each other to turn to in this agonizing moment of grief.

It was not the first funeral for most of the homies, I surmised by the occasional whispers, reminders to each other of so-and-so's funeral and when so-and-so died. And, judging by the way things are going, it won't be the last.

They needed an adult's perspective and we, the adults, desperately needed to reach out to these wandering youth, for they are our future. Why should they care for us in our old age if we barely acknowledge their existence? While everyone in the chapel was experiencing the same grief, there was an invisible partition between the two groups of human being that kept us apart as keenly as a brick wall.

Wouldn't it be wonderful, I thought wistfully, if every adult grabbed one of these kids and said, "I'm going to be your mentor and your friend. Let's talk and get to know each other one-on-one." Wouldn't it be wonderful if each adult, in honor of Dexter Rideout's memory, would commit to helping one child reach the safe passage to adulthood with love and guidance. Surveying the chapel I figured that it would pretty much be a one-to-one match.

I snapped out of my reverie when Tom Riley, a hulking blond white guy who'd brought his entire family to the funeral, began to speak about his love for Dexter as his official Big Brother and a dear, dear friend for the past 10 years. When he spoke of Dexter's love of pizza and barbeque, the homies all laughed and gave each other high-fives. They appreciated Tom Riley's words and applauded, I think, louder than anyone in the chapel.

Rev. Dunn concluded his brief interpretation of the 27th Psalms, Dexter's favorite Bible verse, and we all filed out to view the body and proceed to the internment. The homies piled into their cars, some four deep, and the adults proceeded to theirs. I stood in the shadow of one of the marble pillars for fifteen minutes, watching the sea of people drift apart, like water poured from the apex of a steep hill, drifting down on both sides, never to meet up again.

I just stood there alone, weeping. Unencumbered by makeup, I was free to sob, rubbing my eyes and frequently blowing my nose. I cried for Dexter and I cried for the family that loved him. But mainly, I think, I cried because we, as a society, are missing so much by not embracing this second hip hop generation to come of age. It would be easy for us to emulate Tom Riley, who adopted Dexter into his family, taking him on trips, enjoying sports, and mentoring the youngster into adulthood. It would be easy and it would cement a bond between the generations that could never be broken.

What an enriching experience it is to get involved in the life of an at-risk youth. You can see the results before your very eyes when they start come to you with questions about Life and eventually begin reciting the lessons they've learned from you.

A small knot of youngsters stopped for a moment beside me at my semi-concealed post.

"You goin' to the gravesite, man," one young man addressed another.

"Yeah man, you need a ride?"

"Naw, man, I'm with my homies over there."

"You goin' to that repast thing," the first one asked.

"Naw, man." He bowed his head, wiping a tear from the corner of one eye. "I'm jus' gonna kick it with the homies."

"Ah'right then, man, I'll definitely catch up with you later."

As they departed, I hung my head in shame. Shame for me not reaching out to help these youngsters cope with their loss, and shame for my entire generation, so bent on achieving status and material things that we forget that when we go we aren't going to take a dang thing with us. The very least we could do, it seems to me, is leave behind a generation of young people who will truly mourn our passing.

Call me naive, but isn't that the true stuff that legacies are built on?

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Writer's Note: Joy Rideout, Dexter's devoted eldest sister, would like to initiate "Dexter's Friends," matching adult mentors with young mentees for the purpose of bridging the generation gap. If you are interested, or would like more information, please contact her at amcdart@pacbell.net.

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For other works by Valerie Shaw please see:

Valerie Shaw
offerings of an urban woman

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