The year of the gun
The flip side of sudden trauma and loss is that people can make a difference
when they get organized
by Ian Donnis
By the early part of 2000, it seemed as if the rules had changed. On a
national level, crime continued to plummet. The moribund economy that brought
Clinton to office in 1993 was such a distant memory that the subsequent boom
times -- normally enough to sweep a beneficiary of the status quo into the
White House -- came to more closely resemble an entitlement. But in Rhode
Island, nothing matched the ability of that deeply embedded American icon --
the firearm -- to cause sudden trauma and even spark the promise of social
change. As tech stocks sank and Internet start-ups flamed out in growing
numbers by year's end, it was hard not to recognize the stamina and dark
implications of Mao's mid-20th century observation: that power flows from the
barrel of a gun.
It was bad enough that gun-related violence continued to sporadically flare in
South Providence and other poor neighborhoods, contributing heavily to a toll
of 30 homicides in the capital city. As a looming economic slowdown came on the
radar of the middle-class, this gunplay offered a stark reminder that even in
the best of times, it's the most vulnerable members of our society, like
Jennifer Rivera, the teenage murder witness who was gunned down before she was
due to testify in court, who face the most constant stream of unpredictable
threats.
The kind of predatory violence that claimed the lives of Amy Shute and Jason
Burgeson, the college students who were shot and killed after being carjacked
near the Arcade in Providence, is certainly horrific, although rare by
comparison. But in a typical media paradox, this singular crime got outsized
publicity not just because it was brutal and cold-blooded, but since it
manifested suburbanites' worst psychological fears about urban violence. In
contrast, the biggest Rhode Island story of the year -- the death of Cornel
Young Jr., the black Providence police officer who was shot to death by two
white colleagues in January after being mistaken for an armed criminal -- took
on such prominence because it spoke to the familiar pattern of slights and
discrimination, and worse, that is actually experienced by minorities in
America.
Even with the release of the grand jury testimony in the case, it's still
difficult to conclude whether, as many suspected, Young's colleagues were
quicker to shoot because of the color of his skin, or, as police have
maintained, the episode was strictly a terrible accident. In any case, the
death of Young, the son of the highest-ranking minority officer in the
Providence Police Department, was perceived across racial lines as a tragedy,
and it galvanized a broad and diverse coalition that helped to quickly steer
the unfinished business of race onto the state's agenda. After previously
facing stiff opposition, legislation to examine racial profiling became law.
Governor Lincoln Almond created a 15-member commission to review
police-community relations across the state, and another panel is looking at
similar issues in Providence. After months of gathering testimony, both
commissions are due to present findings and recommendations in the months to
come.
This was the clear and heartening flip side of the power of the gun: under the
right circumstances, people can become motivated to press for overdue and
important changes. Leisa Young, who remained a paragon of dignity after losing
her son, made it clear from the start that her priority was bringing positive
reforms out of Cornel Young Jr.'s death. Helping to support the cause was a
far-flung array of individuals and organizations, from members of the
Providence City Council and faith-based groups, to the Rhode Island Minority
Police Officers Association. This outpouring was a local expression of the
renewed civic activism and social protest that could be seen locally and around
the country, on a gamut of issues. This kind of activism, and the impressive
coalition that formed in the aftermath of Young's death, demonstrated the
latent power that people possess even in these largely apolitical times.
To their credit, members of this coalition don't show any indication of being
about to fade away. But even with the best of intentions, it's a lot more
difficult to bring about meaningful long-term change than to mount a short-term
response to a crisis. Nowhere was this more true than in the Providence Police
Department, which continued to be plagued by a series of embarrassments in
2000, culminating in allegations that officers roughed up parking attendants in
a dispute over a $6 fee. For a long time, it seemed as if nothing short of a
conflagration at police headquarters would prompt Providence Mayor Vincent A.
"Buddy" Cianci Jr. to seek a more contemporary and responsive brand of
administration than the kind delivered by Colonel Urbano Prignano Jr., the
chief of police.
But after allegations surfaced that some officers received advance copies of
promotional exams and a $5000 bribe was paid to get a recruit into the police
academy, even the Fraternal Order of Police was calling for Prignano's ouster.
It's possible that Prignano, hailed as "a cop's cop" when he became chief in
1995, might have been more inclined to leave on his own had he not been
challenged so directly by Ward 11 Councilwoman Balbina A. Young and other
critics. But, as suggested by recent statements by Public Safety Commissioner
John Partington, it increasingly seems as if Prignano's time may have come.
Cianci, of course, was not without his own problems. After an apparent lull in
Operation Plunder Dome, the federal probe of municipal corruption in Providence
intensified as it spread to the police department. The number of convictions
continues to climb, and the investigation moved closer to the mayor as Frank
Corrente, a former top aide, was indicted in June on charges of corruption.
Cianci remains a popular figure, but eyebrows were nonetheless raised when he
sold his $1.3 million home on the East Side to move to the Biltmore. The
conclusion of Plunder Dome is yet to come, but it will likely be a very
different story by this time next year.
Ralph Nader's Greens achieved ballot status in Rhode Island, and state Senator
William Irons of East Providence ousted Paul Kelly as the Senate majority
leader. But elsewhere in politics, it was a fairly predictable time. Lincoln
Chafee benefited greatly from the goodwill associated with his late father,
easily beating US Representative Bob Weygand to solidify his seat in the
Senate. Secretary of State James Langevin beat back a spirited challenge by
Kate Coyne-McCoy to effectively win Weygand's former seat in the House.
Attorney General Sheldon Whitehouse faced a storm of controversy over the
Cornel Young Jr. and Jennifer Rivera cases, but still looks like a prime
gubernatorial candidate as other prospects begin the early jockeying for
2002.
Providence continued to bask in the limelight of glowing press, such as a
finding by Money magazine that it's the most livable city in the East.
It's not that we don't appreciate the accolades, but you have to question this
kind of ranking when, just a few years ago, Providence was rated behind
Worcester, Massachusetts. The whole thing speaks more to how success breeds
success, and with Providence having emerged as some kind of national shorthand
for urban rejuvenation, we can expect the hoopla to continue. But as seen by
the debate over whether to preserve mill buildings or build a strip mall in
Eagle Square, this heightened status brings a whole new set of pressures and
challenges.
And when it comes to Rhode Island in 2001, there's no shortage of
longstanding needs, from raising the quality of public schools to fighting the
persistence of poverty, prejudice, and political corruption. But it's an
encouraging sign that when Rhode Islanders were at their best last year, they
got busy and went to work.
Ian Donnis can be reached at idonnis[a]phx.com.