Cypress Mandela Training Center

Watching the «news» this morning filled with the coverage of the recent happenings there was given a 30 second spot to the 8 year-​old girl shot yesterday inside the house where she had gone for a sleepover.
30 seconds.
I’ve been waiting all morning for the helicopters to appear overhead taking pictures of the masses turning out to protest this injustice, to demonstrate the collective exhaustion with random, or not so random, acts of violence.
I’m guessing at this point they’re not going to come. My bad. Little girl got her 30 seconds. What was I thinking.
I believe to a degree that the orchestrated demonstrations against this or that are brought to you courtesy of The Man. See, if you show up at a couple of these a year, if you get on the bandwagon every now and then, that part of you that could be productively involved actually doing something that makes a difference is sated. The Man doesn’t want you to make a difference.
A little while back, after experiencing violence in the street closer than I would have preferred, after a tour of Highland and 10 large lighter I did a little (more) thinking and wrote a short piece called a stool with three legs. Each leg represented what I thought was a critical underpinning element for a healthier and less violent Oakland (ask and I’ll send it to you).
One of the legs, in my humble opinion, looks like alternative opportunity for kids coming up in a tough time. Doors made by people who get it for people that might not have immediate access to the doors the people most often writing here so often take for granted. Doors that are constructed of vocational training and truth telling. Doors that recognize how hard it is but don’t always allow that as an excuse for not doing your best.
Over my years in the West I’ve had the rare pleasure to meet what I truly believe are a collection of the most significantly under-​sung heroes ever to walk the streets of this city. Not just the good people who founded and run CM, the entire staff and the entire student body. A collection of folks teaching and receiving the teaching in both vocational and life skills. Hundreds of kids a year graduating, not taking up the gun, not falling under the lock and key of The Man.
To my contemporaries here:
Next time you think of heading out to the newest culinary adventure this fine struggling City has to offer, take a second to measure what you’ve given in return. Next time you clench your fist in an angry retort to what the The Man has asked you to get clenchy about, take a step back and see what you’ve overlooked. Next time you curl up in your thousand thread count, thinking all is well and good because you raised your voice in anger over your mussels in butter, maybe sit back up and turn the light on. Illuminate what you’ve done yourself, even in a small way, to make it a little better.
I won’t tell you what I think you can do if that shining light illuminates nothing. You’ll have to deal with that yourself. All I’ll say is this — Cypress Mandela labors in relative obscurity making a bigger difference than all the smashed windows and little bunched fists curled over the drawn butter will ever make piled together and multiplied.
Thank you, Cypress Mandela. Words cannot adequately convey our appreciation for what you do. You inspire those of us who can’t stomach the butter to try, in our small way, to make a difference too.