A Long Way from Crenshaw: Lessons and Stories About Race, Love, Honor, and Faith for These Changing Times

By James Darren Key

A Long Way from Crenshaw explores the vicissitudes of life, as well as human resiliency and triumph.

Author and U.S. Army chaplain James Darren Key highlights forty lessons and stories from his journey, which at times has given him incredible joy and, on other occasions, unavoidable pain and anguish.

Key speaks candidly about growing up black in California in the 1970s and 1980s. By delving into his own weaknesses and fears, he empowers you to:

• recognize failures and successes along your journey;
• approach race and diversity with sensitivity and courage;
• heal from an unhealthy relationship before you start a new one;
• face trials and controversy with unshakable faith.

Written in a conversational style, Key’s story is easily accessible to people from all walks of life. His message is universal, timely and inspirational.

Join the author as he shares compelling stories and lessons learned at home, and abroad.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781973690603

James Darren Key

James Darren Key is an inspirational speaker and commentator on race, politics, relationships, honor, and faith. His writing and commentary have been featured in a number of different outlets, including USA Today, and American Forces Network (AFN) Korea. His military decorations include the Bronze Star Medal, Meritorious Service Medal, Army Commendation Medal, and one combat tour in Iraq. He earned a master of theology in world religions from Princeton Theological Seminary; and his master of divinity and doctor of ministry (politics and religion) degrees from Howard University School of Divinity. He is also the author of Touch and Go: From the Streets of South Central Los Angles to the War in Iraq. He lives in Victorville, California, with his wife, Simone, and has two children, James III and Amara.

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ISBN: 978-1-9736-9059-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-9061-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-9060-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020907572

WestBow Press rev. date: 06/15/2020

Scripture taken from the Amplified Bible, Copyright © 1954, 1958, 1962,

1964, 1965, 1987 by The Lockman Foundation. Used with permission.

Scripture taken from the Contemporary English Version © 1991,

1992, 1995 by American Bible Society. Used by Permission.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

The Living Bible copyright © 1971 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used

by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois

60188. All rights reserved. The Living Bible, TLB, and the The Living

Bible logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers.

Scripture taken from The Message. Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996,

2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group.

Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®,

Copyright © 1960,1962,1963,1968,1971,1972,1973,1975,1977,1995 by The

Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. www.Lockman.org

Scripture quotations taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version® NIV®

Copyright © 1973 1978 1984 2011 by Biblica, Inc. TM. Used

by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982

by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

[Scripture quotations are] from the Revised Standard Version of the

Bible, copyright © 1946, 1952, and 1971 the Division of Christian

Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the

United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture taken from the Good News Translation in Today’s English Version-

Second Edition Copyright © 1992 by American Bible Society. Used by Permission.

This book is dedicated to the memory of my father, James Key Sr.; my father-in-law, Raimundo Efrem dos Santos; Glen Nishimura, editor of opinion columns at USA Today; and Rev. Dr. Cain Hope Felder, professor of New Testament language and literature at Howard University School of Divinity.

In honor of my mother, Yvonne Day Qualls; my wife, Dr. Simone G. dos Santos-Key; my children, James Darren Key III and Amara Elizabeth Key; as well as my family—past, present, and future.

Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you

come alive and go do it. Because what the world

needs is more people who have come alive.

—Howard Thurman

CONTENTS

A Personal Word: Straight Outta Crenshaw

PART ONE

Race Still Matters

Chapter 1 Crenshaw on Fire

Chapter 2 A Reality Check in Brazil

Chapter 3 Where Is My Dashiki?

Chapter 4 Black Lives Still Matter

Chapter 5 Postracial Nation Is Running Late

Chapter 6 Discrimination Is an Equal Opportunity Employer

Chapter 7 Obey the Speed Limit

Chapter 8 A Mind Is Still a Terrible Thing to Waste

Chapter 9 An Unforgettable Taxi Ride in Korea

Chapter 10 You Are What’s Inside of You

PART TWO

Love Will Find a Way

Chapter 11 The Unpredictability of Love

Chapter 12 Beware of Rocket Love

Chapter 13 The Time to Heal Is Right Now

Chapter 14 Slow Your Mustang Down

Chapter 15 Five Spiritual Rib Tips for a Successful Relationship

Chapter 16 The Love Bank Is Open Twenty-Four Seven

Chapter 17 The Order of Love

PART THREE

Honor Those Who Give and Serve

Chapter 18 Find Honor and Don’t Let It Go

Chapter 19 Grief and Honor at Arlington National Cemetery

Chapter 20 Honor 9/11 by Following the Military’s Lead

Chapter 21 Remember the Empty Chairs

Chapter 22 Study War No More

Chapter 23 The Presidential Election of 2016

Chapter 24 Be a Problem Solver

Chapter 25 Don’t Overdose on Reality TV

Chapter 26 A Second Chance at Life

Chapter 27 The World Needs More Good Samaritans

PART FOUR

Keep the Faith

Chapter 28 Faith Still Matters

Chapter 29 Flying Standby

Chapter 30 Similar Fruit from the Same Root

Chapter 31 Unshakable Faith in Haiti

Chapter 32 The Face of the Other

Chapter 33 Spiritual Maturity

Chapter 34 Let’s Take a Walk

Chapter 35 The Problem of Evil and Suffering

Chapter 36 A Stumble Is Not a Fall

Chapter 37 Don’t Miss Your Blessing

Chapter 38 Peace on Good Friday and Joy on Easter Sunday

Chapter 39 A No-Nonsense Gatekeeper

Chapter 40 Christian Military Chaplains in a Post-Christendom Society

Afterword

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Appendix I: Bible Translations

Endnotes

A PERSONAL WORD

Straight Outta Crenshaw

As a chaplain in the United States Army and former staff member for Rep. Sander Levin (Michigan) and Rep. Maxine Waters (California), I have had the opportunity to travel throughout the United States and abroad. I have visited places I never would have imagined and experienced situations that have left an indelible mark on my soul. Yet despite this incredible dynamic, I remain straight outta Crenshaw and unashamedly connected to all that it represents: the good, the bad, the ugly, and the amazing.

To be honest, if someone had told me on June 17, 1982, the day I graduated (barely) from Susan Miller Dorsey Senior High School, that I would one day become a source of inspiration for others, I would have laughed out loud. Seriously, I would not have believed it if someone told me that I would be selected to give a speech during the Pan-African Studies Department’s Black Graduation ceremony at California State University, Northridge (CSUN); receive graduate degrees from Howard University School of Divinity and Princeton Theological Seminary; write opinion columns for USA Today; work as a congressional aide for the US House of Representatives; have a brief conversation about faith with President George W. Bush; meet Bobby Seale, a cofounder of the Black Panther Party; discuss the movie Roots and the importance of family with Alex Haley; be invited to give a lecture at Presbyterian Theological Seminary in Seoul, South Korea; preach a four-day revival in Japan; baptize soldiers in Baghdad, Iraq; serve Holy Communion in Kuwait; visit Ur, an ancient Sumerian city on the Euphrates (in modern-day Iraq); visit the birth home of the prophet Abraham; and witness the inauguration of the first African American president. I would have responded by saying, What kind of fool do you take me for? But like a Walt Disney movie, this fairy tale came true and serves as a reminder: With God, all things are possible (Matthew 19:26 NIV).

While these experiences, as well as a host of others, have broadened my horizons, they by no means overshadow the fact that at the end of the day, minus the titles and accolades, I am and forever will be Sweetie Pie’s second grandchild, a boy from the hood who grew up in the Crenshaw district, the unofficial capital of South Central Los Angeles. And even though I haven’t lived in the community for over thirty years, I still consider it home.

Crenshaw’s boundaries are roughly Van Ness and Arlington Avenues on the east, Exposition Boulevard on the north, La Brea Avenue near Baldwin Hills on the west, and roughly Stocker Street and Slauson Avenue on the south. From birth, October 21, 1964, through my first few years as a college student at CSUN in the mid-1980s, I hustled up and down the streets of this magical place. Most of my time was spent hanging out with the homies, but as I grew older, my focus changed. My number one priority was to do my best to stay out of trouble and live to see the next day. Of course, back then, I had no clue that the core of my political, social, and religious beliefs was being shaped on these exciting and often unforgiving streets.

African Americans started arriving in the Crenshaw district in the 1960s, and by the 1970s, they were the majority. Crenshaw has significant middle-class areas, like Leimert Park, and some low-income areas, such as Baldwin Village, also called the Jungle because of the tropical trees that saturate the community. When my parents divorced in 1973, my mother, brother, sister, and I moved to the Jungle and lived in an apartment building called the Robin, located at 4828 August Street. During the weekend, you could hear R & B music being played from several apartments. As I recall, Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On was in heavy rotation back then. The neighborhood was and still is home of a notorious gang called the Black Peace Stones, also known as the Bloods, enemy of the Crips. According to gang researcher Alex Alonso:

Black Peace Stones first emerged in California in 1969 and operated in the West Adams area of Los Angeles near Crenshaw Boulevard. Over the years they grew into one of the larger gangs in South Central Los Angeles. There are an estimated 700 members of the Black Peace Stones and most of them live in the Jungle.¹

After my mother recovered economically from the divorce, about a year later, we moved to Leimert Park and lived in a modest and well-kept triplex apartment on the corner of Ninth Avenue and Santa Barbara Boulevard (later Martin Luther King Boulevard). On a clear, sunny, and smog-free day, I could gaze out the living room window and see the Hollywood sign, which was approximately ten miles from our house. Like many Angelenos, I was mesmerized by the symbolism associated with this significant landmark. It was the shiny, sparkling object that not only exemplified success but teased me daily. Back then, I couldn’t resist the temptation to want lights, cameras, and action.

Today, I’ve lived long enough to know that the right road is the only path that leads to true success. Unfortunately, at times, to experience instant success, I traveled down the wrong road, only to be deterred by human angels, like a family member, teacher, or concerned neighbor. In each instance, I was able to get back on the right road, which at times was boring and not always paved with glitter and glam. But if you keep the faith and stay the course, this tried and true road will take you to a better place.

Four years later, my infatuation with the Hollywood sign ended when my mother purchased a cozy single-family house on Sixth Avenue, a couple of blocks from our previous home. A year later, in 1979, she received a master of arts degree in early childhood education from California State University, Dominguez Hills. Slowly but surely, the tide was beginning to turn, and now education, not the Hollywood sign, was the index I used to measure success. Looking back, I realize that when my mother received her graduate degree and purchased our new home, the seed of postsecondary education, sacrifice, and responsibility was subtly planted in my mind, and today, the harvest is plentiful.

I adamantly believe a major component of the American dream revolves around home ownership and education. Unfortunately, the US system of public schools in poor urban and rural areas is in crisis and requires emergency treatment. For example, too many students are dropping out, and many who graduate are left unprepared to go on to higher education and advanced technical training.² Additionally, fifty years after passage of the 1968 Fair Housing Act, a federal law intended to protect the buyers and renters from seller or landlord discrimination, cries of foul play can still be heard from many minority groups across the nation. Yes, progress has been made, but there is still more work to be done.

My father, James Key Sr., was a veterans’ counselor, and he helped hundreds of veterans find employment, shelter, and dignity. After the divorce, he lived in both the Jungle and Leimert Park. I spent most of my weekends at Dad’s house. His heart of gold made my weekends with him a priceless experience that was full of joy, laughter, and incredible adventure. My father may have walked out of our house, but he didn’t walk out of my life, and for that I am eternally grateful. Whenever I needed him, he was always there for me with a word of encouragement that was wrapped in compassion and timely fatherly wisdom. His sage counsel and concern for the less fortunate are qualities I try to emulate in both my professional career and personal life.

Crenshaw, like the Land of Oz, is sometimes unreal and bizarre; however, unlike Oz, it is never fake or phony. It pulls no punches, and the action in this vibrant community is supported by an assortment of black music, delicious soul food, talented and intelligent people, spiritual worship centers, stimulating conversation, and drama—good, bad, and indifferent. It is always live and in color. For example, on a recent trip home, I saw a grown man dressed in a Superman outfit dancing up a storm on the corner of Crenshaw Boulevard and Rodeo Road (recently renamed Obama Boulevard). It left me absolutely speechless. He was in his own world dancing to the music playing in his head. His performance was both priceless and entertaining.

Even though I am now a long way from Crenshaw, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of the faces, sounds, smells, and ebb and flow of this unforgettable place. It is a community grounded in faith and is never afraid to express love, anger, or protest when the rights of one of its residents have been violated.

If the streets of Crenshaw could talk, they would tell you that while I cherished my time growing up in this community, on more than one occasion, gangbangers from the Crips jacked me for my bike, and a few notorious members of the Bloods chased me and my friends home from Audubon Junior High School more times than I care to admit. In fact, late one evening, I decided to get a cheeseburger special from Hamburger City, on the corner of Santa Barbara Boulevard and Hillcrest Drive. When my order was ready, I grabbed my greasy bag of food and headed up the street to my father’s house when out of nowhere two Bloods tried to take my burger.

Really, this was no joke. I was walking down Muirfield Road and soon realized I had some unwanted company behind me. A few seconds later, one of the dudes yelled, Hey, Blood! Like a jackrabbit, I took off running, and the chase was in full effect. Thankfully, by the grace of God, I made it home safe. The thugs in the hood may have jacked me for my bike on a few occasions, but that night, because of a high degree of hunger, I was not going to let anyone take my cheeseburger and fries. Some things in life are nonnegotiable, especially my food.

If Crenshaw could talk, it would tell you that in 1981, I got my first car, my mother’s 1975 Mercury Monarch. On that great day in the hood, I jumped into my new ride and slowly cruised down the Crenshaw Strip and the Baldwin Hills community (the Black Beverly Hills), just to let everyone know I had a car. Sure, I could have cruised through Beverly Hills or down Hollywood Boulevard, but Crenshaw was home, and I wanted to make sure the homies in the hood saw me first. Like the theme song from the 1980s sitcom Cheers, Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came.

If Crenshaw could talk, it would tell you that like many boys in the hood, I got pulled over by the police for reasons I’m still not sure of. Was it because I was driving while black? Or did I break the law? Apparently, I did not because I was never given a ticket. Instead, most of the time, the cops simply said, Get out of here, and don’t cause any trouble.

If Crenshaw could talk, it would tell you that this was the place where I got picked up by the police for ditching school and caught in the act of smoking by my father. I was hanging out on the street corner with my homeboys when Dad pulled up in his car and caught me doing the wrong thing for the wrong reason. Man, if looks could kill, I would have been dead.

If Crenshaw could talk, it would tell you that this was the place where I learned that the color of my skin and my gender automatically made me an endangered species. On any given day, I could travel nonstop from the backyard to the prison yard to the graveyard. And yet despite this somewhat dismal observation, I still found time to fall in love for the first time, become a member of the Boy Scouts of America (Troop 516), and learn the significance of honor long before I joined the US Army.

If Crenshaw could talk, it would tell you that the lessons I learned from the elders of this village enabled me to keep the faith and maintain my sanity amid the crime, and violence that sometimes disturbed this magical place. These humble souls never let me drift too far from the straight and narrow and