Cook: It takes respect to make peace

photo David Cook

Got a message from a parole officer who wants to tell me the story of one particular parolee who sounds like Lazarus: once lost and doped up as a drug dealer, he's now found, full of life, right as rain.

A model story.

A transformative story.

"A success story," the officer said.

Should I return his call? Would you? In other words, do you believe that humans can truly change? That we are always worth more than our very worst act? That tax collectors can repent, addicts get clean, and the white dove finds dry land?

With these questions, I bring you, once again, to the story of another man once crooked who nowadays, I believe, is trying to turn straight.

His name is Reginald Oakley.

They used to call him "Joker."

On Palm Sunday night in 2013, my phone rang; I was asked to come to a house near Brainerd Road to witness some sort of gang truce.

For hours, I sat at one end of a scratched dining room table; Oakley at the other. In from the cold came dozens of gang members from at least five different sets.

"The Gs, the Hoovers, Athens Park Bloods, the Crips, 5 Deuce," Oakley said. "Kitchen Crips. Rollin' 60 Crips."

Outside, the wind blew.

"It's time to stand down," Oakley said to them.

In the days to follow, he began traveling across town, talking with folks: Stop shooting.

"I went to every group in the city," Oakley said. "Even if they didn't come to the house [on Palm Sunday], I still went and found them."

It was his own messy peace initiative, something that preceded the city's Violence Reduction Initiative and still carries an authenticity it may never have.

Because it came from the ground up.

I spent many hours with Oakley and learned many things about gang life, but foremost was this: peace may be sought by outside groups, but none can seek it as earnestly as gang members themselves.

"It takes a person that the people in the streets know and respect," he said. "That person has got to be a product of the streets."

That is both his curse and power. He's robbed others, been shot and been shot at. Went to prison and joined the Crips. Denounced his affiliation. Folks looked at him with fear.

"Respect," he corrected.

So then when he tells them of his own transformation -- If I can put down my gun, anybody can, he says -- they listen.

Released from prison, something stirred awake in him. It's the same thing I've heard from multiple gang members.

Empathy.

"My sons. My nephews. I even got grandboys," he said. "I don't want nothing happening to them out in the streets."

Things unraveled. Oakley was arrested in the infamous roundup of what the former police chief called the "worst of the worst," charged with gun and drug conspiracy charges.

He's spent the last year at the Bradley County Jail.

Not long ago, authorities dropped the drug charges against him.

On Monday morning, he goes before a federal judge for sentencing on the lone charge remaining against him: Last fall, he and three others were pulled over and a .40-caliber Taurus handgun was found in the car. That's an arrestable offense for Oakley, a felon.

Last week, he called from prison.

I answered.

"If I can change, anybody can change," he said.

Contact David Cook at dcook@timesfreepress.com or 423-757-6329. Follow him on Facebook and Twitter at DavidCookTFP.

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