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Text/Images Copyright © 1995-2001. All Rights Reserved.
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"The
renewal of spring brings with it feelings of optimism after the
depression of winter," so wrote Barbara Hernandez (1931-1994).
"If nature can renew itself, we, too, should be able to bring
forth what is good, creative, and promising from past experiences."
Barbara knew about what she wrote.
Her life embodied her words. Many [publication] readers remember
her as a staff writer. I recall her as a friend, mentor, colleague,
and a woman who asked no more from other people than that which
she had accomplished: She chose to make the healing journey one
of her own.
It would be impossible for me to
publish this without acknowledging the influence Barbara had --
and continues to have -- on my life. She opened my eyes and helped
me see another world, unlike the one that I had experienced personally,
did exist and a different one could flourish from increasing awareness
and by actively pursuing ideas to affect positive changes.
Prejudice, bigotry, intolerance,
fear, hatred, indifference: Those are the things Barbara fought
and brought to my attention.
She was a soft-spoken woman, poised,
gracious, and faced with more challenges than anyone I'd ever
met. She battled breast cancer and transcended trauma: The deaths
of her sons Larry and Rick.
As a result of caring for her son
Rick at home while he was living with AIDS, she discovered, as
she'd say, "Hope reborn." Rick was her youngest child
and, as she'd also say, "The other side of my heart."
His heartache was also hers. "The AIDS epidemic has brought
out the worst and the best in humanity," she said. It certainly
further enhanced the best in Barbara and her family.
She determined that no other family
need feel alone in the struggle and coming face-to-face with attitudes
against people living with AIDS. Barbara's resolve was to draw
from her family's experience to combat prejudice and to inspire
others to rely on an inner well of "untapped" strength
to support each other during times of crises. "People,"
she said, "need to reject fear, not one another."
I know her words well; some are
committed to memory forever, and, numerous others are before me
in book manuscript format. Barbara was a survivor of prejudice
and fear as well -- her book publisher, fearing her fate when
she relayed the cancer was no longer in remission and had metastasized,
backed away from the contract. Even that, she determined, would
not break her spirit. She became more persistent; she continued
speaking and writing from a vast well of wisdom attained from
her personal pain.
Even while she was hospitalized,
she continued her quest to assist others in pain and in making
information available that she thought could offer some insight.
From her hospital bed, she listened while I read and then we edited.
We took a break one day, while she quizzed a technician about
chemotherapy: "Do you think this is futile?" He yawned
and then she asked me to show her a picture that had been taken
of me as a child. "You showed it to your lawyer," she
said, "now show it to me. I want to see."
Until February 21, 1994, I had no
idea of my ancestry. Barbara took one look at the small photograph,
and said, without hesitancy, "What a cute, little Scandinavian
girl." She, again, opened my eyes. It wasn't that I hadn't
tried to learn of my heritage; it was information my parents weren't
comfortable sharing or didn't care to tell me. Had I known long
before 1994, the information wouldn't have changed my life anyway.
Scandinavian or not, I still would've found myself at Barbara's
side.
I'd never relied on the tint of
my hair, the color of my eyes, or my skin tone to make friends
or to meet people. I'd always thought personality, character,
interests, activities, and such, worked fairly well.
I was shocked when it became known
that firebombings in Sacramento were racially-motivated hate crimes,
done by "separatist" (euphemistic for racist) Richard
Campos.
More stunned was I by some of the
responses to a column [January-February 1995] in which I addressed
the convictions afforded Campos following not one, but two trials
on 12 counts. A few disbelievers, I think, were entrenched in
denial. Yet jurors (and I, more privately) determined Campos was
guilty (12:12). Myself? Well, like many other readers, I trusted
jurors would assist the prosecutor in the process of reaching
verdicts favorable to the victims who survived the hate crimes.
And like many other Sacramento County residents, I read the newspaper
and I watch the news. The case against Campos was clear: It's
a crime to use ethnicity, religion, age, gender, orientation,
physical condition, bias... as a motive, with the intent, and
for finding an opportunity to aggress against other human beings.
It's not nice and should not be tolerated.
Yes, that is the message Judge James
T. Ford effectively reinforced with the sentencing of Richard
Campos on April 20, 1995. For his crimes, Campos was awarded the
maximum sentencing -- as much as 17 years in State prison, not
the California Youth Authority, which is what the defense attorney
sought.
As soon as I heard the news, I reflected
on something (civil) Attorney
Mary K. Stroube had said: Oftentimes, the court process isn't
about justice. In making that statement, she left some leeway
for an exception, here and there, to take place. The day Richard
Campos was sentenced, was an illustration of one of those exceptions:
The sentencing was a exceptional instance of justice having happened,
thanks to the prosecutor's skill, the judge's decision, plus the
process itself, which places trust and faith in the jurors' ability
to hear testimony and see evidence, weigh each side's argument,
and deliberate.
As you continue reading, it is hoped
that you will also contemplate the courage the intended victims
have displayed in testifying and in speaking out against hate
crimes.
The levels of composure and civility
survivors have shown toward the criminal, struck me. It's my understanding
that a courtroom is a rather formal atmosphere. And, even if Richard
Campos walks out of prison in "x" number of years still
filled with his racist beliefs, I don't know that even he could
fail to recognize that he was given far more consideration than
he offered his desired victims: The witnesses treated him respectfully,
which I see as a testament to their appreciation for life, encompassing
encounters with individuals, some with differing ideologies and
some with skewed values.
Tolerance: That's the lesson
we may see in the words that will soon follow. Understanding.
That's possibly the key we need to see that no two people are
exactly alike; we'll likely meet people throughout the course
of our lives who don't mirror the image we hold of ourselves.
Acceptance. That's the concept that makes all the difference
in the world between those of us who don't commit or tolerate
hate crimes and those who will find themselves serving time.
"The healing has started,"
Barbara said, after she had released Rick's cremains to Yosemite.
Her renewed sense of hope and her spirit soared. "It is time
to attend to life and the living," she resolved. "Let
us weave a net of support that will keep society from falling
into an abyss of indifference."
Healing
from Hate Crimes Letter
to the Honorable James T. Ford, Superior Court Victim
Witness Statement, 1995 Sentencing Summer
of Hate, Sign of Hope Help
Make Hate Homeless Rock-Soft
Fences Internet
Filtering, Letter to Senator John McCain Related
Resources 
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