So Flores entered the dim apartment at Jordan Downs, to a surreal scene: "There's literally guns on the counters, and they're smoking pot. And they're all wearing bandannas on their faces."
It brought back memories to Flores of another time and place: Medellín, Colombia.
The pastor spoke first. "And she basically tells these guys, 'You know, there's these people who are trying to improve Weigand — and they're with this organization called Parent Revolution.' "
PHOTO BY ANNE FISHBEIN
Pastor Maudine Clark: "If teachers can't teach our children, who are our future, then they need to be home watching TV."
PHOTO BY ANNE FISHBEIN
Jessica Medina: "When the teachers see me pushing for an education for my little ones, and throw ice on me — it's been harsh."
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Flores treated the masked men like visitors to any open house, explaining that fed-up parents and his team would be visible at stores, across the street from the school and at the post office, trying to figure out who has children at Weigand, asking for their support.
Suddenly, one man nodded in assent. James. Flores pegged him to be in his early 20s, meaning he probably went to Weigand in the 1990s and attended Markham Middle School, a violent dropout factory.
"James stood up and he reached out his hand," Flores recalls, "and the guy was huge. Just a huge, huge guy. And he pulls down his mask and he says to me, 'Just make sure you fix it.' " Flores chuckles. "It was like a threat. Then what he said was, 'I went to that fucking school, and I know a lot of kids in the project go that fucking school — and they're not learning anything.' Every other word was bad words."
In the months to follow, "There were times I saw James' people, and they were thumbs-up in greeting. But there were other times, we saw the purple color gathering. And then I told my people to get off the streets. And then maybe something would go down. A shooting."
In the end, though, it wasn't the Crips these activists had to worry about.
Instead, they faced a fiery foe in Weigand principal Cobian, who waged a cunning PR battle. She was backed quietly by a powerful LAUSD administrator and much more loudly by teachers union activists, a band of parents and teachers and a crew of anonymous dirty tricksters who spread rumors that Parent Revolution was going to turn parents' signatures over to immigration — or give Weigand to a for-profit charter school chain. Activist parents were even threatened with police.
Only Cobian was targeted by the reformers. But the stakes couldn't have been higher. If powerless Latino and black parents in Watts could change an ossified school in which many children were falling further behind each year they remained at their desks, the status quo was in serious danger.
The pressure was palpable on the moms — and a few fathers — to return to less confrontational activities such as school committees. But rather than back down, they committed to fight alongside Flores. Gloria Aroche, 24, a mother from El Salvador, who wears snap-button cowboy shirts and floor-length skirts with ruffles, shyly explains through a translator: "Once we parents got united, we lost our fear and felt the power. Felt it. Like a warm thing inside you."
In the end, these parents won. Just before school opened this week, Deasy praised the parents, saying, "Having met them, these mostly mothers, what struck me was the courage it takes to raise your voice and demand that things be better — rather than just kind of tolerating what was there."
One year ago, Maria Alvarado came poking around the "one-ways" — the narrow Watts streets where the City of Los Angeles maintains a brutal regime of precision car-ticketing on street-sweeper day. Her job for Parent Revolution is to randomly visit areas, asking locals if they have children in school — and if they like the school.
In 2012, Alvarado and Flores had battled the administration at Desert Trails Elementary School in Adelanto, the first in U.S. history to be taken over by parents using California's Parent Trigger law. While that complex battle was still being waged in the courts, she was on to her next assignment, scouting Watts.
Alvarado immediately encountered parents who said the principal had driven out more than a dozen teachers, played favorites with parents and children, and did not champion classroom skills. So Alvarado paid a surprise visit to the dowdy little school, where three forlorn shrubs in a square of dirt act as the entry garden.
Once inside the administrative office, Alvarado was stunned by the principal's reaction to her request to visit the school's Parent Center to explain the Parent Trigger law to a few parents, as she has done at other schools. "Cobian just went off — yelling at Maria, this very short, non-intimidating, sweet person," Flores says. "We were kind of used to it from Adelanto, but you don't expect it from the actual principal. It was weird, you know?"
Parent Revolution canvassed a broader area around Weigand; several families quickly agreed to provide their homes for meetings where neighbors could learn about the Parent Trigger law.
That's when they met Maudine Clark.
"We were holding a house meeting four houses down from what turned out to be Pastor Clark's house," Flores says. "The Latino parents we were explaining the law to said, 'You need Pastor Clark's help. She's been battling Weigand for years.' Maria and I went right over there with our fliers about Parent Trigger in our hands. Pastor Clark took one look at us and said, 'It's about time.' "