The two letters crossed in the mail.
One was addressed to the parents of Andrew Young, 19, who was killed four years ago when Mario Ramos fired a 9 mm semiautomatic handgun into Young’s car as he sat at a stoplight at Clark and Howard Streets.
In the letter, Ramos wrote:
“Though I could spend the rest of my life in jail, I don’t even come close to the hurt your family must be going through, but I know that I must carry this burden for the rest of my life. … I hope that someday you may find it in your heart to forgive me.”
The other letter was from Andrew Young’s mother, Maurine.
“You don’t know me, though I suspect you’ve heard of me. I am Andrew’s mom. I’ve thought of you and prayed for you many times since the day you shot and killed my son. … I don’t know whether you feel up to asking my forgiveness, so I’ll go first. I forgive you.”
Together, the two letters set into motion an extraordinary journey for the Youngs that no one could have predicted June 10, 1996. That is the day that Ramos, a Latin King, mistook Andrew for a gang rival and fired a bullet into his heart, leaving him to die in the arms of his twin brother, Sam.
Nothing has been quite the same since that bullet hit. There’s before, and there’s after.
Steve Young, Andrew’s father, quit his job as a piano technician to work full-time on gun-control issues and with survivors of violence. Maurine also immersed herself in advocacy work, speaking out on the power of forgiveness. In December 1998, she took the next step in this journey when she visited Ramos at Joliet Correctional Center, accompanied by Rev. Robert Oldershaw of St. Nicholas Catholic Church in Evanston, where the Ramos family members are parishioners and where their son had once served as an altar boy.
The mother recalls reaching across the metal table, taking Ramos’ trembling hands in hers and saying, “Mario, you came into my life through a violent action, but now I embrace you as my son … but now you are a part of this family and you have a responsibility to hold our family in prayer.”
The assistant warden was wary of her actions. Her three surviving sons thought she was betraying Andrew. But the moment she walked into this institutional cafeteria, she knew in her bones that it was right.
“I instantly felt lighter–as if a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders–and I felt it again when I held Mario in my arms before I left,” said Maurine Young, 46.
Nurturing this tender shoot of forgiveness, Oldershaw said: “I don’t care what religion you are–or the depth of your faith–but what could that possibly be but grace?”
Not for everyone
No matter where you turn these days, there seems to be a parade of pardoning. Abused children, incest survivors, unfaithful spouses–no transgression is too great that it can’t be forgiven. On the Internet, even convicted felons can unburden themselves (www.restitutioninc.org).
Why the sudden orgy of absolution? Over the last decade, turning the other cheek has become the subject of an unprecedented amount of research and scrutiny. The Youngs’ efforts have been chronicled by everyone from a Norwegian film crew to Ted Koppel, who featured them on “Nightline” last week.
Once the sole province of the clergy, forgiveness started getting the attention of the scientific community about a decade ago, and is credited for a host of benefits, including boosting the immune system, lowering blood pressure and lifting depression.
In the words of character educator Arthur Schwartz, “How do we use it as a blueprint to turn out more Mandelas and less Milosevics?”
Here’s what forgiveness is not: It does not absolve the offender from accountability, or wipe the slate clean. It certainly is not easy. What it does is offer the potential to relieve human misery, foster reconciliation and allow people to move on with their lives.
The interest, according to Schwartz of the John Templeton Foundation, lies in the intersection of two national trends: health and wealth.
“We know that emotional suffering creates stress … so there’s great interest in looking at this as a matter of well-being,” he said. “And without a war or an economic depression going on, we can strive to be more enlightened; more noble.”
Another reason for the current popularity is a backlash with the criminal justice system, which thrives on revenge. “You need that anger because that’s what judges and juries respond to,” said Oldershaw. “But as long as unforgiveness is in your heart, the hate will take over.”
However, in a backlash to the backlash, all this absolution has been denounced in some circles as a superficial feel-good tonic for these Oprah times. “Enshrining universal forgiveness … as the only moral choice is simplistic,” said Jeanne Safer, a New York therapist and author of “Forgiving and Not Forgiving.” She scoffs at the notion that failure to do so is to doom yourself to a lifetime of pain.
There are those who believe this humble act smacks of arrogance. In the aftermath of the Columbine shootings, 15 crosses served as a makeshift memorial to the dead, but the two erected for the gunmen were hastily dismantled by angry mourners. “Only God can grant forgiveness,” they thundered.
Closer to home, few people choose the same path as the Youngs, according to an administrator with the Cook County Victims Assistance Program, who was hard-pressed to think of another example. “I hope this isn’t one more thing we are going to lay on victims’ families.”
Never forget
Do not think for a minute that the Youngs equate forgive with forget. For a long time, a rage percolated behind the couple’s open, easy exterior. After the shooting, Steve would punch holes in the wall and fantasize about saving Andrew, a nationally ranked speed skater.
What if, on that fateful day, the father had taken Clark Street home instead of Western Avenue, which was where he was when Ramos stuck the pistol through the window? What if he had been a better coach, so Andrew would be competing in Europe, rather than cashing a check at a Rogers Park fruit market? It didn’t make sense, he knew, but neither did losing your 19-year-old son while he sat at an intersection in broad daylight.
After the funeral, someone with mob ties whispered to Steve, “I can have this kid taken out in prison. You just say the word.” For a moment, the thought flickered across his mind. Instead, he became Midwest director of the Million Mom March and filed a lawsuit in 1998 against three gun manufacturers and the store where the weapon that killed his son was sold.
Other family members wrestled with their own demons. Clint, 8 at the time, lost his ability to read and write. He would stand in the middle of the street, hoping cars would hit him. P.J., then 13, would draw such disturbing images that his teachers would call home. Sam, Andrew’s twin, became severely depressed. For a couple of weeks after the funeral, Maurine would not go near the car. Then, she couldn’t stay away. She’d sit in the 1989 Taurus wagon and rub the seat. “I called it `lucky seat.’ … It was a holy place, where Andrew went through the sun roof and straight to heaven.”
Taking responsibility
Several times a year, Maurine makes the two-hour drive to Dixon Correctional Center, a medium-security prison where Ramos is held. It is the place Mario Ramos will call home until 2016, when he will be eligible for release.
After being patted down Friday, Maurine walks through three steel doors, and gives Mario a hug.
He can’t articulate what he was thinking when he stuck the gun through the window. It was so easy to get caught up in the turf battles, the shooting practice, the code of the streets that he had lived by since the 6th grade, said Mario, one of seven children raised by two hard-working parents.
Writing to Andrew’s mother was a risk, he concedes. “I never thought she’d respond … She could have told me to go to hell, but it had to be done. I had to take responsibility,” he said.
And, by all accounts, he has. In prison, he is a chaplain’s clerk. He has renounced the Latin Kings. He writes to young kids about thinking through consequences of their actions.
Even now–four years after the shooting, three years after their letters crossed in the mail–Mario still is slightly awe-struck by Maurine’s compassion and clearly wants to please her.
“Do you see a change in me?” he asks plaintively.
“I do. … I see a boy who is growing into a man,” she tells him, as his smooth, dimpled cheeks break into a wide smile.
Driving home, she thinks about the flood of e-mail she received after her “Nightline” appearance, much of it from victims’ families. “So much anger,” she said, shaking her head.
And she reflects on how those in her life have harnessed their grief–the lawsuit, their single-minded intensity to get guns under control, the daily battle of one kid to alter the course of his life.
All in all, she said, not a bad way to honor a son’s memory.
