Vineyard Press

Just as the holiday season began, the entire nation and much of the world was revolted by the shooting death of LAPD officer Brian Brown. What caught the world’s attention was the sad little face of Brown’s son, Dylan. Officer Brown was killed in a gun battle that also claimed the life of a suspect, Oscar Zatarian. Several news organizations reported that the slain robber was from Rancho Cucamonga, though it is known that he was still active in a Long Beach gang. Zatarian presumably moved with his family from the Long Beach area to the safer confines of Rancho Cucamonga to escape the dangerous elements. We know little of the Zatarian family. Perhaps they should be given credit for trying to escape L.A. to give their children a better life. For Oscar Zatarian, by now a seasoned gang member, the die was cast long before the family’s escape to Rancho.

It’s horribly tragic that Officer Brown lost his life—one that held so much promise. He accomplished so much in such a short period of time. Another victim, son Dylan, will no doubt face many challenges as he works to overcome the anger and hurt of being robbed of his father and a carefree childhood. The Zatarian family will also suffer—knowing that their son never came close to living up to his potential to be a benefit to society and a blessing to mankind.

A wasted life? Probably.

I saw an interesting old movie called “Papillon” the other day. After spending most of his life in the penal colony of Devil’s Island in French Guiana, the French criminal Papillon awakes from a fitful dream in which he was found guilty by a panel of judges. His crime? A wasted life. Papillon was in the twilight of his life. He could do nothing to alter the verdict. He knew it was true.

Some are more motivated than others by the desire to contribute positively to the world before their lives are over. I can’t help but ponder the tragedy of lives wasted. While a student at the University of Southern California, I partnered with an elementary school teacher in the heart of Los Angeles to give tutoring assistance to students with special challenges. Through this experience I met six-year-old Oscar Olivarez and his entire extended family—recently immigrated from El Salvador.

Oscar was more serious than most of the other kids. He was courteous, mild-mannered, precocious. He also loved baseball and was a serious student of the game. After his elementary school days, I occasionally accepted Oscar’s invitations to visit with his family on special occasions. His neighborhood (15th Street), just south of downtown, was notorious for gang violence and drug dealing. I tried very hard to show Oscar and his cousins the right road to follow.

I didn’t see Oscar and his family much after I graduated from USC and got married. I was shocked to learn that at 15, Oscar was shot in the neck in a gang-related incident. I visited with him in the hospital, and as a friend and mentor, pleaded with him to forsake his gangster companions and straighten out his life. At the moment, he listened. The serious look in his eyes returned from the days he was in first grade. I saw it. I was confident that I had touched his heart.

He may have changed, for a time. But for whatever reason, his family chose not to escape to the Rancho Cucamonga’s of the world. They stayed in L.A. Oscar was drawn to those who gave him a stronger sense of identity. On a fateful night in 1985, Oscar was with a carload of friends when another vehicle closed in on them and opened fire. Oscar dove for the floor, but not before a bullet had pierced the door and entered his brain. Days later, while Oscar lay semi-comatose in a hospital bed, I walked into his room. Oscar’s mother had warned me that he was unresponsive, so I expected nothing. What I got made my heart ache. Oscar looked at me. Having known him since his childhood, I could read his sorrowful eyes. At that moment I felt his message to me as if he were speaking aloud. The message was: “You were right…I didn’t listen. I’m sorry.” Tears formed in Oscar’s eyes and his mouth opened wide as if to cry aloud. But all that came out were distorted groans amid a silent scream of agony.

When this story was written, Oscar had learned to walk with the help of a cane. His vision was limited, he had partial use of his limbs, and he communicated with great difficulty. He suffered from brain damage. A wasted life? Yes and no. My wish was that Oscar would yet live to contribute in some way to his society of family, friends, and community. I saw Oscar from time to time. I knew his need of friendship and companionship would inspire many to give compassionate service. His girlfriend and gangster friends disappeared shortly after his fateful night. But others would learn important lessons from Oscar. He had many years to yet fulfill a noble purpose in life. While we are still on this earth, I hope we all, in our own way, will strive to make the most of our lives—so that we will never regret the unsettling nightmare of a wasted life.

Postscript: In his late twenties, Oscar collapsed in his Los Angeles home and died suddenly. He was buried in his beloved Los Angeles Lakers warm-up suit. His family escaped L.A. and moved to a peaceful tract in the High Desert.

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