Rescued from the Street Gang

The student body in my New Jersey high school included several opposing street gangs who came to school armed with knives, chains, mace, clubs, and other assorted combat gear. They roamed the halls, terrorizing both students and teachers, and vandalized school property, looking for trouble.

On one particular day in 1971, my senior year, several small fires had been started in some of the classrooms, resulting in a rash of fire drills. Although students were instructed to wait outside until the fires could be extinguished, my friend and I decided, after the third fire drill of the day, that we’d had enough. We would sneak back into the building, go to our lockers to collect our books, and go home.

After entering the building through a back door, I gathered up my books and we went to my friend’s locker. Suddenly we heard the roar of screaming voices approaching us from around a corner. We turned around, and to our horror, a gang of about one hundred, wielding sticks and chains, came charging toward us.

We ran for the nearest exit, but as we opened the door, they pulled my friend back into the school by her hair. I tried to help her, but they turned on me and beat me to the ground. My vision blurred as I looked up into the crowd of faces above me. A sharp kick in my side sent pain shooting up my back and took my breath away.

Then suddenly a boy found his way to me and began pulling kids off of me, literally picking up several of the gang members and throwing them down the hall. By this time, the crowd began to disperse. The principal, vice-principal, and several of the male gym teachers were kneeling beside me asking me questions, but I could not speak. Finally, I was lifted onto a stretcher and wheeled into a waiting ambulance. At my side sat two paramedics and the boy who had first come to my rescue.

I was released from the hospital with severe bruises, including a bruised kidney, and ordered to remain in bed for two weeks. The episode appeared on the front page of the local newspaper the following day and, as I was reading it, the sheriff appeared at my bedside with a subpoena for me to appear in court to testify against my attackers. When I did finally return to school, an armed guard escorted me to all my classes and waited for me outside the room until each class was over.

At this point, my parents decided that it was time to move. My new high school was twenty miles from my old neighborhood and had none of the disciplinary problems that plagued my previous school. As I began to settle into my new surroundings and make new friends, a different experience awaited me: my introduction to the gospel.

A friend named Marci in my western literature class invited me to come hear her speak in Church. Upon discovering that she was a Mormon—the only Mormon, in fact, at that school—I was overcome with curiosity and accepted the invitation. I visited sacrament meeting, and this soon led to attending early morning seminary with my friend—and finally to accept the missionary discussions. Several months later, I announced that I wanted to be baptized. I felt as if someone had been watching over me, but at times I wondered if I was just reacting to the traumatic experience I had recently been through.

Before my baptism, an assignment as a substitute Primary teacher in our small New Jersey branch took me twenty miles away, to a chapel next to my old neighborhood. I arrived early and went inside to wait for the rest of the Primary crew.

In the foyer behind a glass case on the wall, I saw a picture. There, along with photographs of several other young men serving missions, was a photo of the boy who had come to my aid and had sat beside me in the ambulance. I stared in amazement. Another Mormon! It was as if Heavenly Father had sent a series of personal escorts to usher me through my conversion to the gospel. Suddenly, I felt very important in his eyes and received a confirmation as I stood in that foyer that I was making the right decision in getting baptized. He had indeed been watching over me.

Seventeen years later, while visiting my family in New Jersey, I drove to my old high school to have a look around. All of the doors were locked because of summer recess. I walked around to the back of the school until I came to a glass exit door. As I cupped my hands together and peered inside the darkened building, I saw that spot on the floor in front of my friend’s locker where I had been beaten eighteen years ago.

Many places are considered special in our church—the Hill Cumorah, Carthage jail, and the temple, to name a few—but to me, the small area of hallway in that troubled high school is sacred ground. It changed my life in a way I could never have imagined. And although I might have chosen a more peaceful way to be introduced to the gospel, I am grateful to have even been given the chance at all.

Illustrated by Ron Solomon