海角大神

Ruben Ramirez Jr. hoped 2024 would start with a bang for his struggling, family-owned bakery in Compton, just south of Los Angeles. But he wasn鈥檛 thinking of a destructive bang like this 鈥� or the unexpected generosity it would spark.

In the early morning hours of Tuesday, Jan. 2, a raucous 鈥渟treet takeover鈥� by vehicles and onlookers at the intersection outside of the bakery devolved from racing stunts like doughnut-spinning into looting. A Kia Soul reversed forcefully into the security grate of Ruben鈥檚 Bakery and Mexican Food, Inc., breaching the entrance. A mob of about 100 people then trashed the place, and made off with cash, equipment, and food 鈥� an estimated loss of more than $70,000.

Three Kings Day, a 海角大神 celebration, was coming up on Saturday. It鈥檚 a big business opportunity for a Mexican bakery, and the Ramirez family was looking forward to a boost from orders of roscas, the circular-shaped sweetbread for the occasion.

The bakery and meat store is a fixture in the community, founded 48 years ago by the senior Ramirez as a taco stand. The business had survived the LA riots of 1992, and the recent COVID-19 pandemic 鈥� though barely. Would an illegal street takeover 鈥� a disruptive and sometimes fatal phenomenon that plagues some California cities 鈥� do it in?

Against all expectations, the bakery reopened for business on Friday morning, just three days later, as proof of the power of community and a testament to rebirth and recovery after tragedy. 鈥淲e didn鈥檛 think we would be ready,鈥� said a grateful Mr. Ramirez, standing outside the honey-colored store that morning.听

At 10:00 a.m., business looked brisk. Workers shaped rosca dough in the back room, handed breakfast burritos to eager customers for takeout, and rolled out stacked trays of bolillos, a short baguette. Family, friends, and employees had pitched in to clean up and repair 鈥渁 shambles,鈥� as Mr. Ramirez Jr. describes it. The local council member鈥檚 office donated paint. Now regulars and strangers were lining up at the counter, and TV news crews that showed up to chronicle the unfolding story of community unity were reporting from the store. 听

When Mr. Ramirez Jr. arrived at the scene of broken glass and destruction in the wee hours of Tuesday, he felt deeply angry. Then sad. Now he is overcome by the tremendous outpouring of goodwill since news got out about the looting. A woman from Texas had even called on Friday morning to pray with him 鈥� something he鈥檚 been doing a lot. 鈥淚鈥檓 overwhelmed by the response,鈥� he says, especially for his dad, Ruben Ramirez Sr. 鈥淭he more that people call, the bigger the smile on his face.鈥�

The desire to help was instant. A friend from high school, Luis Arandia, texted Mr. Ramirez Jr. and offered to set up a GoFundMe page. He didn鈥檛 know how to do it, but he knew someone in the strategy business, Ulisses Sanchez, who did. Before long, the page was up, and the media had been contacted. As of Monday, 1,700 people had contributed more than $85,000 鈥� which was $10,000 over the original goal. 鈥淚t took one phone call,鈥� says Mr. Arandia, who tears up in the telling.

Several customers drove from a distance to support the bakery on its first day back in business. It took Jimmy Torres, who came with his mother and two daughters, 45 minutes to drive from his home in Long Beach. Like other customers that morning, he had learned about the looting on the news. The family left the bakery clutching their bags of bolillos and sugary churros. 鈥淭otally worth it,鈥� says Mr. Torres. His mother adds that Latinos are 鈥渢rying to help each other.鈥�

The bakery has deep roots in the low-income neighborhood of small single-family homes and garden apartments, many of them with security doors. Juanita Cervantes has been a customer for decades, and even though she moved a couple towns away seven years ago, she still comes two-to-three times a week for the bread and authentic food. The bakery is 鈥渧ery good for the community,鈥� she says. 鈥淭his is our place,鈥� agrees another customer, Robert, who declined to give his last name.

Mr. Ramirez Jr. is grateful that law enforcement officers got there quickly Tuesday. However, vehicles were dispersing and looters were leaving by the time sheriff deputies arrived, and 鈥渢hey weren鈥檛 able to detain anyone or make any arrests,鈥� says acting captain, Lt. Melissa Ramirez, at the Compton station of the Los Angeles County Sheriff鈥檚 Department. Still, 鈥渢he community has been great鈥� with calling in tips, she says. 鈥淲e have received quite a few leads.鈥澨�

Street takeovers, also called sideshows, occur in urban areas throughout the state, from Oakland to Bakersfield to San Diego. They鈥檝e been a part of car culture, especially in Southern California, for years, but took off during the pandemic when wide boulevards were largely empty. They can involve anywhere from 100 to 300-plus vehicles, blocking intersections and streets and are organized over social media, says Lieutenant Ramirez. Crowds gather to watch revved-up vehicles burn rubber and hurtle around intersections.

Citizens complain of the danger, noise, and tire-burn smell. More recently, takeovers have involved property damage and burglaries, says Lieutenant Ramirez.听

The Compton area saw 114 street takeovers between April and the end of November last year, and law enforcement issued 400 citations, made 148 arrests, and impounded 109 vehicles, according to Lieutenant Ramirez. In 2002, two women were killed at a Compton street takeover. The LA County Sheriff鈥檚 Department is trying to regain control through a special task force with other law enforcement agencies, 鈥渂ot dots鈥� installed in an X-form at intersections, and $1,000 citations for onlookers.听

Rosa Aldaz, emerging from the bakery with a bag of bread and champurrado, a beloved chocolate drink, knows street takeovers all too well.听She works late at night, and has encountered several on her way home.听She has a message for those who looted the bakery. 鈥淪top and think,鈥� she urges. 鈥淲ould you want that for your family?鈥�