Violence is met by a tireless ‘soldier’ of peace
By David Pierini Staff Writer
As a kid in foster care, KG Wilson endured merciless bullying from others in the house.
He found brief refuge at bath time. Once settled in the water, Wilson would position plastic soldiers on the edge of the tub with their guns facing the door.
“I’m in the army of God. I’m a soldier and I will fight against the wrong in this community,” Wilson. “I did the drugs, I did the violence, you don’t have to. You can go to school, you can become a leader in your community, instead of a gang chief. You can make it through, there’s hope. Look, I’m still here.”
Photo by David Pierini
In his child’s mind, this was his protection should his tormentors bust down the door to continue throwing their punches. One can hear the short, frightened breaths and the slow drip from the faucet, the way Wilson tells it.
Like the toy army men on guard, Wilson, 53, is a soldier … a peace activist – “serving God’s army” – trying to help kids out of gangs, get people off drugs, feed the homeless and be a balm to the rage and sadness that follows the muzzle flash of a gun.
Wilson wants to deliver people from all that pain because it is his pain, too.
“I came from Chicago and I barely survived,” Wilson said. “I was in gangs, I sold drugs. I lost a son, have two other sons who were shot (they survived), I’ve had people with me shot and killed. They died in my hands. Everything I come from, the drugs, the violence, the gangs, anger, resentments, abandonment … that was like training for me to be who I am today.”
With all that Wilson has lived through, 2020 has tested him. He was delivering church meals during the onset of the COVID-19 shutdowns, then worked with A Mother’s Love to to provide food and other resources to residents when unrest over the police killing of George Floyd temporarily shut down one of North Minneapolis’ only grocery stores.
A turbulent summer of gun violence seemed to only pile on an already difficult year. Wilson soldiered on, marching, organizing vigils, leading prayers, pleading for cease fires and, in one instance, helping others take cover during a shooting in Uptown.
As September entered a third week, Wilson sent his network a text: Homicide vigil at 5 p.m. today. Fremont and Dowling. Andre Conley, 17, was shot and killed outside a convenience store. It was the 59th homicide of the year.
No dimmer switch
Peace and justice is not a mantle of one. North Minneapolis is blessed with a number of dedicated activists and groups fighting to end violence and systemic racism. Some are highly visible, such as Spike Moss, Al Flowers, Nekima Levy Armstrong and Marques Armstrong, Lisa Clemons, VJ Smith, Raeisha Williams and Farji Shaheer.
Others don’t speak into a mic or bullhorn but are equally resolute, showing for every rally, march and outreach event.
Meet or merely see Wilson once and he is hard to forget.
He is tall and broad like a linebacker and wears boldly colored eye glasses that serve to frame large fierce eyes. The glasses come in different colors, from green to pink, and match the bright shirts and ball caps he favors.
The bright colors do not distract from a brooding gaze. In his work, he is always worried and always serious.
His speaking voice is an instrument of timbre, texture and tone. It is urgent, prone to crack from emotion and, when needed, has the musicality of a Sunday sermon.
The voice is loud when it has to be and tender when comfort is called for.
He is fearless when engaging gang members or drug addicts on a corner or in a park. He prays with them. He shows them love, compassion and, most of all, hope.
“You better run,” he tells those he encounters. “I’m probably ‘gonna hug you.”
Where many would freeze as they watch grief undo and wreck a mother, Wilson moves closer to listen, hug and cry his own tears. He then gathers people for a vigil, though there have been times, he says, he has been the only one to show up to pray.
“KG is one of our pillars,” said Sasha Cotton, who heads the city’s Office of Violence Prevention. “This work requires that level of intensity. People who can hold that fire, it’s remarkable and it is life-saving.”
An unanswered prayer
Wilson dreamed he might one day be a minister, but his childhood set his feet upon a different path. He was in a foster home because his mother struggled with drug addiction.
Whether at the scene of a shooting or at a rally calling for a cease-fire, Wilson is a regular presence providing a message of hope.
Photo by David Pierini
He felt unmoored and unloved. Bullying at school and in his foster home, compounded his fear and sadness.
“I was being abused and tortured in this foster home,” he said. “This one time, I got punched in the nose and I had a busted lip. I took off running down the street and I saw these guys, they were all dressed in blue and seemed like they were happy and smiling. They stopped me and I told them what happened.
“They looked like a family and I was alone with no friends or nothing. I asked if I could be in their family and they said, ‘Yeah, little man.’ I had just joined one of the biggest gangs in Chicago.”
Wilson was part of the Black Gangster Disciples in the 1980s and 1990s and was a child leader in that gang.
In 2000, he wanted to leave gang life behind and so he fled to Minneapolis. Once here, he hit a downward spiral of drugs and alcohol and was in and out of homelessness.
In 2004, he had spent three months sleeping on a bench in Loring Park. One night, he prayed, asking God to let him die in his sleep.
He woke up mad the next morning, but willing to surrender.
“There must be something he wants from me,” Wilson remembered thinking. “Maybe you can bring me from this. If you can heal my body, take away this feeling, take the taste out of my mouth, I will become who I believe you want me to become. I got up off that bench.”
Minister of hope
Wilson was sober but restless in 2007. He was packed and ready to return to Chicago when he saw a news report about the shooting death of 14-year-old Charez Jones. Wilson’s daughter, then 8, asked, “What are we going to do?”
First, he asked her to help him unpack. He was staying to raise her. He then reached out to Charez’s father, Guy Jones, who was a friend.
Wilson went to the scene of her murder, attended the vigil and afterwards, sat on a bed in her bedroom consoling her father.
While sitting on the bed in Charez Jones’ room, Guy Jones asked Wilson to be the spokesman for a foundation in her name.
“He was heaven-sent,” Guy Jones said. “Everything was foggy. I was numb, disconnected and I had so much anger. He helped me restore my balance. I understood the lord put him there for that reason. What he does, not everyone can do. People don’t shy away from him, they gravitate to him because he’s legit. He doesn’t look for anything in return.”
Every year on her birthday and the anniversary of Charez Jones’ death, Wilson visits her grave with balloons.
Always on scene
If there is a homicide, whether in North Minneapolis or St. Paul, Wilson will race to the scene to comfort families, talk to witnesses and help make plans for either a vigil or march. He has even been to places such as Rochester and St. Cloud to bring a hopeful message to a fractured part of the community.
His presence in North Minneapolis became widely known when he used to park his car near the intersection of West Broadway and Lyndale Avenues each Tuesday and Thursday night. With his daughter as a sidekick, he would blast gospel music and distribute food and prayers to needy passersby.
Today, he is the outreach supervisor for A Mother’s Love, whose founder, Lisa Clemons, he affectionately calls “Sis.” He sees her as a mother figure and has drawn a lot of strength from her during this difficult year.
This past July, when a 7-year-old boy was shot in the foot at a Lowry Avenue convenience store during a drive-by shooting, Wilson was at the intersection to hold up signs for passing motorists. The signs implored them to honk to end the violence.
When a false report in August of a police-involved shooting in downtown Minneapolis caused unrest there, Wilson was among the activists to rush to the protests to dispel the rumor.
And after 6-year-old Isaac Childress, III was swept down the Mississippi River while on a family outing later that month, Wilson went to Boom Island to be with the family. He did not leave until divers recovered the body.
“He’s known for being at the scene, which is hard in of itself when you have your own trauma,” said Bunny Beeks, who is grateful for Wilson’s outreach after her mother, Birdell Beeks, was killed by a stray bullet while in her van at the intersection of 21st and Penn avenues in 2016. “We all have that trauma and it gets exaggerated by feeling another family’s pain. It’s easy to want to give up the fight, but it's hard when you see violence every day in our community and you know there could be change. I think that’s the way KG sees it. It’s why he’s so passionate.”
In the ‘army of God’
Wilson has tried to retire at least three times, he says, including last year, when he returned to Chicago for the funeral of his mother.
She had been clean and sober for 35 years. Mother and son reconciled and were able to enjoy a close relationship. She became an addiction counselor and, like her son, dedicated her life to helping people find a different path.
But she seemed to have a blind spot, he said. As Wilson’s story got featured in newspapers, on videos and earned him public service awards, he never got the acknowledgement from her he needed.
At her wake, some of the women his mother had helped, introduced themselves. “We know who you are. You’re your mom’s pride and joy.”
Wilson began to sob. Having mulled over retirement on the bus ride to Chicago, he felt emboldened to continue.
“It’s nothing human,” he said of his energy. “It has to be spiritual. There is no other way I could do this. I’m in the army of God. I’m a soldier and I will fight against the wrong in this community. I did the drugs, I did the violence, you don’t have to. You can go to school, you can become a leader in your community, instead of a gang chief. You can make it through, there’s hope. Look, I’m still here.”