In 1968 inside a California prison, a Mexican Mafia member stole a pair of shoes from a Northern California inmate. A riot broke out. 19 men were stabbed. One man died, and the longest-running gang war in the state of California began. It has not ended since. 55 years later, in the early hours of January 16th, 2023, that war reached a single-family home on Harvest Road in Goshen, California, a town of 5,000 people at a single Highway 99 exit surrounded by farmland that most people outside the Central Valley have
never heard of. What happened there in under 7 minutes produced the most disturbing crime scene that a 36-year law enforcement veteran said he had ever seen. Six people were killed, four generations of the same family. The oldest was 72 years old. The youngest was 10 months old.
Surveillance footage later released by the Tulare County Sheriff’s Office shows the moment a 16-year-old named Alyssa Parra tried to save her son. She grabbed him, ran from the house in the dark, lifted him over a fence, climbed over after him, and ran into the street outside. Prosecutors say Noah Beard was waiting.
Both Alyssa and her son Nicholas were found dead in the road, both shot in the back of the head. That footage traveled everywhere. It made the story of Goshen inescapable in a way that a number never could. You watch it, and you know exactly what she was thinking. She thought if she could just get far enough from the house, she could protect him.
She was wrong by about 20 ft. This is a story of what happened on Harvest Road, and of the two men prosecutors say carried it out, but it is also the story of the town where it happened, the gang war that produced it, and the question that nobody who lives in the San Joaquin Valley wants to answer out loud, what does it take to make two men walk into a house before dawn and kill everyone inside, including a baby? January 16th, 2023, 3:47 in the morning, Harvest Road, Goshen, California.
A 16-year-old girl named Alyssa Parraz woke to the sound of gunfire inside her own home. She grabbed her 10-month-old son, Nikolas. She ran. Surveillance footage later released by the Tulare County Sheriff’s Office captured what happened next. It shows Alyssa lifting her baby over a fence in the dark, climbing over after him, and running into the street outside.
Authorities say no abed was waiting. Both Alyssa and Nikolas were found dead in the street, shot in the back of their heads. A 16-year-old mother and a baby who had been alive for 10 months, both executed in the street in the dark before 4:00 in the morning. Inside the home and around it, four more members of the Parraz family were dead.
Aladio Parraz Jr., 52 years old. Marcos Parraz, 19. Jennifer Analla, 49. Rosa Parraz, 72. Grandmother, father, brother, aunt, four generations of the same family. Six people dead in under 7 minutes. When Tulare County Sheriff’s deputies arrived at the scene, 7 minutes after the call came in, they found two bodies in the street, a third in the doorway of the home, and more inside.
One victim was still alive. Deputies performed CPR. He was rushed to the hospital. He did not make it. Sheriff Mike Boudreaux had been in law enforcement for 36 years. He struggled in front of the cameras to recall a more disturbing scene. This is the story of what happened in Goshen, California on the morning of January 16th, 2023 and of the two men prosecutors say carried it out.
But it is also the story of the town where it happened, the gang war that produced it, and the question that nobody who lives in the San Joaquin Valley wants to answer out loud. What does it take to make two men walk into a house before dawn and kill everyone inside, including a baby? Goshen is not a place most people outside California Central Valley have ever heard of.
It is an unincorporated community in Tulare County, 30 miles southeast of Fresno, sitting at a single Highway 99 exit, surrounded by farmland and industrial properties. The population is somewhere around 5,000 people. It is majority Latino, around 75% about one in four residents lives below the poverty line. The median age is 30 years old.
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It is the kind of town where nearly 60% of households have children under 18 and where the commute to anything resembling an economic center takes most people past fields being worked by people who are not going anywhere anytime soon. The San Joaquin Valley as a whole is one of the most agriculturally productive regions on Earth.
It produces an enormous share of the food that the United States consumes. It also has some of the highest poverty rates in California with farming communities where unemployment reaches 40% and family poverty rates touching 35. The wealth of the valley moves upward and outward to the owners of the farms, the corporations that control distribution, the investors who hold the land.
The people who stay in towns like Goshen stay because they have no other option and they raise their children in communities where the gap between what the valley produces and what the people who live there actually receive is vast and visible and daily. The San Joaquin Valley also has a dense concentration of state prisons, which creates its own particular ecosystem.
When you have both concentrated poverty and multiple large correctional facilities within a relatively small geographic region, you create conditions where gang structures that originate inside the prison system move naturally into the surrounding communities. The prison gang becomes the street gang becomes the community institution.
It is not complicated. It is just the way that particular combination of factors works out on the ground. At the time of the massacre, Tulare County’s murder rate was running at just under 13 deaths per 100,000 residents, nearly double the state average. Law enforcement attributed the elevated rate primarily to ongoing warfare between Norteño and Sureño gangs across the county.
Sheriff Boudreaux said it plainly. The rural San Joaquin Valley’s vast stretches of empty land and little patrolled roads function as what he called a silent breeding ground for gang activity. That breeding ground is not accidental. It is the product of specific decisions made over decades about where to put prisons, how much to invest in poor agricultural communities, and which communities to let manage their own problems without the resources to do it.
Goshen sits in Norteño territory. The gang affiliations in that community run to the Norteños, the Northern California gang network that operates in allegiance to the Nuestra Familia prison gang. The Norteños use red. They identify with the number 14, representing the 14th letter of the alphabet, N for Norte.
Their rivals, the Sureños, align with the Mexican Mafia prison gang out of Southern California and use blue. The border between Norteño and Sureño territory has shifted over decades, but in Tulare County, it runs through the southern end of the valley, making towns like Goshen and Visalia predominantly Norteño, while the border itself remains a line that generates violence whenever it is contested.
Two members of the Perez family were identified as validated Sureño gang members. They were living in a Norteño town. That is the trigger. That is the detail that, inside the logic of the gang war that has been running in California’s prison system and its surrounding communities for more than 50 years, made the house on Harvest Road a target.
It did not matter who else was in that house. It did not matter that Rosa Perez was 72 years old. It did not matter that Alyssa Perez was 16 and her son was 10 months old. The logic of the war does not make those distinctions. Woodrow made sure to say it anyway because someone had to. Not all of the people in this home were gang members and not all of the people in this home were drug dealers.
That statement matters. It also changes nothing about what happened. To understand the morning of January 16th, you have to understand how the war that produced it started. And that goes back not to Goshen, not to Tulare County, and not even to the 1990s when Norteño-Sureño street violence became most visible to the outside world.
It goes back to 1968 inside a California prison over a pair of shoes. The Mexican Mafia had organized in the late 1950s at Deuel Vocational Institution in Tracy, California. Originally formed by Los Angeles area Mexican-American inmates who wanted protection from the general prison population, it quickly became an extortion and control organization running the drug trade and sex trade inside California prisons and taxing other inmates for the right to exist.
La Eme, as it is known, had a particular reputation for preying on Mexican-American inmates from rural Northern California. Farm workers and their children who had grown up in the Central Valley and found themselves incarcerated alongside men from Los Angeles who had no particular regard for where they came from.
In 1968 at San Quentin State Prison, a Mexican Mafia member stole a pair of shoes from a Northern California inmate. The Northern inmates had been organizing informally since the mid-1960s, drawing on pre-existing Norteño street groups from places like Salinas and the Central Valley. And what happened at San Quentin crystallized that informal organizing into something formal and permanent.
A full-scale riot broke out. 19 inmates were stabbed. One La Eme associate died. That confrontation became known as the Shoe War and it established a new prison gang as the primary rival of the Mexican Mafia, Nuestra Familia, meaning in Spanish our family. The longest-running gang war in the state of California had begun. It has not ended since.
Nuestra Familia was formally organized at the Correctional Training Facility in Soledad, California. It drew its membership primarily from rural northern California. Exactly the communities that the Mexican Mafia had been preying on for a decade, its geographic identity was not incidental.
The Nuestra Familia constitution designated Pelican Bay State Prison, all the way up near the Oregon border, as the official residence of its leadership, which meant that the generals running the organizations national operations was sitting in the highest security correctional facility in California and issuing orders by handwritten notes passed between inmates, by contraband cell phones, and by emissaries who moved between the prison walls and the street operations in every county with a significant Norteño presence.
The Norteños on the street are the foot soldiers of Nuestra Familia. They are not full members of the prison gang in the formal sense, but they operate under its command structure, pay a street tax of roughly 20 to 30% of their drug revenues back to the organizations prison leadership, and are expected to carry out orders that come down from incarcerated generals.
In exchange, they receive protection inside the prison system, access to drug supply chains, and the backing of an organization with established territory and established enforcement capacity. For a young man in Goshen in the early 2000s with few legitimate economic options and family members already in the gang, the choice was not really a choice.
It was just the way things were. The Mexican Mafia’s Sureño affiliates operate on the same structure in Southern California and in the contested territories of the Central Valley. The geographic dividing line between the two prison gang allegiances runs through the southern end of the valley, which puts Goshen squarely in Norteño territory and makes any Sureno presence in the town not just a rival drug operation, but a direct challenge to Nuestra Familia’s territorial authority.
That is the institutional weight behind what it meant for validated Sureno gang members to be living on Harvest Road. By the time Operation Black Widow dismantled Nuestra Familia’s upper leadership in 2000 and 2001, law enforcement officials estimated the organization had been responsible for at least 600 murders in the previous 30 years.
22 members were indicted on federal RICO charges. The five highest-ranking leaders were transferred to the federal supermax in Florence, Colorado. The power vacuum that followed produced internal fighting, a consolidation of authority under a single leader at Pelican Bay, and eventually a restructured organization that continued to direct street-level violence from behind prison walls exactly as it always had.
The structure was too deeply embedded to collapse just because its top tier went to a supermax. That structure was fully operational on the night of January 15th and the early hours of January 16th, 2023, when Angel Uriarte and Noah Beard, both validated Norteños with ties to that organization, moved on the house on Harvest Road.
Angel Joseph Uriarte, known in Goshen as Nano, was 35 years old at the time of the massacre. His criminal history stretched back to 2000 when he was a teenager and included records of selling narcotics, possessing firearms, and assault with a deadly weapon. He had been convicted in 2015 of assault with a firearm in association with the street gang, which meant he had already served time for gang-related violence and had come out still validated as a Norteno.
Still in Goshen, still in the life. He was not a peripheral figure in the local gang structure. He was someone who had been active in it for the better part of two decades. Noah David Beard was 25 years old. His criminal history began when he was a juvenile with conviction starting in 2012 that included assault with a deadly weapon and robbery.
He was young enough that the Goshen gang world was the only adult world he had ever known. His prior record was not the record of someone who had drifted into the life reluctantly. It was the record of someone who had grown up in it. Both men lived within a short distance of Harvest Road. Both had, according to investigators and as later reported by the Los Angeles Times, a history of bad blood with the Parris family that went back years.
The specific nature of that history was not publicly disclosed in full by investigators, and the exact triggering incident for the massacre was not announced at the time of the arrest. What Boudreau said was that the suspects and the victims had a long history of gun violence, heavily active in guns, gang violence, and narcotics dealings.
He also acknowledged that the motive was not exactly clear, which in law enforcement language means we know who did it and we know it was gang-related, but the specific trigger is something we are still investigating or holding back. What the forensic evidence gave investigators was a DNA connection between Yuriati and Beard and the crime scene.
The investigators waited, Boudreaux said, until they had that DNA evidence before moving on arrests. They were building a case that would survive a trial. When deputies arrived on Harvest Road at 3:54 in the morning, they found a scene that defied easy description. Two bodies in the street, a third in the doorway of the home, others inside.
Six people dead spanning four generations, ranging in age from 10 months to 72 years. All shot. Most shot in the head. One still alive when deputies arrived, on whom CPR was immediately performed. That victim was transported to the hospital and did not survive. The surveillance footage released by authorities days later became the defining image of the massacre.
It shows a teenage girl in the dark carrying a baby running from her house. She reaches a fence. She lifts the baby over first, then climbs over herself. She runs into the street. Prosecutors say Noe Bid was there when she reached it. Both Alyssa Parraz, 16 years old, and her son Nicholas, 10 months old, were found together in the road outside.
Both had been shot in the back of the head. The county supervisor said it for everyone who saw the footage, “It breaks my heart knowing that this infant, who had many, many years of life, was tragically lost. That is a statement that sounds inadequate to what happened, because no statement is adequate to what happened.
The inadequacy is the point. There is no language that fits what was done to Nicholas Perez on Harvest Road. There is only the footage of his mother trying to save him and the road where they both ended up. Boudreaux held his first press conference with the FBI, Homeland Security, and other state and federal agencies standing alongside him.
He acknowledged the brutal manner of the killings and noted that investigators believed the execution-style nature of the attack indicated a possible cartel-level sophistication. He assured Goshen residents they were not in random danger. He said the killings appeared to target the Perez family alone.
Then he added, “If I’m in my home and my neighbors were just massacred in a slaughter, I’d be scared, too. I’d be locking my windows and locking my doors.” That sentence from the man who ran the investigation is the most honest thing that was said publicly in the immediate aftermath. The official reassurance that the community was safe and the admission that it did not feel safe were delivered in the same breath.
18 days passed between the massacre and the arrests. More than 100 investigators, detectives, officers, and federal agents worked through those 18 days building the case, running surveillance, and gathering evidence. Search warrants were not only served at residences and vehicles. They were served at approximately eight inmate cells in five California state prisons, all associated with Nuestra Familia.
That detail matters. When the Tulare County Sheriff’s Office and its federal partners chose to search prison cells as part of the arrest operation, they were reflecting their understanding that the gang war that produced the massacre on Harvest Road did not only exist on the streets of Goshen.
It was rooted in and connected to the prison system that has been running the Norteño gang structure in California since the early 1970s. February 3rd, 2023, Operation Nightmare. More than 100 agents from local and federal law enforcement served warrants simultaneously at three locations. Noah Beard was taken into custody without incident at a Visalia address.
At the same moment, agents moved on a Goshen location where Uriarte was found. He ran. While running, he turned and fired multiple shots at ATF agents. The agents returned fire and struck him in the torso. He was taken to the hospital for emergency surgery and survived. He was subsequently charged with assault on a federal officer in addition to the six murder counts.
Both men were charged with six counts of special circumstance first-degree murder, gang enhancements, violent conduct, use of a weapon, great bodily injury, street terrorism carrying a life sentence, intentional discharge of a firearm, and crimes against a vulnerable victim. The Tulare County District Attorney’s Office indicated it was considering the death penalty, though Governor Newsom’s execution moratorium remained in effect.
Boudreau publicly called for Newsom to reinstate capital punishment specifically for cases involving child victims. Uriarte’s attorney called the death penalty framing political and argued it prejudiced the jury pool before trial had begun. The legal argument was reasonable.
The political argument was running in parallel regardless. After the arrests, Goshen went quiet in a particular way. Reporters who visited the town in the days that followed described a silence distinct from ordinary grief. People were not just sad. People were not talking. Business owners deflected cameras. Neighbors said very little or said everything off the record or said nothing at all.
The community that had existed before the cameras arrived went back to existing after they left. That silence is not hard to understand if you understand what it means to live in a small town inside a gang war. In a community of 5,000 people, in a place where gang membership often runs through families across multiple generations, speaking publicly about what you know is not a decision that comes without consequences.
The Norteño network in Goshen is not an abstraction. It is neighbors and family members and people you went to school with and people who know where you live. The culture of silence around gang violence in communities like Goshen is not a cultural pathology. It is a rational response to a threat that law enforcement, for all its resources and press conferences, has consistently demonstrated it cannot fully protect individual community members from after-the-fact.
The $10,000 reward that Boudreau announced after the massacre sat out there for 18 days before the DNA evidence delivered what the witness silence could not. That timeline tells its own story. The Goshen massacre happened in the middle of a violent month in California that tested the state’s capacity to process horror.
The killings on Harvest Road were on January 16th. Five days later, on January 21st, a gunman killed 11 people at a Lunar New Year celebration in Monterey Park. Two days after that, four people were killed at a mushroom farm in Half Moon Bay. Three separate mass casualty events in California in eight days.
The national media moved between them, each story partially eclipsing the previous one. Goshen got about 10 days of sustained attention. The surveillance footage circulated widely. Alyssa Perez lifting her baby over a fence in the dark became the image that many people associated with January 2023 in California.
Politicians issued statements. Federal agencies held press conferences. And then the news moved on the way it always moves on. And the town of 5,000 people at a single Highway 99 exit was left with what it had before the cameras showed up. As of this writing, Angel Uriarte and Noah Beer remain in custody awaiting trial in Tulare County Superior Court.
Both have pleaded not guilty. Both face six counts of special circumstance first-degree murder. A second arraignment was scheduled in January 2024. The legal process is proceeding on its own timeline, which is not the timeline of the national news cycle, and not the timeline of the community that has to live inside the aftermath.
The Perez family buried six of their own in January 2023. Rosa, 72, Eladio, 52, Jennifer, 49, Marcos, 19, Alyssa, 16, Nikolas, 10 months. Four generations all dead in 7 minutes on Harvest Road in a town that the rest of California does not think about until something like this happens.
The question that stays with the Goshen massacre is not the legal question. The legal question will be answered in a Tulare County courtroom. The question that stays is the one that Boudreaux put in plain language at the press conference. How do you shoot a baby in the back of the head? The legal answer is that Angel Uriarte and Noah Beard are charged with doing it and the evidence places them at the scene.
That is not a sufficient answer to the question. The fuller answer has to include Goshen itself. It has to include the San Joaquin Valley and its farming towns with 40% unemployment where multiple generations of the same families grow up in proximity to prisons that export gang structure into the surrounding community.
It has to include Nuestra Familia and the shoe war of 1968 and the 55-year prison gang rivalry that has organized street violence across entire regions of California from behind correctional facility walls. It has to include the particular poverty of a community where nearly one in four residents lives below the poverty line and where the institutions that might provide an alternative to the gang economy are not particularly present or particularly well-funded. None of that shoots a baby.
Two men with guns did that. Angel Uriarte and Noah Beard are the ones who stand charged with what happened on Harvest Road. But the conditions that produce two men capable of doing that, those are a question that the justice system does not answer. Those are a question about what the San Joaquin Valley is and what California has decided to do about it, which for most of the last half century has been not very much.
Alyssa Parraz was 16 years old. She got her son over the fence. She ran into the street. She thought if she could get far enough from the house she could protect him. She was wrong by about 20 ft. That is the distance between what she believed was possible and what the world she was born into had already decided for her and for her son before she was old enough to understand what that world was.
20 ft, a fence, a street, a town at a single Highway 99 exit that nobody in Sacramento has decided is worth the cost of making different. Goshen is still there. The poverty rate is still what it is. The prisons are still where they are. The Norteño Sureño dividing line still runs through the southern end of the valley. The gang war that started in 1968 in a California prison over a stolen pair of shoes is still going and 5,000 people in an unincorporated community surrounded by farmland are still figuring out how to live inside of violence that nobody
who lives there designed and nobody who could change it has decided to. Nicholas Parraz was 10 months old. He never got to decide anything at all. There is a dimension of the Goshen massacre that sits outside the immediate facts and points towards something that the news coverage never quite got to.
It is the dimension of what Goshen actually looked like as a place to grow up in for someone who was going to end up where Angel Uriarte ended up or where Noah Bid ended up. Goshen is a community that was founded in 1872 as a railroad junction. It sits at 285 ft of elevation on what was once the southern shore of Tulare Lake, the largest freshwater lake west of the Great Lakes before the valley’s water was drained and redirected into agricultural irrigation over the course of the late 19th
and early 20th centuries. The lake is gone. The farms are there. And the town that grew up around the railroad junction and the farms is now a community of 5,000 people where 3/4 of the residents are Latino with a median age is 30 years old where nearly a quarter of the population lives below the poverty line and where 59% of households have children under 18 years old.
That last number is the one that should be the center of every policy conversation about Goshen that anyone in Sacramento has ever declined to have. A town where nearly 60% of households have children under 18, where a quarter of the population lives in poverty, and where the murder rate runs double the state average is a town that is producing its next generation of Angel Uriartes and Noah Beards right now, today, in the same houses, on the same streets. The children who are
growing up in Goshen in 2023 and 2024 and 2025 are growing up in the same conditions that grew the men who are charged with the massacre. The system that produced those men is still running. It has not been interrupted. What the Nuestra Familia prison structure does in a community like Goshen is fill the organizational vacuum that poverty and institutional neglect create.
When you grow up in a town where a quarter of the people around you live in poverty, where legitimate economic opportunity is structurally scarce, where the most visible examples of men with money and status and protection are the men connected to the gang. The gang functions as the dominant institution.
It provides employment. It provides a hierarchy that you can rise in. It provides community and belonging and a set of rules that are enforced reliably even if the enforcement is violent. It provides protection from other gangs at the cost of your participation in the same violence it protects you from.
And it provides for the young men who are willing to do what the gang requires an identity that the outside world is not going to give them. Angel Uribe’s criminal history started when he was in his teens. By his mid-30s, he was validated Norteño with a 2015 conviction for gang-related assault with a firearm.
He had lived in Goshen his entire life. He had been in and out of the gang system his entire adult life. He was not, by the time of January 2023, someone who had made a single terrible choice. He was someone who had made the same choice repeatedly over 20 years because the alternative choices available to him in Goshen had never been particularly visible or accessible.
Noah Beard was even younger. His criminal record started in juvenile court in 2012 when he was in his early teens. He was 25 at the time of the massacre, meaning that from his early adolescence through his entire adult life up to that point, the gang world had been the world he operated in. There was no period of his adult life in which he had built a separate identity in legitimate employment or education or anything else that might have interrupted the trajectory his juvenile record describes.
This is not a defense of either man. It is a description of how communities like Goshen produce the people they produce and of why the question of what happened on Harvest Road cannot be fully answered by arresting two men and putting them on trial, however necessary and correct those arrests and that trial are.
The trial addresses what Yurity and Bid did. It does not address the pipeline that produced them. That pipeline is still running. It will produce the next Yurity and the next Bid and the next massacre on the same schedule it has always run on, which is the schedule of poverty plus prisons plus no alternatives equals gang membership as the default career path for a significant portion of every generation of young men in a town like Goshen.
The surveillance footage that the Tulare County Sheriff’s Office released after the massacre did something that is worth acknowledging separately from everything else about the case. It made the story of Alyssa Parra inescapable in a way that a written description alone would not have. You can read that a 16-year-old mother was shot trying to flee with her infant and understand it intellectually, but the footage of Alyssa actually lifting Nicles over the fence, climbing over after him, running toward the
street forces you to be present in that moment in a way that written description does not. You watch it and you understand exactly what she was thinking. She was thinking that if she could just get far enough from the house, she could protect her son. She was wrong, but she was right to try.
She was doing exactly what any mother would do and she was killed for it. That footage traveled everywhere in the days after it was released. It was shared on social media, shown on news broadcast, referenced in editorials. It was the piece of evidence that moved the story from a statistic about gang violence in the Central Valley into something that the people who saw it could not look away from.
That is what Boudreaux intended when he released it. He was building public pressure for information leading to arrest. He was also, whether he thought of it in these terms or not, documenting for the world what the gang war in Tulare County looks like from the perspective of someone who has nothing to do with it and no protection from it.
Alyssa Parraz was 16. Her son was 10 months old. She was not a gang member. She was a teenage mother who happened to live in a house where other members of her family had gang affiliations, which made her house a target in a war she had no ability to exit. That is the logic of the war applied to its most defenseless possible subject.
Boudreaux said at the press conference that he knew for a fact there was no reason for them to kill her. He was speaking from the perspective of someone who has spent his career trying to understand why people do what they do. Even inside the logic of the gang war that sent two Norteños to Harvest Road, there was no operational reason to kill a 16-year-old girl and her baby.
They were not threats. They were not combatants. They were not, even as far as investigators could determine, affiliated with the rival gang whose presence in the house had made the address a target. They were just there, and in the logic that produced what happened on Harvest Road, just being there was enough.
That is the logic that has been running in California’s gang-adjacent community since 1968. That is the logic of a 55-year war that started over a pair of shoes in a prison and has never stopped costing people who had nothing to do with it their lives. Goshen is just the latest address on a list that runs across decades and counties and generations, and it will not be the last.
The trial of Angel Uriarte and Noah Beard will happen. A verdict will be delivered. Sentences will be pronounced. And Goshen will remain what it is. A small town surrounded by farmland with a poverty rate double the state average and a murder rate to match. Populated by the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of people who came to the Central Valley to work the land and built lives and communities that the rest of California has been content to leave to their own
devices. Nicholas Perez was 10 months old when he was killed on Harvest Road. He had been in the world for less than a year. He had never gone to school, never held a job, never made a choice that put him in the path of what happened to him. He was in his mother’s arms on a dark street in Goshen at 4:00 in the morning, and then he was gone.
That is what 55 years of an unaddressed gang war produces when it reaches its most extreme expression. Not a statistic, a 10-month-old boy in his mother’s arms in the street, and the San Joaquin Valley keeps farming, and the prisons keep running, and the next generation of children in Goshen grows up in the same conditions as the last one, waiting to become the next headline or the next arrest or the next victim in a war that nobody who lives there started and nobody who could end it has
decided to.
