And if Quezada didn't adopt the children, who would? "If we don't practice what we preach, we're hypocrites."
When the three kids arrived, it was like getting new immigrants on the block, he says.
Paolo Vescia
A bilingual sign of the changing times at St. Paul's
Episcopal Church in the Green Gables neighborhood.
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"There was a lot of fighting. The house was a mess. There was disorder. When I asked our kids what was going on, they said, 'Why don't they go back where they came from? They've taken over the house. They think they're the boss. We were here first.'
"I talked to them about why they feel this way," he says. "And slowly but surely, they started getting along and feeling better about themselves."
The sight of Bob Hayes' 1984 Chevrolet Suburban creeping through the alley doesn't arouse much trust or warmth from the immigrants who now dominate his west Phoenix neighborhood.
"They think I'm just a racist," he says. "They've even called me a vigilante. But I've been here 53 years. This is my home. I don't want to go anywhere else. I'm just trying to do my part in keeping things in line."
He's the neighborhood's Block Watch leader. An ID tag on a chain around his neck says as much. Yet his behemoth of a car is the most visible part of his hobby. Decked with lights and a bullhorn, its top is spanned by a black-and-white sign spelling out "Block Watch."
There's plenty to patrol. His neighborhood, just east of 35th Avenue and McDowell, has become a dumping ground of trash, junk and code violations that the city wouldn't let stand for an hour in Arcadia.
Like other neighborhood leaders, he says he can't get his Hispanic neighbors to participate.
"When we do neighborhood cleanups," he says, "they won't come out, so we have to get county probationers to come out here."
Some neighbors say they approve of Hayes' activities but that they're just too busy to take the time to get more involved.
Gilbert Ramirez, who lives across the street, has a landscaping business that consumes his days.
Marissa Morales, a single mom who lives near Vicki Chriswell, farther west along McDowell Road, says the political system "works to the advantage of people who have more time."
"When you're in the middle or lower class and working, you sometimes have inconsistent hours. You can't just take off for meetings. When you have to prioritize time like that, the neighborhood work is the least of it."
Hayes theorizes that some Hispanics stay away because they're "caught between two cultures. I think they're afraid that if they speak up, they'll be called traitors or racists."
A few neighbors phone the details about crimes, drug houses and property violations to him, so he can report them to the city.
One Hispanic woman who uses Hayes as a go-between says she takes the stealth approach out of fear. "If a police car or some kind of city car shows up in front of my house, the people will know who's complaining."
Art Pimentel, one of the few Hispanics who has been active in Vicki Chriswell's area, and has lived there since the early 1960s, says such fears are prevalent and warranted: "I know I had the windows on my car busted out when I turned in some of these kids doing dope around here. And Vicki had her car fire-bombed for being so outspoken about the crime going on over here."
Still other Hispanics let Chriswell, Hayes and other Anglo community leaders do their bidding because they think the Anglos will get more done at City Hall.
"They don't really pay much attention when we call," says a Hispanic man who doesn't want his name used because he fears retribution at work. "They hear our accent or see our name and just ignore us."
Aureliano Dominguez, a leader of the vendor union that won city protections for the trade, says he once shared that view.
But when the neighborhood activists and city threatened to shut down his livelihood, he began to speak.
"It was my family I did this for," he says. "And they did this for me, too."
They attended many meetings, and along with other vendor families overflowed the city council chambers last week to watch as the ordinance was approved.
"I think our movement is going to create new potential for people to get involved," says Dominguez. "If you don't speak up, somebody's going to speak up for you and it may not be the way you wanted things to happen. Now I know what it takes to be heard."
