Unlike most sons, Paul Gazo was a role model for his parents.
Paul led a disciplined life, didn't take drugs and, occasionally, harassed people who did; he didn't drink; he was named after Beatle Paul McCartney and was a rock band vocalist, an animal rights activist, a frugal young man who ate discounted food and could stretch a buck until it tore; he was an anti-violent kick boxer, a hugger who was always hugging his friends and family with his goodbyes; a talented, artistic, unprejudiced 22-year-old whose friends included all ages, all races. Or nearly all.
A few days ago, at Paul's funeral service, his father, Matt, looked around the room and said, "There's no recognizable Eskimo here, but maybe I missed someone."
Earlier this year, when Paul's mother, Roz Corriere, treated Paul to a birthday dinner, Paul, of course, did not order a cooked animal, medium rare. He ordered "carrot juice and something leafy," she said, and smiled.
Paul's parents weren't smiling much this week, though. His father and his mother and his stepmother, Deb Gunther, were deeply hurt by the word vandal, which was used by the media to describe their son, who was spray painting a symbolic name on an old building when he fell through a hole in the roof; and they were devastated by some unthinking people who said their son got what he deserved.
A mail bomber, or a child molester, or a serial killer, might
have deserved to die, but not Paul.
******
Paul was always teaching people things, and maybe his death taught them something, too. Paul's wallet was often empty, although his life was usually full. The room where his family had his funeral service was full, too, as hundreds of people showed up to say goodbye.
Microphone in hand, many young men and women cried as they spoke:
"I was friends with Paul since I was about 15 years old," a woman said. "I'm 21 now and I never got to say this to him, so I'm saying it now.
"I wanted to thank him... He basically saved me from myself when I was in (Wauwatosa West) high school. I was getting involved pretty heavily in drugs and drinking and hanging out with some pretty bad people, and Paul started making my life hell, harassing me about it, spending his lunch hours coming down and schooling me about... Straight-Edge."
Straight-Edge is a loosely knit, national group of young people who swear allegiance to a straight life, unfestered by drugs and alcohol.
"He wasn't in a gang, he wasn't doing destructive things, like gangs do," his mother said. "He stood for peace."
Paul didn't spray graffiti on warehouses or grocery stores, his parents said; he tagged abandoned buildings with the initials SEB, which meant "Straight-Edge Bomber," or tagger.
Talking to the crowd, which included taggers, his mother said, "I would not like to see someone go in the same way that my son did. There are other ways of creative expression. You guys are so talented. Use those talents."
"We'd very much prefer (you) all stop tagging," Paul's stepmother said.
"It's like their one vice," his father said.
Early one dark morning last week, Paul and two friends were tagging an old railroad building near the 35th St. viaduct when he fell to his death.
Using the microphone, a tagger said, "We blinded ourselves to the dangers. This man died for graffiti, for ups, for the thrill. I myself have seen two of my friends fall off of a roof. Another time, someone came at me with a gun. Enough with the fines, enough with the keeping one eye (out) for the police.
"About a year ago, I was on that same roof, putting up my name, and I saw the holes. I still see them. I didn't want to fall so I quit writing graffiti. I don't want to have to mourn for another person.
"Many of you are good artists, with the will to be noticed. You
could be painting for profit instead of putting up a tag that would be
buffed (erased) the next month. I pray that Paul Gazo didn't die without
teaching us something."
******
Some friends were concerned that, after Paul fell, there was an official delay in answering 911 calls, which dispatchers claimed were confusing. His parents and stepmother said they were told that Paul couldn't have survived his injuries.
They praised police officers who investigated the case and said they wanted to personally thank an officer whose name they don't know, but whose sentiments meant a lot to them: An officer laid flowers at the site of Paul's death.
Paul, his parents said, had that kind of sensitivity. Their son wasn't the awful vandal that some have accused him of being; he believed in many things, and money was not part of his beliefs.
"His attitude was money was something you did to survive," his stepmother said.
His wealth was in friends; friends from all over the country attended his funeral. But his closest friends were members of his family. To relieve the despair, his father told the crowd that Paul, as a very young boy, liked video machines so much that he secretly dropped coins and dog tags into a new TV to keep it going; Paul's intentions and change, of course, short-circuited the TV, which his parents couldn't understand, until a TV repairman showed them what was inside their television besides a picture tube.
When Paul grew up, sometimes he and his father would be standing at a stove, cooking dinner -- something leafy, probably. And Paul would start whomping on his father.
"They'd be laughing so hard, Paul trying to get Matt to spar with him," his stepmother said.
Paul's father, an expert in martial arts, would take only so much of the thumping, then he'd show Paul who was the expert. However, earlier this year, Paul challenged him again.
"The first five seconds were painful," his father said. "He grabbed me behind the head and slammed both knees into my chest. Thank God he didn't do it full force."
In the past, his father had always told Paul that Paul had a lot to learn. Well, Paul showed that he had learned it.
Still, Paul was a gentle man, his parents said, and he didn't fight outside the martial arts ring. He was a Straight-Edger, with "one life drug free" tattooed on his ankle. However, aware of his parents' feelings about tattoos, even good-message tattoos, he had had the words tattooed so low that his sock covered them when his folks were around.
Some of Paul's devoted friends had Paul's image put on T-shirts that they wore to the funeral.
It may have been a first at a funeral, but "one boy took off his shirt and gave it to my mother," Corriere said.
The shirts said, "in loving memory," and it had the awful numbers this talented tagger had signed off with: 4/17/75 to 10/1/97.