It’s not enough to say that I had transcended the mind-set of being a banger by this time. After having spent thirteen years of my young life inside what had initially seemed like an extended family but had turned into a war machine, I was tired and disgusted with its insatiable appetite for destruction. Destruction no longer fed my narcissism. It was not an expression of my thoughts. I wanted to construct something, which in banging is tantamount to treason.
It took me a full three years to get out of the Crips. I could not just go to the administration building and put in for a transfer to civilian life. I had to practice what I wanted to express, expression eventually to come through the practice of my new beliefs. Getting out turned out to be much like getting in, in the sense of building one’s name and deeds in conjunction with what you believe. Many fail in trying to make this break. Some attempt to make the change to civilian life through working, going to school or church, or moving out of the neighborhood. But many find themselves drawn back in by the strong gravitational pull of the safe familiarity of the set and the ’hood.
It was hard for me to truly substantiate my break because the opposition was quite strong and I had no support whatsoever. I knew that my enemies of old would never believe that I had actually stopped, so they would not cease trying to destroy me. My homies would feel let down, disappointed, and perhaps betrayed. And I would be locked in a defensive posture for goodness knows how long.
During my time in Folsom prison I distanced myself as much as possible from the madness of the Crips and the Bloods. Unless it was a racial conflict, I didn’t have time to walk, talk, and gather in the realm of negativity. My everyday actions demonstrated my seriousness in respect to my new direction. I got some flak from a few individuals, but overall the initial stages of my transition went smoothly. My daily routine was simple. In the morning I’d go to my electronics class and stay until midafternoon. Once the class let out, I’d do my exercise, which consisted of running and calisthenics. I had long since given up on weights in exchange for a sleek, defined, limber body. I had a job as a clerk in the evenings and would go there after my exercise routine. I used my clerk job to help make others aware of the New Afrikan Independence Movement. I began to write, and in 1988 I completed a piece called “Where Does Correct Terminology Come From?” for one of our publications. It was my first writing, and it was printed. It was so exciting to see my thoughts in print, and was a tremendous help in my revolutionary development. Talib and I were cellmates for most of my two years there.
Surprisingly, the gang community accepted my break and some even began to support my efforts, but this came after an entire year of my steadfast practice. I still talked with all the bangers, and they still talked with me. Some asked questions and others said nothing about my change from banger to revolutionary. I didn’t go around trying to persuade the bangers that their line was wrong. But it was wrong to me, though I did not reach that conclusion overnight. Once I recognized it, however, I had to stick with it.
I had faced the realization of who would ultimately be betrayed if I did not stop, which put banging in its proper perspective. While it did and still does supply wayward youth with an idea of collective being and responsibility, in the end it wrecks the lives of its participants and the innocents who live anywhere near its “silo,” or base of operations. It is, unfortunately, the extreme expression of hopelessness in New Afrikan communities: misdirected rage in the form of retarded resistance.
To continue banging would be a betrayal first of my children, who now depend on me for guidance, morals, and strength. What type of guidance or morals could I possibly offer from inside the ranks of a group that had no morals, where Monsters and Fat Rats ran around like heroes for wanton acts of mindless aggression? While I take full responsibility for all the wickedness I have done, I do not take pride in it. To me, now, there is no beauty in destruction for destruction’s sake.
The second betrayal is that of all those who have been killed in our past, who fought so hard for our freedom only to have us follow in their wake with massive destruction, rolling back most of the community unity they had constructed. What about our obligation to them?
These things are what held me against the all-powerful suction of the set. It was by no means easy, and I wasn’t always sure that I had chosen the right path. I got no pats on the back or congratulations from anyone. For a long time it was just Talib and me amidst a sea of antagonists, skeptics, and obdurate onlookers waiting in the wings for me to stumble and fall. I took it one day at a time.
In November of 1988 I was paroled. I had served four years and nine months on a seven-year sentence. I was met in Sacramento by a Muslim that Muhammad had sent to take me to the airport. Akiba had bought the plane ticket. Once I got to the Los Angeles airport I felt much better.
When I entered the terminal I didn’t see anybody familiar. Not ten steps later I heard a voice.
“Freeze! Put your hands slowly on your head and interlock your fingers.”
I didn’t even bother to turn around. I went through the motions without a word.
“Where you come in from?” the voice asked. “And what’s in the pouch?”
“I am coming from Sacramento.”
“Oh yeah? Who were you with up there, huh?”
“A friend of mine from Sacramento City College. He and I were discussing the atmosphere.”
“You ain’t got no drugs in that pouch, do you?”
“Naw, just some things from school.”
“You a student, too?”
“Yeah, I’m a student.”
I had learned to tell the pigs, and anyone else for that matter, only what they needed to know. The pig asked where I’d come from and I told him. He asked who I was with and I told him. And yes, I was a student. A student of revolutionary science.
“Motherfucker,” whispered a second pig, who’d been searching my pouch, “you just got released from state prison.”
“Yeah, it’s in Sacramento.”
He threw my pouch to the ground, the contents spilling to the floor around my feet. Then the other pig came to my left ear and whispered.
“Welcome home, nigger.”
And with that they faded back into the flow of terminal traffic. In my younger years that wouldn’t have bothered me much. But with my new direction and expanded consciousness, it struck me hard.
I was picked up by my brotha, Kerwin, and we went straight to my mother’s job. She was a bartender. She didn’t see us enter the darkened club and before she could spot us we were standing there before her.
“Oh,” said Mom, “my baby!”
“Hey, Mom,” I said with genuine love and affection as I leaned over the bar to hug her.
“Honey, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too, Mom, I’ve missed you, too.” My eyes were shut tight over Mom’s shoulder to hold back the rising tide of tears. After all our disagreements, our fights, and my total disregard for her feelings, she still loved me, still supported me. I knew then what she had gone through in trying to raise us, especially Kershaun and me, who seemingly lived in juvenile hall, court, or some other detention center. Despite this hardship, Mom would faithfully be there every time to plead for our release. Because of us, she took more abuse from the authorities than we ever knew.
“I get off at ten, but I know you have a lot to do, so let’s get together tomorrow, all right?”
“Yeah, Mom,” I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “For sure, huh?”
“Yeah, for sure.”
“All right, Mom. I love you.”
“And I love you, too, baby.”
Kerwin and I left and made our way through the South Central streets toward Mom’s house, where everyone had gathered for my arrival. I couldn’t believe the drabness of the city. Burned-out buildings and vacant houses took up whole blocks. Gas stations and liquor stores owned by Koreans were on every corner. Mexican merchants hung on corners, hawking oranges like dope. The obvious things that had been there all along I now saw differently. Washington Boulevard was wrecked, rife with empty lots and homeless people pushing grocery carts commandeered from supermarkets. They used to seem like lazy bums. Now they seemed to manifest the cruel irresponsibility of society. Graffiti-sprayed walls that I once was able to read and overstand were now scrawled with some illegible markings—a new age in banging, the preppie gangs making their debut.
We got to the house in twenty minutes. When I walked inside it seemed smaller than I had remembered. Everyone was sitting around the table staring at me. They all wanted to know, and no doubt hoped, that Sanyika was real and had finally put to rest the old beast, Monster. No one spoke. They just looked at me, hoping that the first word out of my mouth wouldn’t be “cuz.”
“Habari za jioni,” I said, which is Kiswahili for Good evening, and the whole room seemed to exhale with relief.
No one knew what I had said, but they did know that it was not Crip talk. They all broke into smiles—Tamu, Kendis, Kershaun, and Kerwin.
I tried to explain to them the new path I was taking but it was hard to communicate it all because I was still learning myself.
Kendis seemed the most disturbed by the changes I had made, and I knew it was up to me to better articulate them. My siblings had always paired off in twos: Kevin and Kim got along best and usually stuck together; Kerwin and Kendis were coconspirators; and Shaun and I were comrades. Never had the six of us gone anywhere together or all gotten along at the same time. Kim went on to join the Air Force and Kevin moved away, seldom to be seen. Kerwin got a job and spied on us for Mom, and Kendis, while trying to remain neutral, leaned hard toward Kerwin and really didn’t get along too well with anyone. And Shaun and I were looked upon with dismay by all. Now, here I was, back in the ruins of my family, trying to explain my new path, but somehow not getting it across. Kendis kept cutting her eyes to Kerwin and he kept sighing. Tamu just looked at me and Shaun seemed to be thinking about something else. It was clear that Tamu and Shaun were my brightest prospects for conversion.
Over the next hour, the homies started arriving. First came Red and Eric
What up, nigga?!” said Red ecstatically.
“Don’t call me nigga, Red. I’m cool, you know. Glad to be out and all.”
“Right, yeah. Me and E got somethin’ for you, Monsta.”
“Red, I changed my name. It’s Sanyika now.”
“Right,” said Red like he hadn’t even heard my corrections. “Here you go, homie. If you need anything else let us know. We gone.”
He handed me a bunch of bills folded neatly. I didn’t count them, just put them in my pocket and walked Red and Eric to the door.
“Thanks, homie.”
“Righteous. But if you need somethin’ else just page me.”
“All right, brotha.”
When I finally did count the money, I found it was a thousand bucks.
Next came J-Dog, the financier of the ’hood and a stompdown loyalist, though not much of a talker. He called the house from his Blazer out on the street.
“Yo, cuz, I heard you was out. Is it cool if I come on in?”
“Yeah, Dog, come on in.”
Dog was the only New Afrikan I knew with a press and curl. I admired him, though, because he never put nuclear waste in his hair. Dog was cool. Shit, he still wore pork-chop sideburns! He has never denied anyone anything. Like “The Rebirth of Slick” by the comrades from Digable Planets, he was “cool like dat.”
“Eh, yo, what up, Monster?” Dog said in his smooth, cool style. As usual, he had blue rollers in his hair and a sweatsuit on.
“Ain’t nothin’, just coolin’ wit’ my fam ’bam, kickin’ blackness. Oh, and you know I changed my name while I was a prisoner.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, my name is Sanyika now.”
“What is that, Muslim?” asked Dog, genuinely curious.
“No, there is no ‘Muslim’ language. But there is Arabic, that Muslims speak. But my name is Kiswahili.”
“Where is Kiswahili? In Afrika, I know.”
“There is no place called Kiswahili. Kiswahili is a language spoken in East Afrika.”
“That’s deep. And how you say it again?”
“San-yi-ka,” I said slowly, sounding out the syllables.
“What does that mean? I heard all Afrikan names have meanings, you know, say somethin’ ’bout people.”
“Pretty much, which shows the depth of our culture. Sanyika means ’unifier, gatherer of his people.’ “
“Cool. How you say Dog?”
“Mbwa.”
“Naw, that’s too hard. People might not never call me,” he said and grinned bashfully. “Hey, homie, here you go. And if you need somethin’ else, get at me.”
“Oh, wait, wait. Yo, what is this, crack?”
“Yeah, it’s two zones there for you.”
“Dog, I ain’t no drug dealer no mo’, man. I can’t feed my family wit’ this. They can’t wear this or live in this. How much these zones go for now?”
“Oh,” said Dog, looking rather disappointed, “they go fo’ five hundred apiece, but I be givin’ them to the homies for three hundred.”
“Well here,” I said, giving Dog back the two ounces, “let me have six hundred bucks then, ’cause I can’t deal no dope. That’s treason.”
“It’s what?”
“Long story, homie.” I was getting bored and stir-crazy in the house.
“All right, homie, you drive a hard bargain, but I hear what you sayin’. I can respect that. Here you go.” He handed me six hundred dollars.
“Righteous, Dog.”
“Only fo’ you though, cuz. Oh, and Li’l Monster, too. Cuz’ name still Li’l Monster, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said, getting up to show Dog out, “for right now it is.”
When I went back into the living room, Whiteboy Eric was there.
“Get yo’ coat on,” said Whiteboy.
“Fo’ what?”
“So I can take you shoppin’ fo’ some new clothes and shit. Come on.”
“He ain’t goin’ nowhere, he just got here,” complained Tamu.
“Yeah, bro, she’s right,” I said, happy that Tamu had saved me.
“Well,” said Whiteboy, digging into his pocket, “here, then. But I’ll be back tomorrow to get you, nigg—”
“Don’t call me that,” I said with my head down, eyes closed, and hands raised.
“What, nigga?”
“Yeah, that’s disrespectin’ me, brotha.”
“Oh, well excuse me,” Whiteboy said with a feigned look of dismay.
“It’s all right this time.”
Everyone looked at one another. They knew that although I had changed my name and reconnected to reality, the ‘Monster’ still lay dormant.
“Here you go, homes.” He handed me the crumpled bills.
“Thank you, E, and I’ll be here tomorrow when you swing by, huh?”
“All right then. Watch yourself, too.”
“I will.”
I closed the door and leaned on it in an exaggeration of exhaustion and told Tamu I’d be ready to go in a minute. I now had $2,100. I gave Shaun $900 of that as he tried to explain what was happening in the ’hood. We had gotten off to ourselves in the back room.
“It’s the dope, man, it has tore the ’hood up. Check this out, there are some homies who got a grip from slangin’, but they don’t come around ’cause they think the homies who ain’t got nothin’ gonna jack ’em. And the homies who ain’t got nothin’ feel like those who do got a grip have left them behind. So there is a lot of backbiting, snitchin’, and animosity around here now.”
“What happened with Crazy De?”
“Poor De, you know he was having big money, right?”
“Yeah, I heard that.”
“He tried to wait for you, bro. Said he was gonna make it right for you when you came home. Had a car and everything for you. But De wasn’t like the others. He cared about the homies and put a lot of the li’l homies down with crack and straps. He got caught up in some bullshit and was gaffled for two hot ones. I miss cuz, too.”
“Yeah, I heard about the murders. Two girls, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I don’t believe De did it. Cuz is a killa, but he ain’t stupid, you know?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“He’s in L.A. County. We should swing down there and check him out.”
“Yeah,” I said, now thinking about something else. “What’s up with the Sixties?”
“Same ol’ thing, back and forth. They hit us and we hit them. But the dope has slowed down the war too, in a way. While there ain’t that many riders on either side willing to put constant work in, everybody got fullies, so one ride usually is enough now to drop several bodies at once.”
“Have there been any negotiations with anybody over there?”
“Negotiations? Bro, you ain’t hearin’ me. Nothing has changed, man. The shooting war is in full gear. Negotiations are conducted over the barrels of fullies. Those left standing have won the debate.”
“Still like that, huh? You know who was my neighbor in San Quentin?”
“Who?”
“Lunatic Frank. He taught me Kiswahili. We got along good, too.”
“Yeah, but Lunatic Frank didn’t have no fullie in there, either.”
“No, but I doubt that if he had he would have shot me. He has changed.”
“Shot you? No, let me explain what fullies do. They don’t blow you up, they don’t shoot you, they spray you. Remember when you were shot back in eighty-one, you were hit six times? Bro, Chino just got sprayed with a fullie and he was hit seventeen times! Sprays are permanent. They ain’t no joke. We got shit that shoots seventy-five times. I heard that the Santanas got LAWS rockets. The latest things out here are fullies, body armor, and pagers. Offense, defense, and communication. This shit is as real as steel.”
“Damn, that’s heavy. And you, what you got?”
“I got a Glock model seventeen that shoots eighteen times. It’s a hand strap. Bro, this is the real world.”
The real world. How ever could I have expected anything else. Although prison had been where I’d acquired knowledge of self and kind, it also was a very simple place. Slow and methodic, almost predictable. This new, highly explosive atmosphere was a bit frightening. It’s almost as if I had contributed to a structure here, but then had somehow slept through years of its development, and now was awakening to find a more advanced, horrifying form of the reality I had known. It was shocking. Homeboys who were once without money like the rest of us now had expensive cars, homes, cellular phones, and what seemed to be an endless cash flow. All this talk of fullies and body armor made me feel old. I was like Rip Van Winkle—or, more aptly, Crip Van Winkle.
“So, where does the set stand now, I mean in respect to the larger gang world?” I asked Li’l Bro.
“Well, you see, it’s difficult to explain, ’cause nothin’ is stable—you can’t ever make a statement that can sum up what may happen tomorrow. Everything is fragile, more so than ever before, ’cause it’s all about profit. Muhammad says that capitalism has hit the gang world.”
“Do you have a job?”
“Naw,” he said, his head hanging down, “I slang dope.”
And so did everyone else who had no marketable skills or who was not already on drugs. So little money in the community came from employment that some elderly people had even gotten into the drug trade just to make ends meet. Before I’d do it, though, I might as well put my combat black back on and go out shooting people, the destruction, in the end, being equal.
I found a job as a file clerk and, from that position, rose to assistant loan advisor. Working was not as bad as I had thought it would be. Through my teachings and new consciousness I knew that in order to really feel the actual weight of the state I had to be a part of the working class. This was no easy decision to come to, as most of the brothas in the pen have this I-ain’t-workin’-for-whitey attitude. That goes over well in prison, but it didn’t seem to hold up out in society, where I was faced with the very real responsibility of taking care of home, bills, and two children, as in addition to Keonda we now had a son, Justin. Initially my job didn’t pay much, but I was managing my responsibilities for those who relied on me. It was by no means easy for Tamu and me. We only had one car, and it was old and had problems. And Tamu had moved to Rialto, which is sixty miles outside the city of Los Angeles, while I was a prisoner. So I had to stay in the city on weekdays while I worked and go home to Tamu and the children only on weekends. This gave me the opportunity to be in the community and talk to folks, while maintaining a refuge for weekends with my family.
Tamu and I had grown very close because she had chosen to come into the Movement with me, which firmly cemented our relationship. She appreciated my change and surmised that any organization that could retrieve me from the almost certain clutches of doom couldn’t be that bad. We weathered the week-long separations with nightly phone conversations and did things as a family on the weekends.
One particular weekend, while we were driving along in our little raggedy car, we were pulled over by the Rialto police, who proceeded to write Tamu a ticket. I was sitting in the passenger seat and Keonda was in the back. Suddenly, out of nowhere, another police officer came up and began knocking on my window. I ignored him, didn’t even look over. I was not driving and he had no need to talk to me. But his knocks became so hard that I feared he’d break the window, so I rolled it down.
“Yeah, what’s up?” I asked, still looking forward, not giving the officer the time of day.
“Let me see your I.D.,” he said.
“For what? I’m not driving. Why do you need to see my identification?”
“Look, we can do this the hard way or the easy way.”
Now Tamu was bending over and craning her neck, trying to see the officer who was talking to me.
“Hey, Miss,” said the officer who was writing her the ticket, “over here. You got a problem or something?”
“No,” she said, “I haven’t got a problem. I just want to see who is talking to my husband.”
“He’s an officer, and that’s all you need to know.”
I still hadn’t looked over at the one who was talking to me.
“I don’t see what my I.D. has to do with any of this,” I said, feeling my anger rise.
“If I have to ask you again there’s going to be a problem. Now let me see your I.D.!”
And for the first time I looked at him, though I’d already pictured him in my mind. He was a young American male, cocky, full of adrenaline and perhaps an unfocused hatred for me, even though we’d never met. I knew his next move would be to draw his weapon and, with shouts and threats, order me out of the car and onto the ground. Naturally, I didn’t want to subject Tamu and Keonda to such treatment, so I handed him my I.D. He took it and went back to his car to run a make on my name. In minutes he returned, clearly agitated.
“What’s your real name?”
“Sanyika Shakur,” I replied matter-of-factly, knowing that Sanyika Shakur had no record whatsoever. When I was first released I’d had my name changed to Sanyika Shakur, so I could now honestly answer that that was my name.
“No,” said the officer, “your real name before you changed it.”
“Sanyika Shakur,” I said, holding fast, knowing that the only way he could find out that I was once Kody Scott would be to fingerprint me, and he had no cause to take me to the station.
“What was your name before you changed it?” he asked again.
“Sanyika Shakur,” I answered once again.
And then from the back seat Keonda said, “No, Daddy,” thinking she was offering a helpful tip. “Your real name, that Mommy used to call you.”
I turned a few shades darker. I couldn’t believe it: Keonda had given me up. Although I wasn’t a fugitive, it was the principle of the thing. Simply because Sanyika Shakur was not in the police computer the officer had become suspicious—after all, every young New Afrikan male had to be in the computer! When I looked up at the officer he had a expression on his face that said, Now was that so hard? I was boiling mad.
“Kody Scott,” I said grudgingly, knowing what they’d find under that name. It didn’t take long.
“Well, Kody Scott, you are on state prison parole and you are fifty miles from your parole office, which means that I can run you in for violating your parole. But since you have your family with you I won’t, this time. But if I stop you again in this town you’re going to jail. Do I make myself clear?”
I didn’t answer.
“Here you go, Kody Scott.” And he threw my I.D. in my lap and slapped the roof of the old car. I was furious.
When we got home I had a father-daughter talk with Keonda. She certainly didn’t know any better, but would have to learn. After all, this was the real world.
Kershaun and I were given AK-47s for Christmas by a homeboy who had somehow secured a truckload of them. He had gone around the entire neighborhood passing them out—brand-new, still in the boxes—to O.G.s. When he asked Li’l Bro if there was anyone he thought he shouldn’t give one to, Bro replied, “Yeah, Darryl Gates.”
Shaun and I began to frequent the firing range weekly, practicing the use of our AKs. Eventually we were able to organize a small shooting club. Meanwhile, I began looking for a job closer to my family, one that afforded me the opportunity to spend more time with the children. It didn’t take too long to find employment out in Rialto. And although my parole officer had forbidden me to live there and the police had threatened to jail me if they stopped me again, I had a responsibility to my family. I’d just have to risk it.
I was driven to take risks with my freedom by the frightening thought of being the type of father mine had been to me. Absentee fatherhood was despicable, and I vowed to get to my family when and wherever I could. Being a prisoner for great lengths of time helped in one very real sense: it had prevented me from having multiple children by different women. All of my children are by Tamu. I can’t imagine having children and not being able to raise them, to live with them.
The job I found was directly behind our house. I worked for a security firm owned by a New Afrikan man. My job was to simply watch the construction equipment and building materials so that they weren’t stolen. My hours were from 11 P.M. till 7 A.M., which gave me most of the day to do things around the house.
My motivation was grounded in being an upright father to my children, a proper husband to Tamu—though we weren’t yet married in the traditional sense—and a revolutionary symbol for my people. I went from college campus to college campus passing out pamphlets I had written on Tamu’s typewriter. I still held small backyard lectures for the young Eight Trays at my mom’s house. But the hardest thing I had to do was go to the Los Angeles County Jail and see Crazy De, I tried everything to avoid going. I made excuses and appointments and outright lied to myself several times in useless attempts to avoid what I knew would be perhaps the most painful thing I’d had to face in some time. Crazy De and I had talked on the phone a few times, and I could almost hear the certainty of the future for him in his words. He’d urge me to come see him and I’d tell him I was busy that particular day or say something else to change the subject. But I believe he knew all along what I was going through. My phone number had gotten out, and soon every one of the homies with murder cases were calling me. I began to function like sort of a counselor to some of them. Others wanted me to neutralize their witnesses. But De, all he wanted was for me to come and see him. I resisted right up until he sent his mother to get me and bring me down to the county jail. When Alma, De’s mother, came over, I couldn’t refuse. I had to go and face my road dog in jail, where perhaps he’d be trapped for the rest of his life.
Alma and I made most of the trip in silence. I had to gear up psychologically to deal with the police-state atmosphere of the L.A. County Jail visiting room, where some of the officers would take liberties with hassling those visitors they felt were coming to see gang members. Sympathizers, girlfriends, supporters, and especially affiliates were discouraged from being regular visitors. One’s dress code often brought down the wrath of the deputies. I no longer dressed like a gang member, but I didn’t dress “normal” either. I usually wore a red, black, and green fez, a black t-shirt, and black fatigues bloused over my combat boots. This was my standard attire in 1988 and 1989, long before hip-hop made it fashionable.
Alma and I waited in line for our chance to sign up to see De. I scanned the waiting room, focusing on the women, mostly young New Afrikans and Chicanos, with their children running happily about the filthy room. I began to recall memories of times past I had experienced with Crazy De, my loyal companion. It was De who taught me how to persevere under police interrogation. It was he who’d advised me to stick with Tamu over China because, as he’d explained it, Tamu would teach me things that we could only dream about from where we were then. It was De who’d accompanied me when I visited my godparents’ home in Windsor Hills. I’d left him in the van, high on PCP, only to come out with my godmother and find that the van had rolled backward down the hill and onto someone’s front lawn. When we got down the hill and opened the van door, De stepped out like an embalmed zombie, in full Crip gear, never having realized that the van had moved. He’d smiled and said, “Nice to meet you, godmama,” and Delia had damn near fainted. My “dog.” I remembered seeing his electric smile through muzzle flashes on many missions. I recalled hearing his hardy laughter echoing off the shack walls in reaction to a good joke. I’ve seen him in tears of joy, pain, and rage. He taught me how to cry with dignity, with strength, and with pride. That I had learned to express emotions was attributable to De. If I was the epitome of the militarist in the ’hood, then De symbolized the most multifaceted gang member. De was one you wished to have around you at all times, under any circumstances. He was a leader of leaders, with the potential to be a king of kings. But I couldn’t get to him in time enough to show him a new path of expression, a meaningful way of achieving realistic goals. A path that emphasized knowledge of self and of kind, while not requiring the dehumanization of anyone else. De would have liked that.
“Visitors for Denard,” said a metallic voice over the P.A. system, and Alma and I moved through the crowded visiting room toward the area sectioned off for visitors. De was already there waiting. When he saw us he lit up like a thousand-watt bulb. He talked with Alma first, but kept looking up at me and smiling, his whole face beaming. Knowing that each visit is limited to twenty minutes, Alma spoke quickly and handed me the telephone.
“Hey, you, what’s up, De?”
“You,” he replied, and then added, “I’m glad you came, Sanyika.”
“Yeah, well, you know, I didn’t want to have to see you like this.”
“I know, but you know what, this may be the only way you will ever see me again. Sanyika, I’m stuck. They caught us dead-bang with a kidnapped hostage. That alone carries a life sentence. On top of that I got two murders. They gonna gas me, homie.”
He was staring hard into my face, waiting for a response, a sign that would signal that I could actually feel the weight of what he was expressing. Sitting there with his mother, I didn’t know how to respond. What, I wondered, could I say to make him see and feel that I knew what he was going through? And did I really know?
“Damn, De, how you get stuck like that, man? I mean, what…” But I couldn’t even talk, I was so choked up.
“Dope,” he said simply. “One word. You hear me, Sanyika? I’ve fucked my life up for a kilo of cocaine. Don’t get involved in that shit, homie, I’m telling you.”
“Naw, naw, I’m not. But, De, I want you to know, man, that I’m here for you. I love you.”
“Check this out. You have chosen another path now, some other way to make your mark. And although I’m not what you are and haven’t been through some of the things which contributed to your decision to be a revolutionary, I respect what you’re doing, and no love is lost from me to you. But you gotta understand that I’m still in this to the fullest. This is all I know. It’s Gangsta for life, homie.” And then, to get his point fully across he said solemnly, “Gangsterism continues.”
This was not a challenge or a smite, just the facts as they were at that moment. De felt perfectly comfortable inside of the chaotic confines of the set and the larger subculture of banging.
To break with the set, I’d had to draw on my well of strength and sum up the courage to step out of myself, my set, my learned ways and take an objective look at what was going on in the world around me. This had been neither easy nor comfortable. The process was slow, often obscured, and always painful. I’d had to look back beyond the good times and happy days to the tears and grief-stricken faces of mothers who had lost their children. I’ve found that unless you have children you’ll never know what it’s like to lose a child. I’d had to open my eyes and ears to hear the sounds of clips being pushed in and weapons being cocked, screeching car tires, running feet, the hunted and the hunters, the sudden blasts of gunfire; to see the twisted, lifeless bodies, the wounded still trying to run or crawl, the yellow homicide tape being strung, the tears over a family’s lack of funds for a proper burial, the drugs, the alcohol, the angry faces—this process, the way of life for so many, repeated itself over and over. Two sides, each violently throwing itself against the other. These are the scenes that contributed to my awareness: a firsthand knowledge of life and death on the front lines of all-out war.
Although I didn’t agree with De’s continued participation in the cycle of violence, I did overstand how he could still feel content. I had been fortunate in my capacity to get a perspective and make a break. And now, sitting here with De, I felt fortunate once again.
“De, what I have chosen to do with my life is, I think, the answer to the question of why we bang in the first place. You see, it comes down to—”
But the phone abruptly clicked off, signaling the end of the visit. De heard it, too. We sat there for a moment, just staring at each other, separated from a handshake, a hug, and now conversation by a thick Plexiglas window. When the deputies came to retrieve De and we both stood to go our separate ways, we simultaneously saluted each other—my salute was a clenched fist and his was the Eight Tray sign. The final chain had been broken.
Gangsterism continues. But more importantly, the struggle to eradicate the causes of gangsterism continues. And it is this struggle to which I am dedicated.