Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 16

"I do," said Sharon. China just looked away. I saw a glimmer of pain in her eyes. It still affected her.

When they finally left it was three in the morning. It felt good to see them. I called Tamu and we talked until the sun came up.

That afternoon Tamu brought Keonda to see me. She was three years old and I was scared to death of her! She looked just like me. We played and rolled around on the carpet together and bonded. Still, the responsibility of being a father hadn't sunk in. How could it have? Mom was still taking care of me. Tamu was still living at home, too. We both were young, but I knew I had to do something to generate revenue to provide for Keonda.

One day while I was still on the Rock in Y.T.S., I wrote to Mom in one of my militant moods, stressing as best I could the dominance of the white power structure over us as a people, something I had learned from reading Soul on Ice by Eldridge Cleaver. She had shown the letter to a Muslim friend of hers who, she said, wanted to meet me. She told me that when I got out he would give me a job. After seeing and being with Keonda I figured what the h.e.l.l, let me see what this cat is talking about. Tamu had taught me to drive a stick shift so I would have access to her car whenever I wanted, which gave me the freedom to go see him.

The following Monday I drove over to his office. I felt awkward, because applying for a job just wasn't the gangsterish thing to do. You either jacked for money or you sold dope. Working was considered weak.

The business was a computer school called Trans-Western Inst.i.tute. The position I applied for was recruiter, which meant I would be sent to designated areas to recruit students for the school. Students were eligible for government grants, student loans, and other financial help. For every student I recruited I would be given a fifty-dollar commission.

The first place they sent me was the unemployment office downtown, which was cool because I wasn't in danger of being recognized. I didn't want anyone I knew to see me with a job and I surely didn't want to be caught by some enemies while recruiting.

My first day I didn't try to recruit anyone, I simply walked around, amazed at the unemployment lines snaking around inside the tiny building. Hordes of people, mostly Chicano and New Afrikan, stood around, shifting from foot to foot, waiting, hoping, trying to find something to do. Utter despair was marked like tattoos on most of their faces. I guess this was the look that people said Reaganomics caused, but I doubted the truth of that, because as long as I could remember I had seen Mom wear that same fixed expression of hopelessness. The striking thing here was that there were so many of these expressions together in one room. Certainly the pain in those faces was not the result of just four years of Reagan, nor could the sudden shift to conservative economics be the result of one bad man in office. I sat back on a dirty bench and watched until it was time for lunch, at which point I went home.

The next day they sent me to Garfield High School in East L.A. I never went. The following day I didn't show up at all, and I never returned again.

Instead I went to Whiteboy Eric. He gave me some drugs to sell. The first thing I bought with the proceeds was a '68 Chevy and some sounds. Then Tamu and I got an apartment on Eighty-fourth Place and Western Avenue. After being out of Y.T.S. for only three months things were smooth.

Since I had no comrades from my unit out in the field, I bonded with those whom I had the most in common: Gangster Brown and Tracc. Both Brown and Tracc were still heavily into PCP, so as a social link I too fell heavily into it. For almost two months straight we'd smoke whole Sherman cigarettes dipped in PCP every day, sometimes two and three times a day. I had gotten a blue flag from downtown that was as big as a bed sheet. Oftentimes while I was high on PCP I'd arrange the huge blue flag on my head in Arab fashion, secured by a black stretch belt. I'd put on my Locs, roll down all the windows in my car, and fly around the city looking stone-crazy! Everyone thought I was a nut.

That summer we all got skinheads. We'd pile into my car four deep, bald-headed with dark shades on, and ride around L.A. We'd never smile. We actually had a good time, though we were heavily armed. After all, you can only play so much in L.A.

Finally Stagalee got out of prison and I was grateful, as the Sherm was starting to take a toll on me. Stag and I subsequently became road dogs. He was at least four years younger than me, and I found myself in almost the same role with him as Tray Ball had been with me. Although Stag had been with the set before he and I met in Y.T.S., his clique was a noncombative unit of wannabees. By hanging with me, he got turned onto some righteous soldiers. He was a tragedy waiting to happen. Like Tray Stone, he was a sleeper who just needed someone to coach that ruthlessness out of him. Once I'd tapped into it, he roared to life like an age-old volcano. I knew we'd be good friends.

One afternoon, much to my surprise, Muhammad came by my mom's house and he and I rapped awhile about the circ.u.mstances surrounding his suspension from Y.T.S. He also showed me a letter he'd received from Warith D. Muhammad that forbade him further entry into prisons in the capacity of an imam. The letter said, "You are teaching hatred and breeding terrorists."

Muhammad asked if I would attend Salat with him the following day. I agreed. He left me with two books-Black Panther Leaders Speak and The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I went in the pad to look over the material.

"Who was that?" Mom asked as I entered the house.

"Oh, that's Muhammad. He used to teach us at Y.T.S. Remember I told you about him?"

"Uhm, I'm not sure. You got so many friends. What's that he gave you?" she asked, reaching for the books.

"Books on us, black people. Mom, you should hear him talk. He can get off!"

"Yeah, well he needs to take that turban off before someone mistakes him for the Shah of Iran."

"Naw, Mom, the Shah of Iran was a U.S. puppet. You mean the Ayatollah."

"Well, whoever, s.h.i.t," Mom said and handed me back the books.

I had surprised myself by remembering what Muhammad had told us so long ago about the Shah being a U.S. puppet, but as soon as it was fitting to speak on it, it just came out. Muhammad was always able to bring out the sharpness in me.

The following day we went to the Islamic Center on Fourth Street and Vermont Avenue and I totally tripped out. I saw Muslims from all over the world. Sisters my age-nineteen-wore traditional Afrikan dress from the continent. There were Iranians, Saudis, and Libyans, too. I saw flowing thobes of various colors, turbans, jewelry, and manners unlike any I'd ever seen or known. I was standing there in 50Is, Puma tennis shoes, a Polo shirt, and a Raiders cap and felt like a d.a.m.n fool! I got a few looks that today I would define as Third World people seeing me as a benefactor in their oppression, but at that time I thought they were just curious about my dress code.

Muhammad went in and did Salat and I milled around by the shoes. The women and girls went to another part of the center to pray.

"You know," Muhammad began as we walked out into the noonday sun, toward the car, "Al-Islam is not compulsive. Allah will raise up those he sees fit. Insha Allah, you have a mission."

"I always thought that only actors in Hollywood wore those geni shoes that curled up in the front."

"Brotha, the European has twisted and turned everything to fit his warped way of thinking. He has made himself the center of the world, indeed of the universe. Have you ever heard the words Oriental and Occidental?"

"I heard of Oriental. Don't that mean j.a.p?"

"No, now listen," he said, with a precautionary finger up. "Orient means East and Occident means West. Now here's the twist. Europe, as put forth by the European, is the center of the world. Therefore, anything to its east is Oriental, while anything to its west is Occidental. This is what is meant by Eurocentric."

"Yeah, but if Europe is not the center of the world, then what is?"

"Check this out. When a baby is born what is the most essential thing needed for its survival?"

"Uhm, food?"

"Food! Right. And where does that food come from?"

"The mother, or the doctor."

"All right, therefore what's central to the baby?"

"The mother?"

"Right. The cradle of civilization is Afrika. Afrika is the motherland. Therefore, Afrika is central to all of humanity."

"But-"

"Wait, wait, let me explain this. Now those whom we know today as Europeans are actually mutants who left the safe confines of the Motherland and evolved in Europe. Their food for survival was doctored by an unnatural mother. The side effects of their development outside of the natural womb has been albinism, aggression, and universal weakness predicated on their minority status in the world."

"Well, if that's the case, why don't we just tell everybody what's really going on?"

"I wish it were that simple. Hey, ever heard the words mankind and human?"

"Yeah, I've heard 'em."

"Do you know what hue is?" he asked, looking at me now over the top of the car.

"Hue? No, don't know what it means."

"Color, it means color!"

"And?"

"And? Bro, can't you see it? Look . . . human . . . hue-man."

"Oh," I said with a big grin of recognition, "color-man, man of color, right?"

"Right! Now, that means humans are people of color, all people of color. Brown, red, yellow, et cetera, dig?"

"Yeah."

"And melanin is the ingredient that produces skin color. Europeans, mutants-"

"What's a mutant?"

"Something produced from . . . or an out-growth of . . . Anyway, these mutants don't have any melanin, therefore they are colorless."

"White," I said.

"Right, white is colorless. And to be without color is to be abnormal because the majority of the world's people are hue-man."

"Colored!"

"Right! So it's normal to be of color. Which means they are, as mutants, a kind of man, therefore mankind, you dig?"

"d.a.m.n, that's heavy!" I felt stuck on stupid.

"Brotha, we as Afrikan people are weak because mankind has cut off our nutrition from the Motherland. He has twisted the world so that Europe, the Mad Doctor, looks like the center. And we look abnormal. Oh, it's deep."

"That's a trip."

"You'll learn, Brotha. Insha Allah, you'll learn."

We drove back through South Central with Muhammad speaking on other issues; he always inspired me to search for the truth. When we got to Mom's house he asked if I had started on either one of the books he had given me the day before. I told him that I hadn't, but that I intended to. He said I should start with Fred Hampton in the Black Panther book. I said "Cool" and closed the car door. Muhammad asked through the open window if I wanted to go with him to a seminar the following week and I said yes, that I'd be glad to. "Righteous," he said, and drove away.

I just stood there looking at the back of Muhammad's car thinking about what he had said. Actually, I was trying to get it right so I could tell Mom. I never heard the car roll up.

"Yo', what up, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka?"

d.a.m.n, I knew that voice but was reluctant to turn and see who it was. Just shoot me in the back, I said to myself, but I turned around and I'll be d.a.m.ned if it wasn't Huckabuck.

"Cuz, what's up?" I said. "Get yo' black a.s.s out the hoop. Park that piece of s.h.i.t. Uhh-uhh, not here in front of Mom's pad 'cause I know that m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka's stolen."

"n.i.g.g.a, this my s.h.i.t, it ain't stolen!"

"Well how I'm s'posed to know that?"

I hadn't seen Huck in years, and it was like seeing a long-lost brother. He was missing all of his top teeth, a result of a high-speed chase with the police in which his car flipped completely over. He said that Fly and Lep had been in the car, as well. Lep broke his arm, and Fly escaped with minor abrasions. I asked where Fly and Lep were now, hoping to get a reunion going, which seemed like a great idea in the light of what had happened in the past nine years, since my recruitment. Huck said that Fly had dropped out of sight, though his baby brother had joined up with the 'hood. Lep had fallen victim to the new enemy-crack-and was doing everything and anything to get a blast.

Huck and I kicked it about Tray Ball's death and G.C.'s life term. Things were developing every which way. Who was to say that because we were still here we were any better off than Tray Ball or G.C.? We talked about the successful double murder of two Sixties that Slowpoke, Fish Bone, and Football-Damian "Football" Williams' older brother-put down recently, which stunned me. The obvious karma of it was startling.

Two Sixties-Kenbone and Kid-had come into our 'hood prowling for a victim and run across Li'l Frogg at the gangster store on Florence and Normandie. They'd stood outside and demanded that Li'l Frogg "bring his tramp a.s.s out." Of course Li'l Frogg refused, knowing that any enemy on Florence and Normandie had to be well armed. Unfortunately for Li'l Frogg, some of our homegirls were in the store, which made it a "man thang," so he had to go face the music. And he knew the tune would not be nice. To his surprise he got hold of Kid and beat him before Kenbone could shoot him five times. Once Li'l Frogg lay wounded, the two fled.

The next day at approximately the same time a Search and Destroy team spied both Kenbone and Kid exiting the Taco Bell on Sixtieth and Crenshaw, rolled up on the unwitting pair, and shot each sixteen times with .22 rifles. Now that was something.

"So what else is up wit' you?" Huck asked.

"Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that."

"You seemed to have slowed down some," Huck said with a look of "I told you so" on his dark face.

"Yeah, a bit. s.h.i.t, really ain't n.o.body out here to kick it with. I was kickin' it with Brown and Tracc, but cuz, them be havin' me smokin' that Sherm and that s.h.i.t make me crazy."

"They still doin' that s.h.i.t?"

"Every day. I be kickin' it with Stagalee now, though."

"Who?"

"Stagalee."

"Oh, cuz that stay over on Sixty-sixth?"

"Yep, he straight down, too. Last week we went up to Fat Burger on Crenshaw to try and catch some Sissies and cuz almost blasted some Main Streets. Droopy and them was out there, too. If I hadn't known cuz, they would have got blasted!"

"Where Li'l Monster? Still locked down?"

"Yeah, he in Y.T.S."

"What they give cuz for that murder?"

"Thirty-six to life, but you know he's a juvenile, so he can only do seven. He been down fo' already. What's up wit' Li'l Huck?"

"Cuz live in Swan 'hood. He be f.u.c.kin' up. Just the other day he blasted some Swayhooks"-a disrespectful term for Swans-"who lived next do' to us."

Huck and I rapped on in this manner until he had to go. Before his departure we swore not to let another six years see us apart. No sooner had Huck left than Joker rode up on a beach cruiser. I could tell by his facial expression that something wasn't right.

"What's up?"

"Monster, cuz," he began, literally fighting back tears, "them Hoovers be trippin', man. We gotta get wit' them n.i.g.g.as, cuz."

"What happened, homie?"

"Cuz, last night me and Li'l De fell to one of they parties on One-oh-fourth, Big X-ray's pad, right? And cuz, I was all drunk and s.h.i.t, but you know, I ain't trippin' on no Hoovers. But Macc from Eleven Deuce start woofin' some way-out s.h.i.t and-"

"You and Li'l De was the only two gangsters there?"

"Naw . . . well at first, 'cause Li'l Harv's b.i.t.c.h-a.s.s came later. But anyway, cuz go to woofin' that s.h.i.t, right? And you know how Hoovers get when they deep . . ."

Joker paused and turned his head. I could see he was really hurt.

"So anyhow, me and cuz get to sc.r.a.pin'-"

"Who?"

"Macc from Eleven Deuce. And Monster, you know cuz a G, he 'bout yo' age. Well, like I said, I was drunk, you know, and cuz, like he got the best of me."

When he said that I could have sworn I saw him shrink a few inches.