Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 26

"Today we had a problem with our security," I began, looking disgustedly at Shark, "that we shouldn't have had. Don't y'all know what's going on in Folsom and San Quentin? War, that's what. And it's just a matter of time before the Surrats try to strike at us here. We gotta be ready! They ain't gonna walk up to our face and stab us. They gonna bring they sneaky a.s.ses up from behind and stab us in the back! So we have to watch out for each another. Secure one another, dig? And another thing, I want to apologize to the community for disciplining Shark in public when I should have taken it to a discreet area. It won't happen again."

A few others spoke and the meeting was adjourned.

The next day I was given orders by Kidogo to plant one in a renegade from Folsom. The following week G-wing erupted in an all-out knife fight. The Southern Mexicans attacked the Northern Mexicans and the pigs started blasting away. The Americans were herded into the dayroom. Since the Southern Mexicans and the Americans were allies and the New Afrikans and Northerners were allies, the New Afrikans attacked the Americans, stabbing seven of them. One prisoner was shot and killed.

It was during this time that the New Afrikan community at Soledad began to get flack from one particular pig. That one particularly racist guard was attacked. I was implicated in the accident and three days later, Buck, Zaire, and I were locked in solitary confinement for the incident and given forty-eight months in Security Housing Unit (S.H.U.). Buck and I were sent to San Quentin and Zaire was sent to Folsom. We appealed the decision to put us in the Hole based on confidential information, but the appeal was denied. They did, however, reduce our sentence to twenty-eight months.

I cannot begin to describe how I felt as the prison bus rolled through the ma.s.sive gates at San Quentin. An incredible sense of destiny seemed to overtake me. And with each successive foot the bus moved forward, additional layers of the "old me" seemed to peel away. When the bus swung around the lower yard and I saw the Native Nation-American Indian-tepees and sweat lodges enclosed by a chainlink fence, I sat upright in my seat.

"This is the house that George Jackson built," Buck said. He had been here several times. "You'll feel the comrade strong here. Bro, you'll read books here, see things here that are gonna change the way you walk, talk, and think. This is the best place for an aspiring young revolutionary. This is repression at its best."

We filed off the bus under the watchful eye of gunmen with mini-14s. The shotgun had been phased out because it failed to disable attacking prisoners. The mini-14 is an a.s.sault weapon. It shoots a .223 round, as does the M-16 and the AR-I5. We moved from the bus to R & R, guards on the huge industrial wall's catwalk watching us from above.

San Quentin is one hundred years older than Chino, and it shows. As soon as we got inside of R & R, the pigs took Buck to the Adjustment Center, which is like the triple-max unit. I would be spared this time and only put in double-max. I was being sent to East block, and two others-a Chicano and a Native brother-were being taken to North block. They were escorted out first. Ten minutes later I was taken out of R & R in leg and wrist chains, marched up across the upper yard and into East block.

When I stepped in I was astounded. I was dwarfed by the unit. It looked like a huge slave ship. There were five tiers, and they were so long that if you were at one end it would be impossible for you to recognize someone at the other end. I was put in a holding cage and stripped. The chains were removed, and I was handcuffed. The awesome size of the block continued to blow me away. I was apprehensive, as well. d.a.m.n, this was the major league, the big house, the real penitentiary. It was the ultimate test of faith, courage, and strength.

I was taken up two flights of stairs to the second tier and walked down. I got mad-dog stares from every occupant in the tiny cells along the way. New Afrikans, Chicanos, and Americans, all in single-man cells. I was put in 2-East-26. My neighbor in 25 was an American, and to my right in number 27 was a Chicano.

Once I got in my cell the handcuffs were removed. There was a bed-with bedsprings that could be used to make ice-pick knives-a sink, and a toilet. There were two circular vents, one above the sink and another below it.

The American and the Chicano were talking to each other, seemingly about nothing in particular. But just by hearing them talk I knew that the Chicano was a Southern Mexican and the American was a n.a.z.i (the Unholy Alliance). I began to feel around under the bed for loose metal, something I could pull or yank out that I could fashion into a weapon for spearing. Might as well start my time here off right. One of these cats is going to get speared.

I found a piece of metal loose enough to get my hand under, so I slid halfway beneath the bed, braced my foot against the wall, and began to pull violently. Heave-ho, heave-ho. Back and forth I pulled until it moved with ease under pressure. Just a few. . . more . . . plink! And I had it-a piece of bed railing eleven inches long. Now I had to sharpen it, get some newspaper, and roll me up a spear. I'd attach the blade and then just wait for either the Surrat or the Mzungu (European) to come out.

"Hey, twenty-six?"

The American and Chicano went silent.

"Hey, twenty-six?"

Twenty-six . . . that was me. Someone was calling my cell number.

"Hey, twenty-six?!"

"Yeah."

"Get that line in front of your cell."

I looked out on the tier and a clear medicine bag with a white, thin line attached to it was in front of my cell, so I retrieved it.

"Pull it," said the sender.

Attached to the line was a kite. I opened it and read.

Salamu Ndugu,

Where did you come from? I am Li'l Bit from Bounty Hunter. Next to you is an A.B. and on the other side is an E.M.E. Stay up, stay alert.

Blood Love,

Li'l Bit

"Hey, Li'l Bit."

"Yeah?"

"I need a pen to get back."

"All right, pull the line."

I retrieved the pen and wrote back telling him that I was Sanyika from C.C.O. and that I came from Soledad. I told him of his people from Bounty Hunter who were down there and I added that I planned to bust on my neighbors at the first opportunity. He wrote back telling me to hold on that, he had to get to his tier captain. He withdrew his line from my cell and flung it down the tier toward the front with an ease that came from experience. When he pulled his line back, there was another line attached to it. He told me to grab it. I was now plugged into the tier captain. He told me to pull, and I reeled in his line. There was another kite attached to the end. It read: Hujambo Sanyika,

I am Italo from the Black Guerrilla Family. Perhaps you know some of my tribesmen? All your people are in the back. We, B.G.F. and B.L., have a peace treaty with the A.B. and E.M.E. on this tier. I suggest that you get at your folks about a cell move.

In struggle,

Italo

Peace treaty? What was that? I wrote him and said that I overstood about their agreement with the Brands and the Flies, but C.C.O. ain't got no treaty with them. But out of respect for the brothas on the tier, I wouldn't jeopardize them. He then sent me Wretched of the Earth by Frantz Fanon, which was no good to me because I couldn't read that well. And at that time, Franz seemed very, very heavy to me. I tried, nevertheless, and continued to fashion my weapon.

Three days later I was moved to the back bar, where my comrades were. I was put in cell 2-East-54. All around me were comrades and allies. My neighbor in 53 was Lunatic Frank from Rollin' Sixties. Lunatic and I were in the Boy Scouts together in '73. He and I were friends. We had saved each other's lives during our partic.i.p.ation in the war.

He and his homies, Pie Face and Ronnie Pace, had caught China and me on Denker and Seventy-fourth Street one night when I was not strapped. We had been at my house making love and she wanted to go home. I was walking her there, pushing Li'l Monster's bike as we went, when they rolled up on us in Pie's Monte Carlo.

"d.a.m.n, Sixties," I whispered to China. "Just be cool." They jumped out of the car.

"Well I'll be d.a.m.ned," said Pie Face. "If it ain't the Bonnie and Clyde of Eight Tray-Monster Kody and China."

"What's up, Pie?" I said. I knew all of them.

"Monster, you packin'?" asked Lunatic.

"You know I am," I shot back, lying.

"Cuz, that n.i.g.g.a ain't got no gun. Let's smoke these tramps and get outta here," Ronnie Pace said vehemently.

"No, wait, hold it. I got a better idea," added Pie. "Let's take China from Monster."

"Let her go, man, she ain't got nuttin' to do wit' what we got goin' on," I said.

"f.u.c.k that-" began China, but was cut off by Lunatic.

"Man, this b.i.t.c.h been puttin' mo' work in than a li'l bit. If we take her we can't leave Monsta."

"So what's up?" asked Pie.

"Let's do 'em, man," said Ronnie Pace, looking around nervously.

"Naw, I'll tell you what. You and Monsta go head up, Ronnie."

"What?" said Ronnie, as if not hearing right. "Head up? This n.i.g.g.a didn't go head up wit' our homies he caught slippin'. Ain't no head up in war," he shouted and drew his weapon. "And he ain't got no gun, 'cause he would have already shot us."

Ronnie was scared to fight me, and I zeroed in on that and used it.

"Yeah, I'll go head up wit' cuz," I said.

"I'm a killa, not a fighter," he shot back. "Now either we kill these two-"

"Let's go," said Lunatic, interrupting Ronnie. "You owe me one, Monsta . . . you too, China," he said over his shoulder. And they got in the car and drove off.

China and I did an about-face, went back to my mom's house, and constructed a plan of attack.

Not three weeks later, Tray Stone came around the corner on Eightieth and Halldale with Lunatic on the barrel of his gun-a prisoner of war. Tray Stone was the happiest I had ever seen him. He wanted everyone to see his prisoner.

"Let him go, Stone," I said grudgingly.

"What?!" said Stone, not believing he'd heard correctly.

"I owe cuz one. Turn him loose."

"d.a.m.n, cuz, but this Lunatic Frank."

"I know who he is. Let him go."

"Can I just shoot him in the leg, or knock his teeth out?"

"Naw, he let me and China pa.s.s one night, so I owe him."

"s.h.i.t!" exclaimed Stone. And that was that.

Now, six years later, he was my neighbor. He went by the name Akili Simba and was C.C.O. On the other side of me was a Northern Chicano named Curly.

That first night Akili and I talked all night long on the "telephone," which was made out of a television cable. He had pulled all the wiring out of the black rubber skin, and we used it for private conversations between cells.

The next day I had to turn my paperwork over to the intelligence officer of C.C.O. so he could make sure I wasn't a rat. To those I didn't know I introduced myself as Sanyika, and I instructed those who knew me as Monster to call me by my Kiswahili name. The transformation had begun, and I made a conscious effort to make attachments, connections.

Akili and Kubwa Simba-Leebo from Front Hood, and my closest comrade-helped me sharpen my Kiswahili to a fine point. Within nine months I had a small cla.s.s of my own. My education at San Quentin was made easy because there were New Afrikans who cared. Asinia taught me the necessity of mathematics, Taliba taught me to recognize our culture as being distinct from Americans, and Zaire (not the same man as my co-defendant) taught me to be scientific. These brothas were Crips-C.C.O., scholars, and theoreticians.

No English was spoken over the tier after six P.M. No foul language was permitted or used in reference to New Afrikan women or men. We had a mandatory study period from seven A.M. to twelve noon. The study period was also a quiet period where no talking was allowed. Seven A.M. also heralded the "alert" period, when every soldier was to be up and out of his kitanda (bed) and dressed. At nine P.M. the alert period ended.

Around this time, Tamu had somehow tracked down d.i.c.k Ba.s.s, and he'd given her his address to pa.s.s on to me. I tried to write to him, but found the pain too great. I began the first page with the normal greeting, but then, naturally, the questions started to surface: Where have you been? and Why did you abandon me? Eventually it came to I needed you, man, and you weren't there for me and It's people like you who contribute to the destruction of people like me. As the questions flowed, so did the pain, heart-wrenching pain that made me feel emotionally unstable. I didn't know how to write things down at the time, to communicate my feelings.

I wasn't able to finish the letter, just mailed it half-finished, like his fatherhood had been to me. He never wrote back, which didn't surprise me at all. Through this I learned that I had to be a real father to my own children, no matter what. The pain I was experiencing because of my parents' promiscuity and father's lack of responsibility was not something I wanted my children to feel.

Blue June was slated as a month to remember the fallen soldiers and citizens of the C-Nation. We went to the small S.H.U. yard three times a week-mandatory for all soldiers-and ran while doing the Universal Crip cadence. Then we'd exercise and fall into our cla.s.ses. Only after this could we play basketball or lift weights. After ten months I began to lead the exercises. I quickly made the transition from soldier to sergeant of arms to intelligence officer.

I believed in what we were doing. I was introduced to Fidel Castro, Mao Tse-tung, Amilcar Cabral, Ho Chi Minh, Kim II Sung, and George Jackson. My reading picked up, and so did my writing skills. We were given a test on the contents of each book we read and were expected to write a book report about it. The reviewers were stern, and there was no favoritism. I failed so many times that it's not even funny. I kept at it, though, and in time became one of the sharpest in the cadre.

Muhammad kept writing and sending me literature, which helped a lot. He sent one pamphlet called Were Marx and Engels White Racists?, which I thought was outstanding. Here were Marx and Engels, blowing about internationalism while neglecting to include the majority of the world's people, who were of color.

We all considered ourselves communists in the C.C.O. Once, when I asked the unit if communism wasn't actually a Eurocentric philosophy, they jumped all over me as if I had committed blasphemy. As I learned, communism as practiced in the Soviet Union was Eurocentric, and Soviet internationalist duty was looking more and more like imperialist conquests.

But I still wanted to know what movement we were attached to, and I complained to the cadre commanders about it. What was our goal as an organization, and who were we trying to liberate? This is where their knowledge fell short. No one was thinking that far ahead. No one realized that the future was three minutes ahead of us, not light years away. As Tamu says, with everything I do I try to do my best, and rightfully so. I am an extremist, so I took our revolutionary premise seriously.

As I grew and my consciousness expanded I began to see cracks and faults in our structure. We were making the same mistakes that the Black Panthers had made. We were importing revolutionary ideals, trying to apply them to our setting. In this light, those who could quote Marx, Mao, or Comrade George the most were the sharpest. It began to irritate the h.e.l.l out of me. Nothing was corresponding with concrete conditions, and we had no ma.s.s appeal. On top of this, our troops sent back out into Babylon were falling prey to parochialism and tribalism.

One such case that caused a problem was that of Mumbles from the Sixties. He was supposed to try to get his homies to stop clockin' our 'hood, in an attempt to slow down the war. But Mumbles fell back into bangin' and was clocked on Florence and Normandie. The homies stepped to him and he dissed the 'hood. He was executed.

In response, my young homie Joker's door was kicked in, and his innocent sixty-five-year-old mother and fourteen-year-old brother were deliberately murdered. Because Mumbles was C.C.O., they put a blue light on Joker, who had supposedly executed Mumbles. I argued that C.C.O. couldn't blue-light any uncultured Crip for killing a comrade who was in the wrong. Joker was involved in the war and had no idea of what C.C.O. was at that time. He was not responsible to us, but Mumbles was. Mumbles was out of bounds, clocked and tagged in a free-fire zone. If anyone should have been blue-lighted it was the cowards who murdered Joker's people.

It was things like this that caused me to question the leadership of the organization. Also, we had to contend with the new Crip organization-the Blue Notes. They saw themselves as traditionalists and saviors of the Crip culture. The organization was started on death row by Treacherous and Evil from Raymond Avenue Crips, and was supposedly headed by Tookie. B.N.C.O. (Blue Note Crip Organization) gave uncultured Crips an alternative to the rigid, more disciplined organization of CCO., which they accused of being too much like the B.G.F.'s. They further accused the C.C.O. leadership of abandoning the protocols of Crip terrorism for some unattainable revolutionary utopia. The B.N.C.O. blossomed quickly, because it appealed to the patriotic sense of Cripping. They also had such stalwart generals as Tookie, Treach, and Evil, who are all extremely smart and courageous.

Other maladies befell the leadership at Folsom, where the Mexican mafia was winning the war. Two Hoovers were stabbed for bringing unsanctioned weapons to the yard. Tony Stacy charged the Central Committee with tribalism and called for all Hoovers in the state to resign from C.C.O. That was a big blow to the organization. Imagine all the Americans pulling out of the Democratic party. The fatal blow came when the Central Committee agreed to a peace treaty with the Mexican mafia, then turned around and declared war on the Blue Notes. The Hoovers sided with the B.N.C.O. and s.h.i.t began to fall apart.

San Quentin was exempt from none of this. The B.N.C.O. took off and stabbed Kidogo, Rabbit, and Roho. The Hoovers stabbed Notchie and Taliba. The C.C.O. struck back and stabbed Glen, Kencade, and Spark. s.h.i.t got crazy, fast. I cut my bed up for weapons with a hacksaw blade but was caught by a snooping pig. They charged me with destruction of state property and billed me $180 for the bed.