Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 28

"So I can take you shoppin' fo' some new clothes and s.h.i.t. 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, n.i.g.g.a?"

"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 bulls.h.i.t 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. .h.i.t seventeen times! Sprays are permanent. They ain't no joke. We got s.h.i.t 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 s.h.i.t is as real as steel."

"d.a.m.n, 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. .h.i.t 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 a.s.sistant 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 cla.s.s. This was no easy decision to come to, as most of the brothas in the pen have this I-ain't-workin'-for-whitey att.i.tude. 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 pa.s.senger 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, c.o.c.ky, 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sing 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 ha.s.sling 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 G.o.dparents' home in Windsor Hills. I'd left him in the van, high on PCP, only to come out with my G.o.dmother 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, G.o.dmama," and Delia had d.a.m.n 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 circ.u.mstances. 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?

"d.a.m.n, 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 f.u.c.ked my life up for a kilo of cocaine. Don't get involved in that s.h.i.t, 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 c.o.c.ked, 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 partic.i.p.ation 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.

EPILOGUE.

In January of 1991 I was captured by the L.A.P.D. for a.s.sault and grand theft auto. These charges stemmed from a healthy beating I had given a stubborn crack dealer who had refused to stop selling his product on my corner. His van was confiscated because of his stubborn insistence, which led to the GTA charge. I make no excuses for this, and I have no regrets. When the police and other government agencies don't seem to care about what is going on in our communities, then those of us who live in them must take responsibility for their protection and maintenance. As it turned out, this specific dealer was also a paid police informant.

Because of my terrible record, I faced a sentence of seventeen years. I eventually pleaded guilty and received seven years. When I arrived back at prison, I was immediately put in solitary confinement for an indefinite stay. Charged with being a threat to inst.i.tutional security, I am now into my third year of solitary confinement.

I admit that I am responsible for deeds that have caused irreparable damage, such as the taking of life, but I did so in a setting that seemed to dictate such action. I do not mean to place total blame on outside forces, though they do play a prominent role in my behavior and that of many others. But I feel I've done nothing to warrant the treatment I've received since returning to prison. I am held here in isolation because of my political views and for a.s.sertions I've made.