I just don't fucking get it.
I dropped my son off at school this morning, & as I walked across the street to retrieve my daily coffee fix, I paused outside of a Church's Chicken to light my Newport. I figured I'd finish it before I head to the doughnut shop, because if you live in the 'hood, you know smoking a square at the doughnut shop is like wearing a t-shirt that says, "HEY, I'VE GOT FREE CIGARETTES FOR THE FIRST 25 BUMS THAT ASK FOR ONE!". Which, I clearly don't. Or, I get hit with my personal favorite, "Do you have an extra cigarette?", to which my response is, "nope, just the normal twenty that comes in a pack". I usually say eff it & give them one anyway, because who am I to stop them from killing themselves? Misery loves company, per se.
As I'm puffing away the seven minutes off of my life span, I notice a kid bopping up the street towards me. I sized him up [||], & he seemed relatively harmless, as most kids seem these days. Skinny jeans make it harder to hide a weapon. He walks up & goes over to the bus stop, in front of me, while the Church's entrance/exit is to my back. I was thinking to myself, "damn, all these kids must shop at the exact same place," because they all wear the same shoes & what not. But, perhaps I'm just getting old(er).
The door of the Church's opened, & by instinct I turned around to see who or what was coming out of it. Another kid, appearing slightly less harmless but just as un-masculine, exited the building rather quick & aggressively. Like I said, the bus stop was in front of me, about 6' away, & the door was behind me. I'm old enough to know when something's about to happen. Sixth sense is mandatory in "urban" areas.
The Church's kid, who was about 6' 1", maybe 160 lbs, was focused on the harmless kid, who had his back turned to us.
"Aye Cuz!" the taller kid barked, as the bus stop kid turned his head & glanced. The bus stop kid's balls must have tripled in size at that moment, because he ceased to be harmless immediately.
"Grape Street Watts", he said calmly, with his chest out, as an apparent mixture of fear, assertion & pride washed over him.
"Great," I thought. Whatever was to transpire would undoubtedly happen within arms distance of me. If young dudes wore cologne, I'd have been able to smell theirs. All I smelled was underage weed smoke & hopelessness.
"Oh, okay", said the taller kid. "False alarm." The smaller kid stepped toward the other one & introduced himself, & they exchanged "pleasantries", before parting back to their corners. Then, the once harmless kid asked me for a cigarette. Normally, I don't condone youngsters smoking, but I have come to realize that growing up on the streets of South Los Angeles usually entailed growing up quite a bit faster than in many other cities. At the most, the kids were 16, but had probably had the stress levels of 40 year old men. So, I gave him a smoke. He said good lookin', & disappeared into the sea of unknowing young people, to & fro, headed to their destinies, however bleak they may be.
The first thing that caught my attention was that the kid in Church's was obviously in there looking for trouble. Not on the way to school or work, but willingly on a search to be detrimental. Equally as noticeable was the bust stop kid's backpack & appearance that he had somewhere to be. Yet & still, their differing paths crossed in a way that could've dramatically changed their lives.
Luckily, he was from the "right" neighborhood. What if he hadn't been?
It took a lot of restraint for me not to stop them from walking away & talking to them. Realistically speaking though, they haven't been listening to whatever guidance has been presented to them for years, so what the fuck is some nigga standing around going to get them to comprehend? At this point, we seem to have a total generation that is completely lost. Compasses, moral or otherwise, don't seem like they'll help much. I shudder to think that my son will have to grow up in such a declining society, but the future doesn't look bright, so the best I, & other like-minded individuals can do is to equip the children with the necessary weaponry for primal survival. It goes beyond getting a proper education. It means social skills, the abilities to observe & respond, thinking ahead & rationally, preparing for the worst & still, somehow hoping for the best. Not to get all ominous, but this might be the point of no return. & finality knows no color lines.
The school my son goes to is a pretty decent one. But I've heard the same thing from his kindergarten teacher, assistant principal, couple of administrators, various parents, & even his present first grade teacher; he doesn't belong here, he's bigger than this school. While that makes me, as his father, feel good, a part of me feels sad for the kids who, as they inadvertently said, don't really have a chance. As the foundation crumbles, so do the walls it's attached to.
I haven't given up hope just yet, but, it's not looking positive. & to think, I'm one of those people who still believes in something.
Showing posts with label gang violence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gang violence. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The 5 Minute Factor: part three
....Conclusion (I suggest you read part's one & two first. Trust me)....
Funny thing about haphazard behavior is that rarely do you cover your ass. You just jump head first into the situation, without weighing all possibilities &/or outcomes. Throughout this whole ordeal with *no dry-snitch*, while I'm being the protective older brother to an "armed & dangerous" criminal, I never once asked him what happened to the gun. I was so caught up in the Cloak 'N' Dagger experience, I'd forgotten why he started coming around me to begin with, those light years ago. No dad, no older brothers, uncle (by marriage) was a crack-head, mom only 15 years older than him; he was looking for someone who would be looking for him.
How did I forget to ask him about the fucking gun?
5 minutes became 5 hours. Nightfall became the next day, with no signs of *no dry-snitch*. All the members of the neighborhood goon squad were congregated at our meeting spot, my front porch, when I came outside that morning. Everybody looked at me, & I knew. Seems he, against my warning, decided to stroll through the neighborhood on his way to wherever. His thing was to show the world that he wasn't scared of anything, Pigs included. Once he made his rounds, gave some hugs & shook some hands, he headed to his destination.
What I didn't know was that this whole time, that same dirty gun was on him, always. Jacket pocket, back pack, under his big, dirty ass t-shirt, etc. He always said that valley dude's homies would find him before the cops did, but I've never been good at math, so I didn't put two & two together. That day he left, plain clothes cops were watching, & followed him to where he ended up. Upon leaving that house, they detained & questioned him, & after bumping him up for about a half an hour, a sergeant arrived & I.D.'d him. He had weed & the gun he used to murder another man. It turns out it wasn't a man at all, but another misguided teenager who watched too many movies growing up & was substantially ignored at home. Brothers from another mother, one might say.
That chicken head, the eye of this tragic storm, testified against *no dry-snitch*, & even though we all wrote letters to the court, the judge ultimately threw the book at him. *no dry-snitch* caught the book like a man, & carried it with him under the jail.
25 with an L. Epic fail.
That was a few years back. Now, he's just urban legend; neighborhood fodder used to scare kids straight & teach them about choices. We all know kids don't listen though.
Come to think of it, he used to read things that I wrote & tell me how good I was. Oh, how he'd love this...
Funny thing about haphazard behavior is that rarely do you cover your ass. You just jump head first into the situation, without weighing all possibilities &/or outcomes. Throughout this whole ordeal with *no dry-snitch*, while I'm being the protective older brother to an "armed & dangerous" criminal, I never once asked him what happened to the gun. I was so caught up in the Cloak 'N' Dagger experience, I'd forgotten why he started coming around me to begin with, those light years ago. No dad, no older brothers, uncle (by marriage) was a crack-head, mom only 15 years older than him; he was looking for someone who would be looking for him.
How did I forget to ask him about the fucking gun?
5 minutes became 5 hours. Nightfall became the next day, with no signs of *no dry-snitch*. All the members of the neighborhood goon squad were congregated at our meeting spot, my front porch, when I came outside that morning. Everybody looked at me, & I knew. Seems he, against my warning, decided to stroll through the neighborhood on his way to wherever. His thing was to show the world that he wasn't scared of anything, Pigs included. Once he made his rounds, gave some hugs & shook some hands, he headed to his destination.
What I didn't know was that this whole time, that same dirty gun was on him, always. Jacket pocket, back pack, under his big, dirty ass t-shirt, etc. He always said that valley dude's homies would find him before the cops did, but I've never been good at math, so I didn't put two & two together. That day he left, plain clothes cops were watching, & followed him to where he ended up. Upon leaving that house, they detained & questioned him, & after bumping him up for about a half an hour, a sergeant arrived & I.D.'d him. He had weed & the gun he used to murder another man. It turns out it wasn't a man at all, but another misguided teenager who watched too many movies growing up & was substantially ignored at home. Brothers from another mother, one might say.
That chicken head, the eye of this tragic storm, testified against *no dry-snitch*, & even though we all wrote letters to the court, the judge ultimately threw the book at him. *no dry-snitch* caught the book like a man, & carried it with him under the jail.
25 with an L. Epic fail.
That was a few years back. Now, he's just urban legend; neighborhood fodder used to scare kids straight & teach them about choices. We all know kids don't listen though.
Come to think of it, he used to read things that I wrote & tell me how good I was. Oh, how he'd love this...
Monday, August 24, 2009
The 5 Minute Factor: part two
.....continuation from yesterday's part one (I suggest you read it first).....
I've had a gun pointed at me on a few occasions. Every time though, a strange sense of calm washed over me, as if God were in my head telling me that I'll be fine; it'll be over soon. No bullshit. The same feeling I had last year, as I lay dying in an ICU cubicle. Doctor's were telling me, in so many words, that I probably wouldn't leave there the way I WANTED to, & perhaps it was the cacophony of meds being pumped into me every minute, of every hour, but I was never scared, word to T.I. & Bonecrusher.
Anyway.....
*no dry-snitch* was the type of kid that, when on high alert, allowed his fight-or-flight mechanisms to take over. Not surprisingly, this time it was fight rather than flight, which I personally saw him do several times over the years, so I understood when I'd heard. Rightfully so, as fast as valley cat drew the weapon, it was snatched from his hand, & that quickly, the aggressor became the aggressee. *no dry-snitch* kicked him away, so that the same thing wouldn't happen to him, & kept the nozzle of the handgun stubbornly pointed in valley kid's general direction.
All this happening as the 3-penny piece watched in awe.
Knowing the plight of the over-eager, hard-headed young street survivor, I'm positive that several words were exchanged & some derivative of a scene from "Menace To Society" was acted out before the following took place;
Pop. Pop. Pop.
& like that, *no dry-snitch* was hoofing it back to his relatives' locale. Out of bounds, & out of options, his aunt, uncle & cousin jettisoned him to his mom's apartment, who in turn took him to another aunt's; his home back in L.A., around the corner from me. After all, how much thicker is blood than 'harboring a fugitive' when you really think about it? She gave him a few dollars & the best advice the mother of a murderer can give to her hell bound son; (& I quote, because I know her-more on that later) "Stay The Fuck In The House, *no dry-snitch*!".
He showed up on my porch early the next morning, with a bag full of clothes & a smile on his face. I opened the door & snatched him in, looking around before I slammed it shut, & began the "Furious Styles" rant & rave routine.
Fuck that. I've been a big part of a chain of command in this boy's life for years. Best believe I was going to get in his ass [||] about this uber-stupidity. He'd cry & go home before he'd even think about doing shit to me, word to strong male figures worldwide.
He told me his version of what happened, which was pretty close to what had already been leaked to the streets. Bad news travels fast, nah'mean? I rolled a blunt, & as we got high & mellow, I could smell the fear, paranoia & remorse, which by now was more pungent than the dirt weed we set ablaze.
The chick-a-dee had relatives out here, of course, & word of valley boy's death hit the block before *no dry-snitch*'s dusty Fila's did.
His aunt, a very nice but stern older lady wasn't ready to let a demon reside in her home. He'd been there all this time, so I didn't see what the big deal was, but nonetheless, he was on the run, & now homeless.
Guess who extended their back house?
Oddly enough, I've never felt as safe as I did with a killer living with me. It was better than having a gun. Anyone with a wild younger brother or an unstable rotweiler knows exactly what I mean. Except, this was beyond wild; *no dry-snitch* took a man's life, with his own gun. Bishop x 100, really though.
So, his mom paid me rent, &
thanked me often. In hindsight, her thanks wouldn't mean shit had the police ran up in the house. & best believe, they were looking for *no dry-snitch*, even went to his aunt's crib applying the pressure. Little did they know he was in my backyard, looking over the wall. But, that kind of thing doesn't register to a monster. He'd walk to the store, stand on the block, & pretend that all was normal, completely oblivious to the 5 minute factor.
The summer was over & he concluded that the heat had simmered, even though Black & Whites stayed canvassing all of our Black asses. One afternoon, he said somebody owed him so money, & when I offered him some, so he wouldn't have to leave, he mumbled & started walking away.
"I'll be right back Ant, in 5 minutes."
To be concluded tomorrow.....
I've had a gun pointed at me on a few occasions. Every time though, a strange sense of calm washed over me, as if God were in my head telling me that I'll be fine; it'll be over soon. No bullshit. The same feeling I had last year, as I lay dying in an ICU cubicle. Doctor's were telling me, in so many words, that I probably wouldn't leave there the way I WANTED to, & perhaps it was the cacophony of meds being pumped into me every minute, of every hour, but I was never scared, word to T.I. & Bonecrusher.
Anyway.....
*no dry-snitch* was the type of kid that, when on high alert, allowed his fight-or-flight mechanisms to take over. Not surprisingly, this time it was fight rather than flight, which I personally saw him do several times over the years, so I understood when I'd heard. Rightfully so, as fast as valley cat drew the weapon, it was snatched from his hand, & that quickly, the aggressor became the aggressee. *no dry-snitch* kicked him away, so that the same thing wouldn't happen to him, & kept the nozzle of the handgun stubbornly pointed in valley kid's general direction.
All this happening as the 3-penny piece watched in awe.
Knowing the plight of the over-eager, hard-headed young street survivor, I'm positive that several words were exchanged & some derivative of a scene from "Menace To Society" was acted out before the following took place;
Pop. Pop. Pop.
& like that, *no dry-snitch* was hoofing it back to his relatives' locale. Out of bounds, & out of options, his aunt, uncle & cousin jettisoned him to his mom's apartment, who in turn took him to another aunt's; his home back in L.A., around the corner from me. After all, how much thicker is blood than 'harboring a fugitive' when you really think about it? She gave him a few dollars & the best advice the mother of a murderer can give to her hell bound son; (& I quote, because I know her-more on that later) "Stay The Fuck In The House, *no dry-snitch*!".
He showed up on my porch early the next morning, with a bag full of clothes & a smile on his face. I opened the door & snatched him in, looking around before I slammed it shut, & began the "Furious Styles" rant & rave routine.
Fuck that. I've been a big part of a chain of command in this boy's life for years. Best believe I was going to get in his ass [||] about this uber-stupidity. He'd cry & go home before he'd even think about doing shit to me, word to strong male figures worldwide.
He told me his version of what happened, which was pretty close to what had already been leaked to the streets. Bad news travels fast, nah'mean? I rolled a blunt, & as we got high & mellow, I could smell the fear, paranoia & remorse, which by now was more pungent than the dirt weed we set ablaze.
The chick-a-dee had relatives out here, of course, & word of valley boy's death hit the block before *no dry-snitch*'s dusty Fila's did.
His aunt, a very nice but stern older lady wasn't ready to let a demon reside in her home. He'd been there all this time, so I didn't see what the big deal was, but nonetheless, he was on the run, & now homeless.
Guess who extended their back house?
Oddly enough, I've never felt as safe as I did with a killer living with me. It was better than having a gun. Anyone with a wild younger brother or an unstable rotweiler knows exactly what I mean. Except, this was beyond wild; *no dry-snitch* took a man's life, with his own gun. Bishop x 100, really though.
So, his mom paid me rent, &
thanked me often. In hindsight, her thanks wouldn't mean shit had the police ran up in the house. & best believe, they were looking for *no dry-snitch*, even went to his aunt's crib applying the pressure. Little did they know he was in my backyard, looking over the wall. But, that kind of thing doesn't register to a monster. He'd walk to the store, stand on the block, & pretend that all was normal, completely oblivious to the 5 minute factor.
The summer was over & he concluded that the heat had simmered, even though Black & Whites stayed canvassing all of our Black asses. One afternoon, he said somebody owed him so money, & when I offered him some, so he wouldn't have to leave, he mumbled & started walking away.
"I'll be right back Ant, in 5 minutes."
To be concluded tomorrow.....
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The 5 Minute Factor: part one
How many murderers do you know personally? I know 2. Here's one......
I have a natural magnetism for certain types of people. Mostly the downtrodden. I'm not sure why God decided to give me such an arduous responsibility, but nonetheless, I've accepted it & use my powers for good. Sometimes I become frustrated with the amount of vagabonds & borderline homeless dudes I know, but what can I do? I feel entirely too blessed not to share what God gave me with others if I'm able to. It even talks about something like that in the Bible, word to Jesus Christ.
My young home boy, named *no dry-snitch* was a good kid who, unfortunately, had his eyes widened by the daily antics of the neighborhood supervillians. The gang-banging, dope-dealing, petty criminal activity that we all love to watch on a straight-to-video DVD or hear chronicled in a rap record. Shit is real in this field.
A boy in a man's body, who would spend half of his day following around my friends & I, like an annoying sibling or stray dog, & the other half around the corner with the local ruffians. Seems like that balance would work out in his favor if ever an extreme situation arose, but he (& I) found out that in a matter of 5 minutes, everything you've learned/adopted/believed in can be forgotten & forever lost.
If you know about Los Angeles, you know that every third person has a relative in Pomona, Victorville, The Valley, Ontario, Perris, etc. Those places just happen to be the "get my ass out of L.A." hotbeds. So, *no dry-snitch* had close family in The Valley, who he'd visit often. So much so that he'd met a girl out there. He was still young, so when he came home one day, talking fast & smiling, I knew he had genuine feelings for her, as opposed to good ol' Black lust. Lust, as in, he'd already had a daughter who he never saw, through no fault of his own, so to me, he saw this as a chance to do the whole girlfriend/boyfriend thing correctly.
From the day I'd meet him, he'd gone from decent, clean cut youth, to a misdemeanor-commiting menace to society. Complete with too much hair & gang tattoos. He came to me for advice a lot, which I rationed out to him, depending on how much weed he had, but the one real situation he needed guidance on, he turned to the supervillians.
It seemed that the valley girl already had a boyfriend. In most instances, "out-of-town" niggas detest L.A. dudes, & he was no exception. The fact that he was affiliated with the Eight Trey Gangsta Crip's made him an easier target for the boon dock thug-wanna be's. & now, he'd coveted on of their prized hood rats. Some nigga lost his future baby momma, & surely looked to avenge his loss.
The day came when the two young, Black males crossed paths, on the valley hooligan's home turf. Home court advantage, per se. But *no dry-snitch* wasn't a punk by any means & he held his ground. The two fought, & after what I can only assume was an ass-kicking, the valley boy ran away threatening further violence, in the way that only Black kids from the ghetto(s) can; he's going to be back "with his strap". Again, my young compadre wasn't afraid of much, so this, to him, was another nigga barking as he scurried away with tail tucked.
This wasn't his first foray into the ignorance that is gang violence stemmed from female. In Juvenile Hall, he'd gotten into a squabble behind some tender chick filet, & stabbed a fellow "inmate" in the thigh with a pencil. No stiches, no harm, no foul. As with most incarcerated young men, this only fueled his bloodlust towards the next opportunity to flex his masculinity.
So, 5 minutes later, valley dude returned, this time in a car. He stopped the car & exited. *no dry-snitch* said that he didn't seem to have a gun, but he wasn't looking for one, what with all the adrenaline surging through him. Valley guy walked over & began talking loudly, while the prized chicken head began to back away. *no dry-snitch* decided that he was going to swing first, connected with valley cat's jaw & knocked him to he ground. Immediately, he jumped back up & produced a handgun aimed right for *no dry-snitch*'s chest.
To be continued tomorrow....
I have a natural magnetism for certain types of people. Mostly the downtrodden. I'm not sure why God decided to give me such an arduous responsibility, but nonetheless, I've accepted it & use my powers for good. Sometimes I become frustrated with the amount of vagabonds & borderline homeless dudes I know, but what can I do? I feel entirely too blessed not to share what God gave me with others if I'm able to. It even talks about something like that in the Bible, word to Jesus Christ.
My young home boy, named *no dry-snitch* was a good kid who, unfortunately, had his eyes widened by the daily antics of the neighborhood supervillians. The gang-banging, dope-dealing, petty criminal activity that we all love to watch on a straight-to-video DVD or hear chronicled in a rap record. Shit is real in this field.
A boy in a man's body, who would spend half of his day following around my friends & I, like an annoying sibling or stray dog, & the other half around the corner with the local ruffians. Seems like that balance would work out in his favor if ever an extreme situation arose, but he (& I) found out that in a matter of 5 minutes, everything you've learned/adopted/believed in can be forgotten & forever lost.
If you know about Los Angeles, you know that every third person has a relative in Pomona, Victorville, The Valley, Ontario, Perris, etc. Those places just happen to be the "get my ass out of L.A." hotbeds. So, *no dry-snitch* had close family in The Valley, who he'd visit often. So much so that he'd met a girl out there. He was still young, so when he came home one day, talking fast & smiling, I knew he had genuine feelings for her, as opposed to good ol' Black lust. Lust, as in, he'd already had a daughter who he never saw, through no fault of his own, so to me, he saw this as a chance to do the whole girlfriend/boyfriend thing correctly.
From the day I'd meet him, he'd gone from decent, clean cut youth, to a misdemeanor-commiting menace to society. Complete with too much hair & gang tattoos. He came to me for advice a lot, which I rationed out to him, depending on how much weed he had, but the one real situation he needed guidance on, he turned to the supervillians.
It seemed that the valley girl already had a boyfriend. In most instances, "out-of-town" niggas detest L.A. dudes, & he was no exception. The fact that he was affiliated with the Eight Trey Gangsta Crip's made him an easier target for the boon dock thug-wanna be's. & now, he'd coveted on of their prized hood rats. Some nigga lost his future baby momma, & surely looked to avenge his loss.
The day came when the two young, Black males crossed paths, on the valley hooligan's home turf. Home court advantage, per se. But *no dry-snitch* wasn't a punk by any means & he held his ground. The two fought, & after what I can only assume was an ass-kicking, the valley boy ran away threatening further violence, in the way that only Black kids from the ghetto(s) can; he's going to be back "with his strap". Again, my young compadre wasn't afraid of much, so this, to him, was another nigga barking as he scurried away with tail tucked.
This wasn't his first foray into the ignorance that is gang violence stemmed from female. In Juvenile Hall, he'd gotten into a squabble behind some tender chick filet, & stabbed a fellow "inmate" in the thigh with a pencil. No stiches, no harm, no foul. As with most incarcerated young men, this only fueled his bloodlust towards the next opportunity to flex his masculinity.
So, 5 minutes later, valley dude returned, this time in a car. He stopped the car & exited. *no dry-snitch* said that he didn't seem to have a gun, but he wasn't looking for one, what with all the adrenaline surging through him. Valley guy walked over & began talking loudly, while the prized chicken head began to back away. *no dry-snitch* decided that he was going to swing first, connected with valley cat's jaw & knocked him to he ground. Immediately, he jumped back up & produced a handgun aimed right for *no dry-snitch*'s chest.
To be continued tomorrow....
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