At dusk on January I, 1981, a van was commandeered by one of the selected soldiers to be used in the execution of the upcoming mission. Earlier in the day Li’l Monster had acquired two shotguns from an older supporter who had been informed of the shooting and wanted to give assistance in the way of arms. His offer was acknowledged and the weapons were secured: a double-barrel over and under, a 12 gauge, and a 20-gauge pump that shot six times. Because the mission was search and destroy, the weapons were not sawed off. Also in stock were an 8 millimeter Mauser that had ten rounds and looked like a Daniel Boone gun, a six-inch .357 magnum, an eight-inch 44 magnum, and a .38 Long. The driver was to be unarmed. Gathering at their respective launch sites, the crew began to fall out when darkness came. The order of the night was “body count.”

According to Li’l Crazy De, wasn’t no one on the streets but police and fools, the police not giving a fuck and the fools doomed by their own ignorance. How many fell that first night? And from what sets did they come? No one knew the actual count, except the recipient set and the parents who had to bury their children. And that’s what we all were, children. Children gone wild in a concrete jungle of poverty and rage. Armed and dangerous, prowling the concrete jungle in search of ourselves, we were children who had grown up quickly in a city that cared too little about its young. Males, females, dogs, and cats were all targets. Curfew was declared in enemy sets: dusk to dawn. Anyone caught out after dark and before dawn would be shot. The Tet had begun.

The first night was pretty much catch and clobber. The second night was a bit more complicated, as word traveled fast around the colony. The third night, I’m told, was harder still, as troops literally had to go house to house in search of “suspects.” It was in this climate that the officers from CRASH had come to see me. But prior to talking with Li’l De I had had no idea of the scope of the retribution and, for sure, I had not conspired with anyone to make it happen. Could I stop it? Perhaps, but why? “Fuck ’em” was pretty much my attitude then. And why was CRASH concerned about stopping the violence? They had been helping us kill ourselves, so why were they so interested? It is my contention that they simply wanted to go on record as having tried to stop the killings. Shit, if they wanted to stop the killings, they would have begun by outlawing the choke hold!

After being briefed by Li’l De about the Tet, I informed him that Li’l Hunchy had run out on me. He asked what I wanted to have happen to Li’l Hunchy. I said simply that he should not be allowed to run out on anyone else. That made the set look awfully bad. Li’l De gave me his word that he’d handle it. Putting the phone in its cradle I lay back and smiled inwardly, feeling extremely proud of the set. The mighty Eight Trays…

By my fifth day in the hospital, I had grown quite accustomed to the comings and goings of the orderlies. I had learned, for instance, that the Chicano woman who had attended me first was the mother of the candy striper who now cleaned my room and who was a gang member from Eighteenth Street. She and I chatted twice. But still I had no visitors, and I had not talked with Li’l Monster. On the afternoon of January 4, as I lay back in my bed thinking, I noticed three people standing in my doorway. At first glance, I took them to be ordinary people who were just passing through looking, as I used to, into anyone’s hospital room. But these people looked familiar—in no friendly way. Their look was menacing, and I’ll be damned if it didn’t hit me like a ton of bricks. It’s them! The same three who had ambushed me! The mustache, the beard, and the clean-shaven one stood erect and alert at my door. No doubt it was also them who had called my room. What to do? With an I.V. in my right arm, a catheter in my penis, a tube in my nose, stitches in my stomach, a cast on my left hand, dehydrated and weak, I knew I didn’t have a chance.

As slowly and as inconspicuously as possible I reached for my nurse’s call button, hoping that Eloise was on duty. My assailants seemed indecisive and fidgety, looking around and, I guess, waiting for the proper moment to make their move. I figured they’d probably stab or suffocate me so as not to make much noise. I pressed my call button several times, hoping to irritate someone, anyone, and have them rush to my room. This, I thought, would persuade my assailants to leave. All the while I was acting as if I was heavily sedated, so much so that I couldn’t tell that I was being sized up. Damn, any other nurse would have responded by now. Just my damn luck. I began to despair and settle for the final rest. Of course, I told myself, I was going to resist. I would swing as much as I could with the cast, kick with my right leg, and bite, if I could. But I was sure I’d lose, and I resigned myself to that end. Just then, as in a Hollywood movie, where the star never gets killed, in rushed Eloise, past the three and to my bedside.

“What’s wrong, baby?” she asked, concerned that something was bothering me medically.

“Listen,” I began in a low voice, “see those three people at the—”

“I can’t hear you,” she said.

“Shhh, listen, listen,” I said, trying to control my voice. “See those three dudes at the door? Don’t look, don’t look!”

“What about ’em, baby?”

“They come to kill me!”

“Oh, there you go dramatizing, you need to—”

“Look,” I said, grabbing Eloise by the collar and yanking her down face-to-face with me, “they come to kill me, now goddammit, do something!” I was speaking low through clenched teeth. For sure she now saw, perhaps for the first time, my thousand-yard stare.

Her eyes grew wide when it registered that I was for real. Even when I let go of her collar she remained in my face.

“Go, now, and handle that,” I told her and, as if hypnotized, she slowly rose to an erect position and strode back toward the door. I watched her through half-closed eyes, hoping they wouldn’t kill both of us. She stopped in their presence and traded words with them. They were out of my earshot. I saw Eloise gesture toward the hallway to the left, turn, and do the same thing toward the right. I had no idea what she was doing. Whatever it was, it worked, and my assailants moved into the hallway and eventually out of my sight. She, too, left my sight, but only for an instant. When I saw her round the corner again and come into the room she had the telephone with her and was moving rather quickly.

“What did you tell ’em?” I asked excitedly.

Thrusting the phone at me she said, “Don’t worry ’bout that, you better call your people, ’cause they comin’ back.”

Not knowing how much time I had before they’d be back, I hastily dialed Li’l Monster’s number. It rung once, twice, three times and… damn, I’d dialed the wrong number. On my second attempt I hit pay dirt.

“Bro, what’s up?” I said quickly into the receiver.

“What’s up?!” Bro shot back and stammered on, “Man, we been tearin’ shit—”

“No, wait, listen. They up here!”

“Who?”

“The Sixties, man. The Sixties!”

“We on our way!”

The connection was broken. I rang for Eloise and she came right away. I explained to her the seriousness of my foes and that it was probably the same three who had originally shot me. I also turned down her offer to get the police. No, we’d handle this ourselves. She looked skeptical, but gave me her word that she wouldn’t call the police. The longest twenty minutes of my life were spent waiting for Li’l Bro and reinforcements.

Finally, I saw Li’l Bro bend the corner, followed by Li’l Spike, Joker, Li’l Crazy De, Stone, China, Bam, and Spooney, the latter three being homegirls. They surrounded my bed so that nothing else was visible but them; then weapons began to materialize from under their heavy clothing. They had mostly hand weapons, a few buck knives, and Li’l Spike had a sawed-off single-shot. Li’l Monster had been out of camp for about nine months and was working in earnest toward his required second level. He displayed all the traits of promise. From under his shirt he produced a .25 automatic, and China came out with a box of bullets.

“This is for you, Bro,” he said, handing me the strap and box of bullets.

“Righteous.” I went on to explain the situation and gave a description of all three. Li’l Spike and Joker went in search of them, while the others stayed to talk. Bro said that he had come to see me while I was in ICU, but I had no recollection of him ever being there. He said he could not stand to see me in such a state. We looked at each other for a long moment, and I could see that he was hurt and wanted to communicate his emotions, but neither of us knew how to do it. So we settled for the unspoken medium of love, each hoping the other would somehow catch the vibes of sincerity.

Crazy De had been in an altercation with some Sixties in the Hall, China told me. No homies had been captured or shot since the Tet had begun, and the set was enjoying tremendous coverage by the media. Li’l Spike and Joker returned with Eloise hot on their heels.

“No sign of them fools,” Li’l Spike said with frustration. “Besides,” he said, pointing his thumb at Eloise, “we got sweated by homelady here.”

“You damn right you got sweated. But tell him what you was doin’. Go on, tell him,” she said loudly.

Neither Joker nor Li’l Spike said a thing, so I asked them what was up.

Joker spoke up first. “Aw, cuz, she bent the corner and caught a muthafucka strikin’ up the ’hood.”

“Gangwritin’, in my hospital. Uhh-uhh, not here you don’t.”

“You don’t own this goddamn hospital, woman, who the—”

“Stall her out, Bam, she down wit’ us,” I said sharply to the homegirl, who was widely known for her belligerence.

“But she—”

“Stall her out,” I repeated, forcefully.

“Kody, visitin’ time is ’bout over anyway.” Eloise was now shooting daggers at Bam, who was returning her stares point for point.

“Awright, but let us get three mo’ minutes, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah, but no mo’ writin’, y’all hear?” she said, looking from one hard face to another.

No one replied. She finally gave a small sigh and left the room. I began to instruct the crew about my plans once I was released. All seemed quite happy to know that I was recovering well, Li’l Bro and China especially. Not to say that there was any less affection from the others, but China and Li’l Monster knew me more intimately, so our link was stronger.

Soon thereafter the crew began to leave. The set sign was thrown in a salute by each homie, and China gave me a kiss on the cheek, promising she’d be back the following day. Bro milled around and waited for the last homie to file out. After a minute he looked at me, then dropped his head. When he raised it again we both had tears in our eyes. I had been touched—wounded—and although it was never verbally communicated, I was Li’l Bro’s hero, the closest thing he had to total invincibility. Everything I did, he did. And now, with my being wounded, he knew that there was someone out there that was stronger, more determined than me. The vast weight of this fell heavy on his shoulders and it became incumbent upon him to destroy that person and “save the world”—our set. At fourteen, that’s a heavy load.

“It’s gonna be all right, it’s gonna be all right,” is all I could say.

To which Bro replied, “Yeah, ’cause I’m gonna make it right. Watch.”

We hugged briefly, as much as my stitches would allow, and then Bro left without looking back. It was times like this that I hated my life. Perhaps this was due to my not knowing answers to certain questions or being able to present my emotions on an intelligible level. Being ignorant is, to me, the equivalent of being dead.

I checked my strap to make sure it was loaded and put it under my pillow. If they came back now it would not be in their interest. Against my better judgment, I dozed off.

Time flew by, and daily I became stronger. China was coming to visit every day and even brought a radio, although only after I had sworn on the set—which was much more religious than swearing to God—not to destroy it like the last one. I got no more calls or unexpected visits, and on January 14th I was discharged. This was the only time my mother came to the hospital, which didn’t bother me too much then. We had grown very far apart, so I’d never expected her to come, anyway. But she had to come on my discharge day because I was still sixteen and she had to sign the release form. Our mutual greetings were lukewarm. We talked little on the way out of the hospital. I was rolled out in a wheelchair pushed by Mom. Over my knees was a blanket, and underneath it the weapon, my hand fully on the grip.

In the car we both made small talk. The days were past where Mom sought to talk me out of bangin’, but still she was firmly set against it. Little did I know that Mom was under as much strain as I was. This is universally true of every mother who has a child in a gang. But usually communication has long been broken with that parent, who the child looks upon as a familiar intruder trying once again to offset stability. In this light, anything proposed by the parent—whether positive or not—is rejected. The intruding parent becomes enemylike in thought, and is to be avoided. Nothing is to alter the set’s existence. For a youth with no other hope in a system that excludes them, the gang becomes their corporation, college, religion, and life. It is in this reality that gang members go to the extreme with tattoos. I now have “Eight Trays” written across my neck and “Crips” on my chest. Ever see George Bush with “Republican” on his chest or “Capitalist” on his neck?

The moment I got home the phone began ringing off the hook.

“Yes, I’m all right.”

“No, I didn’t get my dick blown off.”

“No, I wasn’t shot in the head.”

The calls went on like this all day. When night fell, I hit the streets on Li’l Monster’s bike. Li’l Tray Ball rode with me and carried the weapon. We weaved our way through the ’hood, stopping here and there to explain blurry details to concerned citizens of the ’hood and a few parents who were looked upon as “friendlies.” When we had circumvented a good portion of the ’hood, we doubled back toward the north. It had gotten chilly, and because of my stay in the hospital I was unaccustomed to being out in such weather. My open wounds made my trek in such weather all the more dangerous. When we reached the house, Mom was standing out on the front lawn accompanied by a host of homegirls. Kesha, Judy Brown, China, Bam, Prena, and Big Lynn were all there. Before I came to a halt I knew something wasn’t right. Everyone looked grief-stricken. Mom began in on me right away.