But the juvenile tank is filled to capacity with New Afrikan and Chicano youth, who more often than not have been charged in an alleged crime against one of their own. A New Afrikan youth in jail, charged for murdering another New Afrikan in most any form—sophisticated or not, and usually it’s not—will be tried as an adult and given the stiffest sentence possible, which, without fail, will be life.

I found myself behind bars for the first time at age sixteen. Not a door, not a window, but bars. Since then I have had an indelible scar on my mind stamped “criminal.” All my years of watching TV told me that righteous criminals went to jail behind bars. Wasn’t Al Capone put behind bars? The Onion Field killers, Charles Manson, and Sirhan Sirhan? So by environment alone I came to look upon myself as a stone-cold criminal and nothing else. Not then overstanding the political machinations involved with me being housed in such a place, I simply assumed that my reputation had preceded me and a more secure setting was needed to hold me.

Without a doubt, I was engaged in criminality. But my activity gravitated around a survival instinct: kill or be killed. Conditions dictated that I evolve or perish. I was engaged in a war with an equal opponent. I did not start this cycle, nor did I conspire to create conditions so that this type of self-murder would take place. My participation came as second nature. To be in a gang in South Central when I joined—and it is still the case today—is the equivalent of growing up in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, and going to college: everyone does it. Those who don’t aren’t part of the fraternity. And as with everything from a union to a tennis club, it’s better to be in than out.

So it goes that the American youths tried as adults—an insignificant number, not enough for a percentage—stayed in juvenile hall. The few that trickled into our wardom had simply been thrown away by the system. Because of our youth and political immaturity we would vent our anger, frustration, and hatred of the system—whatever that was—on them. It was totally beyond our overstanding that they were just like us: castaways condemned to an existence outside of the system. Potential allies were torn to shreds like bloody meat in a shark tank. Not one walked out, and few live today unscarred.

We stayed locked in our paltry little cages most of the day. For an hour a day we’d all be let out into the dayroom—a huge room, unobserved save for a small portion that was manned by a lookout. We watched them attempt to watch us. The demarcation was set: us and them—that is, the soldier-cops. Unlike the staff in the hall, who posed little or no threat, the deputies were outright racist dogs who always wanted a confrontation with us. We thought that as we were juveniles, they could not beat us. How naive the young mind can be. Levi was the first to be beaten. I can’t recall the circumstances surrounding the altercation, but it was awfully messy. They beat him bad. Blood was everywhere. The more they beat him the more frantic they became, every one of them Americans, with the exception of one Negro. It blew my mind to hear the American deputies calling Levi “dirty nigger” and “nappy-headed motherfucker” while the Negro deputy held him for his cohorts. Even Levi looked to the Negro for some sort of explanation to this contradiction. None was given. That was heavy to me. Little did I know that the load would get heavier.

It was in Los Angeles County Jail that I learned that Americans have a thing for attacking our private parts during a scuffle. Every incident I’ve been involved in or witnessed, the private parts of the beatee would be viciously attacked without missing a beat, as if some personal grudge existed between them and our dicks. Later on I learned that it did. We nursed Levi back to health and began to avoid direct confrontations with the deputies. We’d fuck them in other ways.

Charlie row had coalesced the strong into a united front and violently purged the weak. Able row, which was now Cyco Mike’s territory, was also being formed into a front; however, he worked through force and violence. Most of those with him felt physically intimidated by his size and prowess. Our unity on Charlie row came as a result of a common enemy: Cyco Mike. He had little idea that we were plotting his overthrow. We were taken to the roof thrice weekly and allowed to lift weights. Both tiers went together, so we on Charlie row feigned affection for Mike in his presence and continued to prepare for his destruction in private.

Mike had, at one time or another in the course of his climb to the top, talked bad to, beat up on, or taken something from almost everyone there. What’s striking here is that when our generation picked up the gun, we began to use our hands less and less, so more than a few gunfighters amongst us had no ability to down Mike physically. Most folks talked behind Mike’s back. When we said anything about him it was in questioning his strong and weak points, who would really go down with him on Able row, and who were just hostages.

I myself was only beginning to gain my weight back. I trained with the weights like a mad Russian. The second operation had really set me back, and since I was only out of the hospital three days before being captured, I hadn’t had the proper nutrients to supplement my diet to stimulate growth. I had to suffice with jail food—ugh! Nothing was less healthful.

The Los Angeles County juvenile tank was not all humdrum, tension, and war. We had some good times as a captured family, making light of our dismal situation. Next to 3100—the module we were housed in—was 3300. On Able and Charlie rows of module 3300 there were queens and a few studs. On Baker and Denver rows were snitches classified as K-9s. The queens used to shine our shoes, braid our hair, and, if one wished, do a few other things. We had never seen queens and were awestruck by them, just as much as they were with being so close to throbbing, young, naive juveniles. One afternoon, Chicken Swoop from Long Beach Insane persuaded a queen named Silky to come over to our tier gate. Once Silky had come close enough to our gate, High Tower and Wino from Grape Street Watts grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground. They subdued him and hustled him down the tier to an open cell. After having their way with Silky, who had long ago ceased to resist, they let him go. With the excitement seemingly over for the day, we all fell into a somber sleep. But late in the night we were awakened by Chicken Swoop’s loud screaming.

“Ahh! Ahhh!”

“What’s wrong, cuz?”

“Ahh! Ahhh!”

“Who is that?” a disgruntled voice asked.

“Cuz, that’s Swoop. Somethin’ wrong wit’ him,” someone answered.

“I wish he’d shut the fuck up,” said yet another voice, through the cold and darkness.

“What’s wrong, Swoop?” asked Green Eyes from Venice Sho-Line.

“Cuz,” Swoop began, “my dick is green.”

“Yo’ what?”

“My dick, muthafucka, my dick!”

And just then from down on the other end of the tier came another scream.

“Ahhh!”

“Who is that?” someone asked.

“Aw, shit!” High Tower stammered. “My dick green, too!”

The whole tank was awake now and out came the comedians. No one got any more sleep that night. We stayed up and clowned all night and into the next afternoon, right up until the medical crew came and hauled Swoop, High Tower, and Wino out of there. Later that afternoon a lieutenant came and gave us a sex talk about men who have somehow been twisted into thinking they are women and that we were all queers. He ended his sermon by calling us the sickest youngsters he had met in a while.

Light moments such as this tended to ease some of the stress that we were under. Once eight or nine of us were in a cell just telling war stories and joking around when someone claimed he could ejaculate faster than anyone else in the cell. Well, this was cause for a showdown. Within seconds everyone had their dick in their hand and was pumpin’ away. The self-proclaimed champ did not blow off first and was clowned as just wanting to see our dicks. We threatened to urinate on him.

Our rule was simple: the sets that were there first and remained firm were “in,” This meant that any set that came in that any of the “in” sets didn’t get along with, no set got along with. They had to go—violently. This was even true of the Chicano sets.

When I was shipped to County, Li’l Monster was still in the Hall. Shyster was basically running the Rollin’ Sixties in Central, and I thought he might try to do something to my li’l brother to get some points. Li’l Monster was in there for killing Shyster’s homies, and Shyster was there for killing one of our homies. Since Shyster was being tried as an adult, he faced the very real possibility of coming to the juvenile tank. So I wrote him a letter saying basically that should one finger be laid on Li’l Monster in my absence it would be brought to bear on him when he arrived at County. I told him of our structure there and for authenticity I had everyone sign it. Li’l Monster went unmolested his entire stay.

In early March one of Popa and Perry’s homies from Harlem Thirties was killed by some Brims at Manuel Arts High School. True to tradition, the alleged killers were tried as adults and rushed to the juvenile tank. They went directly to Baker and Denver rows P.C. We plotted and planned on a way to get over to their cell and kill them. In April our chance came. Ironically, Popa, Perry, Insane, myself, and both the Brims were taken to court together. We knew that as juveniles we’d all be put in the same court holding cell and then, as planned, we’d beat the two Bloods to death. The juveniles who were being tried as adults but kept in the Hall were also to be housed in this same holding cell awaiting court.

Our shackles were removed, and we filed into the cell on the basement floor of the Criminal Courts building in downtown Los Angeles. The county jail juveniles always arrived approximately thirty minutes before those from the Hall, so even though we were all in the small cell, we didn’t pounce on the two Bloods, who by now knew we were getting ready to jump. We wanted to wait until the others arrived, so no one would be coming by for at least two more hours. When the door opened for the others from the Hall to enter, I was removing the braids from my hair. If the t Bloods were going to make a dash for it, now was the time. We expected them to, but not a quip was heard from either. This meant one of two things: the Bloods were not afraid of us, as we had anticipated and surely had always believed, or they were naive enough to think that we were not going to smash them. I was relieved that they had not gone to the soldier-cops. I guess I felt a bit of respect for them, as well, because to stay in a ten-by-twenty-foot cell with four members of the opposition who had been charged with killing took a certain amount of courage. I also felt sorry for them. The ignorant bastards had no idea of how we planned to mistreat them.

Two juveniles from Central entered the tank. Both were New Afrikans and both were Rollin’ Sixties. I didn’t know either by face, nor did they recognize me. Popa eased over to me and whispered that the light-complexioned one was T-Bone. The other one he just knew as one of their homies. T-Bone’s name carried a little weight in his ’hood. A second-level member who had shot a few people, he had recently been shot five times by the Black P. Stone Bloods. He had a slight build, short hair, and a fixed frown. When his eyes swept the cell they telegraphed contempt. He wore a black hair net down over his forehead like a sweater cap. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a half-smoked cigarette, fumbled in his other pocket, and retrieved a match. He struck the match on the concrete floor, lit his cigarette, and sat back coolly on the bench. His homie stood across from him near the entrance. Because I didn’t know who he was, I worried little about him. I walked over to T-Bone, who was concentrating on his hard-core stare, and stood before him. I had completely forgotten about the Bloods.

“Where you from?” I asked, already knowing but wanting to hear him say it.

“Rollin’ Sixties,” he responded proudly.

“Get up, homeboy. We gotta get ’em up.”

“Fo’ what?” he asked, visibly disturbed.

“ ’Cause I’m Monster Kody from Gangsta.”

“Wait, man, hold it. We ain’t even gotta trip that.”

“Naw, I don’t wanna hear that shit, fool. Yo’ punk-ass homies blasted me up, killed my homeboys Twinky, Roach, and Tit Tit. Now you wanna talk that ’hold it’ shit? Get yo’ bitch ass up!

I stepped back so he could get up, but still he wouldn’t move. The half cigarette was now a butt, and he was nervously sucking on it through clenched fingertips. I walked back up to him and put my left foot up on the bench next to him. He would not look me in the eyes.

“Who killed my homeboy Twinky?” I asked, figuring to pump this lame muthafucka for all the information I could before I downed him.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh yeah?” I began. “Who killed my homeboy Roach?”

“I don’t know,” he responded, looking straight ahead. I think he began to ease a bit under questioning, believing this would be my only intrusion.

“Who shot me?”

“Look, I ain’t supposed to tell you who shot yo’ homeboys,” he said, as if he were reminding me of some set rules of warfare agreed upon by both countries in Geneva. This taking of the Fifth would perhaps have been admissible in some American court of law, but in our circle it was not acceptable.

“Muthafucka,” I exploded, “I’ll tell you who shot yo’ homeboys!”

“Who killed Zinc?” he asked.

“I killed Zinc!”

“Who killed Popa T.?”

“I killed Popa T.!”

“Who killed Baby O.?”

“Me, muthafucka, me!”

I went on to name a few others I had pushed off this planet, all the while trying to incite him to violence.

“Now,” I said calmly, “who killed Twinky?”

“I don’t know.”

Out of control now, I grabbed him by the collar.

“Sissy, I’ll slap yo’ goddamn head off.”

“If you do I’ll still be from the big Six-O,” he said.

I reared back as far as I could and slapped the hell out of him hard across the face. His hair net flew off from the blow. With little choice he stood up swinging, but he was just a gunfighter and had little skill with his hands. I beat him pretty bad. One of my uppercut blows landed directly in his eye, knocking his head back. He stumbled to a corner holding his eye and pleading for me to stop. I did only because he ceased to resist. All the while his homeboy said nothing, so I stepped over to him.

“What’s yo’ name?” I asked.

“Shakey,” he replied. A fitting name, I remember thinking.

“How long you been from the Sixties?”

“ ’Bout nine months.”