Tribalism was most prevalent amongst New Afrikans, who began as one then split into Crips and Bloods. The Crips, ever the majority, were then plagued—indeed, traumatized—by the internal strife of “set trippin’.” There was also struggle within each set for leadership. In prison, beginning in Youth Authority, sets try to organize themselves on some level to deal with the new complexities of institutionalization. With this new quest comes the rise of antagonistic contradictions. Since most leaders were not politically equipped to properly recognize, confront, and resolve the contradictions in organizing the unorganized in relation to the larger society, their efforts usually failed, doomed from the outset, or were aborted in the early stages by those who opted for the old platform of anarchy. This start-and-stop process of organization was characteristic of most sets there.

When I was at Y.T.S., we began our organizing process when our numbers swelled beyond fifteen. Our critical concern was organizing around the larger reality of the war. I had been reading Mario Puzo’s The Godfather and was devising a grand scheme for the set based on the Corleone family structure. Never did I take into account that first and foremost the Italians had a clear sense of who they were. That is, they overstood their heritage and their relation to the world as European people. We, on the other hand, were just Crips with no sense of anything before us or of where we were headed. We were trapped behind the veil of cultural ignorance without even knowing it. Yet here I was, trying to pattern our set after some established people, Europeans at that.

My opposition came primarily from Diamond. It got continually worse until 1983, culminating in my charges of set neglect against Diamond. This prompted a meeting of the entire set. Diamond was exonerated, but after that our relationship never recovered.

By this time, I had become very egotistical. My reputation had finally ballooned to the third stage and, by definition, I had moved into the security zone of O.G. status. My rep was omnipresent, totally saturating every circle of gang life. From CRASH to the courts, from Crips to Bloods, from Juvenile Hall to death row, Monster Kody had arrived. This, coupled with my newfound curiosity and interest in Mafia-style gangsterism, made me very hard to approach.

By 1983 I was physically the second biggest in the institution, second only to an old friend, Roscoe, the Samoan from the Park Village Compton Crips. We were weight-lifting partners. He had twenty-one-inch arms, and mine were twenty and one-quarter. He was bench pressing five hundred and ten pounds and I was doing four hundred and seventy. I heard after I left that he went considerably higher—five hundred and ninety, I was told. My size added to the Monster image, and I capitalized on it at every opportunity.

We had planned a righteous gangster ceremony of bloodletting for the year 1983—the year of the Eight Trays. But 1983 found the set in shambles. Most of our combat troops were locked away, dead or paralyzed by lack of motivation. We found ourselves compensating for this in Y.T.S. by vamping on the Sixties. What sped this process up, apart from it being 1983, was the fact that Opie had just been murdered by the Rollin’ Sixties. Caught in a secured driveway trying to climb over a chain-link fence, he was hit once in the side and died waiting for an ambulance. We were incensed with rage, because other than Li’l Spike—who was the darling of the ’hood—Opie was our sort of mascot. He was always filthy and unkempt, which didn’t seem to bother him at all. But De and I would always make fun of Opie’s appearance and shabbiness. We even had the Opie National Anthem, which opened:

Where there’s fire, there’s smoke,

Where there’s dirt, there’s Op…

Opie would just look at us like he felt sorry for us, and De and I would double over in laughter. We’d take our hats off and place them solemnly over our hearts, looking very serious, and then fall into the Opie National Anthem. We loved Opie like a brother.

We needed to consolidate a meeting of all twenty-three of us in the institution so we could move simultaneously. The only feasible place we could congregate without the staff detecting our intent was in Muslim services, which was held every Monday night. We knew that the attendance was low and that our move to this service would not be viewed with alarm by the staff members who worked as operatives for the gang coordinator—the dreaded Mr. Hernandez.

When Li’l Monster came to Y.T.S. from Ventura for whipping a female prisoner, Mr. Hernandez called us both to his office. Li’l Bro was in Y-Z and I was on the Rock. I had been put there as a result of Li’l Fee from the Rollin’ Sixties telling Hernandez that I had instructed Stagalee to beat him down, which of course was true. Li’l Fee had just come down from Dewitt Nelson and was trying to be hard. When I dissed his set, he surprisingly dissed back, though he was out of firing range. In fact he was clear across the front field. The diss was not verbal, and no one other than he and I knew it was going on. When I saw him looking in my direction I flashed his set’s sign and then, still holding my fingers in place displaying his ’hood, I put them in my mouth and chewed on them, insinuating that “I be eating his ’hood up.” He in turn did the same to my set. But my gesture was based on fact; his was empty. Nonetheless, he had done it. I would have charged him immediately myself, but he was in step with his unit, escorted by two staff members and clear across the field, and I was in step with my unit, accompanied by staff. The chances of getting him were slim, taking into account the distance and the staff coverage. Besides, had I gotten there, how long would the brawl last? Surely not long enough to punish him for the crime of disrespect. In addition, I was a “G.” That meant I had people to handle this type of thing. No problem.

I sent word to Stag, who was in M-N with Li’l Fee. The very next day, Stag put an old-style gangster whipping on him. Li’l Fee informed Hernandez—who got involved in every fight that was gang related—of the dissing the previous day, and Hernandez locked me up on the Rock. Li’l Fee was sent back to Dewitt Nelson. The next time we would meet would be over the barrel of a gun.

When I got to Hernandez’s office I was surprised to see Li’l Bro. I had heard that he was here, but had not seen him because I was locked on the Rock. Hernandez gave us some bullshit-ass speech about not wanting to allow two Monsters into his institution. I wasn’t even paying attention to what he was saying. When in the course of his spiel about what he would not tolerate I jumped up out of my seat and shouted “Fuck it, I’m ready to go to the pen!” Mr. Hernandez was shocked and sat looking at me bug-eyed. Li’l Bro grabbed my arm and told me to “be cool,” I sat back down and burned a hole right through Mr. Hernandez, who now knew that I was beyond his little threats. How could I be cordial with the same man who had locked me up and now sat before me espousing threats? I was escorted back to the Rock without further comment from Hernandez. I saluted Li’l Bro and exited the room.

From the Rock, I sent word for the meeting in Muslim services. The following Monday evening we fell into Muslim services twenty-three deep. Besides us there were seven or eight others, including the two Muslim ministers, Muhammad and Hamza. Although staff members escorted them for supervisory coverage, they left soon after the ministers began to speak. On this night, our first night, the Muslims had set up a film on slavery, which held no interest for us. As soon as the lights went off I began in on our needed sweep to rid the institution of the Sixties. During the course of my talk to the homies, the lights flicked on, and the film projector was turned off. We sat up from our hunched positions and were faced with a very angry Hamza.

“Check this out, brothas,” began Hamza, who stood before us in a black thobe over black combat boots and a leather jacket. “Y’all disrespecting our services, over here rappin’ among y’all selves like little women—”

“Wait a minute, man,” I said in quick defense of our status. “We Eight Trays, we ain’t no women.”

“Yeah, well the way y’all—”

“Naw, man, fuck that, we gangstas.”

“Well, if y’all ain’t gonna watch the movie, then y’all can leave.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, standing up and slowly turning in the direction of the homeboys. “Let’s bail.” I stalked off without a backward glance, followed by the troops.

Once outside the Protestant church, which is where Islamic services were held, we made our way to the Trade Line’s smoke-break area and stood around. All at once powerful lights hit us from the tower overlooking the facility, and moments later institutional cars and vans sped toward us, stopping within inches of our gathering. We were put on the fence and brick wall surrounding the smoke-break area and searched by irate staff members. When asked what we were doing “out of bounds,” we said that the Muslims said we could leave. I was taken back to the Rock, while the others were locked in their cells pending an explanation by the Muslims, who had supposedly let us out of services without proper escort. The next day we found out that the Muslims had, in fact, backed up our story and, with the exception of me, all the homies were taken off lockdown.

The next week, while I was in the infirmary waiting room just wasting time out of my cell, Muhammad came through. At first I was a bit reluctant to approach him because of the disrespect issue. But I felt obligated to say something, because they had backed us up when the staff had asked them about the incident. I motioned him over.

“What’s up, man?” I asked, not knowing how he would respond. “Don’t you remember me?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I remember you.”

“Yeah, well, I just want to apologize for disrupting your services last week and say thanks for backing us up on our statement.”

“Yeah, I hear you, but actually y’all didn’t disrupt our services at all. And as far as the pigs trying to lock y’all up, naw, we ain’t gonna contribute to that.”

“Righteous,” I said, noting that Muhammad’s style of speech was straight out of the 1960s. He was about six feet even, with a very dark, shiny, well-kept blackness. He wore a full beard, gold glasses, and a turban. His dress code was militant. He was a black ayatollah.

“Isn’t your name Monster Kody?” asked Muhammad.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“From Eight Tray, right?”

“Right.”

“Insha Allah, I be dealing with some of your older homeboys. Rayford, Bacot, X-con. You know them?”

“Yeah, them my O.G. homies,” I said with pride.

“Was all them brothas with you last week from Eight Tray, too?”

“Yeah, we twenty-three deep here.”

“Why y’all brothas fall to the services like that?”

“Huh?” I said, as if I didn’t overstand his question. I didn’t know if I should tell him the truth or not. If I said we were having a meeting he might feel that we really were disrespecting his services.

“You know, like why was y’all so thick? Somebody got killed on the bricks?”

He saw that I was perplexed and didn’t want to say too much, so he talked on.

“You brothas looked unified and strong. Insha Allah, why don’t you come and check out the services tonight?”

“Naw, I ain’t into no religion or nothin’.”

“Well here, read this. And if you ever feel like checking us out, come on by. You’re welcome.”

“Righteous,” I replied, looking down at the pamphlet he’d given me, entitled Message to the Oppressed.

We shook hands and parted company. That night in my cell I read the pamphlet, which began with a quote by Malcolm X:

Out of frustration and hopelessness our young people have reached the point of no return. We no longer endorse patience and turning the other cheek. We assert the right of self-defense by whatever means necessary, and reserve the right of maximum retaliation against our racist oppressors, no matter what the odds against us are.

It went on to list food, clothing, and shelter as the immediate aims of the struggle, and land and independence as the sought-after objectives. The pamphlet was not as religious as I thought it would be. I had been so conditioned to believe that religion was synonymous with passivity—from the Christian teachings to people of color—that I simply took for granted that Islam was like Christianity in this light. The material ended with another quote by Malcolm X:

From here on in, if we must die anyway, we will die fighting back and we will not die alone. We intend to see that our racist oppressors also get a taste of death.

The language was heavy, and I was impressed by it. Of course I was trying to figure out how to fit my enemies into this language, for the word “oppressor” had little meaning to me then. Although I was, like every other person of color on this planet, oppressed, I didn’t know it. I told myself that next week I was going to go and see just what was happening over there.

During the days before the services I read and reread the pamphlet. I had trouble clarifying words like “struggle,” “revolutionary,” “jihad,” and “colonialism,” but I kept on reading. It gave me a certain feeling, a slight tingle, and a longing sense of curiosity. Finally, the next week fell and I found myself walking down the ramp off the Rock and over toward the chapel that held Islamic services.

When I got there I was greeted by a brother named L.C., who was also a prisoner who lived on company S-T. There were about nine people altogether. After they went through their prayers, Muhammad read a short sura from the Holy Koran and then closed it. Standing there thoughtfully for a moment he played lightly in his beard, and then, as suddenly as thunder, he began a sharp tirade about the U.S. government.

“Brothas, it is incumbent upon you as male youth to learn of your obligation to the oppressed masses who are being systematically crushed by the wicked government of the United States of America. They already know of your potential to smash them, so they have deliberately locked you up in this concentration camp.”

Now, heated up, he began to pace the length of the church.

“Insha Allah, you will not be sidetracked from your mission. You are young warriors who are destined to be free! But you must be prepared to jihad till death!”

I was totally awestruck by his strength and language, not to mention his sincerity. He talked on about the government’s deliberate efforts to rid the world of people of color—black males in particular. All but the simplest things went right over my head. But what I was able to grasp slapped me hard across the face with such force that I got goose bumps. Damn, this shit must be real. It seems too heavy to be made up. And if he didn’t know what he was talking about, how was he able to explain what I had been through in home, in school, in the streets, and with the law? No, this had to be real.