Every summer the city of Los Angeles held a Festival in Black at MacArthur Park and most everybody from everywhere would attend. Tookie and Jamael—who started the Avalon Garden Crips—would go to all the functions, concerts, parties, and parks and peel out of their shirts, amazing everyone with their size. Jamael’s light skin contrasted hard with Tookie’s dark complexion and made them look even bigger, like two gargant-uans. During the festivals in Black, Rennis and I would be designated by Tookie to carry the straps, which was more than cool with me.

Another time Tookie and I walked from Sixty-ninth Street to 107th Street so he could retrieve his shotgun. Eight Ball had been lent the gauge to bust on some Brims but had never returned it. So Tookie and I started walking to Eight Ball’s, but before we got there we went around to a homie’s house whose mother was selling angel dust—PCP. Tookie got two seams (a seam was a ten-dollar package in tin foil) on credit. He rolled each seam into a joint and we got high as we walked. By the time we reached the Nineties we were both whacked out of our brains. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, blurry and dark. When Took got high he walked like a cowboy in a High Noon duel.

When we got to 107th Street we ran into some Original Hoovers: Sam, Jughead, Andre Jones, Jinks, and Cobra. They talked with Tookie for a while and mostly ignored me. (Later on they would come to know me.) Took got his hair braided by a Cripalette—a female Crip—and we made our way over to Ball’s house. I went to the door and got him.

“Cuz,” Took said, “where’s my gauge?”

“I put it under the mattress in the back where Bitch sleep.” Bitch was Tookie’s pit bull.

“You should’ve told me… ”

“I knocked, but there wasn’t no answer.”

“If my gauge ain’t there, I’m gonna kill yo’ mama.”

“It’s there—”

“It betta be!”

And we left.

Although Eight Ball was my homie, Took was the general. On our way back down Normandie, the police stopped us. Automatically they handcuffed Took.

“What’s his name?” the police asked me.

“Tookie,” I said, like don’t-you-know?

“No, his real name.”

Now, I knew his first name was Stanley, because he told us that before he got the nickname Tookie. They used to call him Stanley Livingston. I also knew that his brother, Li’l Tookie, was Wayne. Wayne Holloway. So I took it for granted that because they were brothers, Took’s last name was also Holloway.

“Stanley Holloway,” I said.

The police came back over to me and said, “Hmm, that’s funny. He says his name is Stanley Williams. Somebody’s lying.”

“Maybe I got it wrong, I just—”

“Why are you with this scumbag anyway, huh?” asked the officer, cocking his head.

“Well, he’s… uhm… my friend,” I said, but it didn’t sound right.

“Bull-fuckin’-shit! Who you think you talking to? Huh?” he said, grabbing me by the collar.

“But he—”

“ ‘But’ my fuckin’ ass. He is going to have you shooting up every goddamn Brim in L.A. He don’t give a shit about you. He just wants to make you a Crip, one of his soldiers. Wise up, boy, you’re still young.”

So he did know who Tookie was. They uncuffed Took and we began walking off. Took asked what I told them his name was and I replied Stanley Holloway. He slapped me hard across the back of the head.

“Williams, dumb ass, Williams!”

“Awright, awright, I got it,” I said, rubbing the back of my head, which was stinging like crazy.

The payback song reminded me of Tookie. That’s all he played over and over as he lifted weights. He and Big Jack, his roommate, had an old eight-track rigged up to a speaker in a milk crate. On one tape he had four songs: “Payback,” “Girl Calling,” “Happy Feelings,” and “Reach for It.” I learned a lot of Crip etiquette from Tookie.

Most Crips have not had the opportunity to meet him, or any other founders, so they tend to believe that they “created the wheel.” No history whatsoever is attached to their banging. In early ’79, Tookie and two other Crips, who subsequently gave him up, were captured for four murders. In 1981 he was given the death penalty, and he now resides on death row in San Quentin.

As the Payback song played on, I found it hard to shake my trancelike thoughts about the old days. I soon became depressed. I wanted to sleep, to dream, to escape. For the first time I felt South Central choking me. I didn’t want to die without having made any substantial contribution to something. But what? Where was I taking this?

I slept as much as I could. That night the homegirls came by to see me. Spooney, who had a baby by Tray Stone; Bam, who was pregnant by Diamond; Prena, Crazy De’s sister; and Sharon and China were all there. The first thing Spooney said was, “Monster, don’t die on us!”

I promised her I wouldn’t.

“Why would you say that?” I said.

“Because,” she explained, “everybody seems to be doing it, like it’s cool or something. Monster, just be careful, okay?”

“All day!”

“We know that, just be careful, all right?” Bam pleaded.

We talked late into the night. Bam kept asking me if I had fucked any dudes in the ass while I was in prison. I assured her that I hadn’t, which I doubt she believed. The fire between China and I had died. It seemed that our only union gravitated around banging and it was quite apparent from our conversations that both of us had grown up and a little out of the banging circle. She even had a job.

“Where’s your daughter?” Prena asked.

“Over her godparents’ house. She’ll be here tomorrow if you want to see her.”

“I do,” said Sharon. China just looked away. I saw a glimmer of pain in her eyes. It still affected her.

When they finally left it was three in the morning. It felt good to see them. I called Tamu and we talked until the sun came up.

That afternoon Tamu brought Keonda to see me. She was three years old and I was scared to death of her! She looked just like me. We played and rolled around on the carpet together and bonded. Still, the responsibility of being a father hadn’t sunk in. How could it have? Mom was still taking care of me. Tamu was still living at home, too. We both were young, but I knew I had to do something to generate revenue to provide for Keonda.

One day while I was still on the Rock in Y.T.S., I wrote to Mom in one of my militant moods, stressing as best I could the dominance of the white power structure over us as a people, something I had learned from reading Soul on Ice by Eldridge Cleaver. She had shown the letter to a Muslim friend of hers who, she said, wanted to meet me. She told me that when I got out he would give me a job. After seeing and being with Keonda I figured what the hell, let me see what this cat is talking about. Tamu had taught me to drive a stick shift so I would have access to her car whenever I wanted, which gave me the freedom to go see him.

The following Monday I drove over to his office. I felt awkward, because applying for a job just wasn’t the gangsterish thing to do. You either jacked for money or you sold dope. Working was considered weak.

The business was a computer school called Trans-Western Institute. The position I applied for was recruiter, which meant I would be sent to designated areas to recruit students for the school. Students were eligible for government grants, student loans, and other financial help. For every student I recruited I would be given a fifty-dollar commission.

The first place they sent me was the unemployment office downtown, which was cool because I wasn’t in danger of being recognized. I didn’t want anyone I knew to see me with a job and I surely didn’t want to be caught by some enemies while recruiting.

My first day I didn’t try to recruit anyone, I simply walked around, amazed at the unemployment lines snaking around inside the tiny building. Hordes of people, mostly Chicano and New Afrikan, stood around, shifting from foot to foot, waiting, hoping, trying to find something to do. Utter despair was marked like tattoos on most of their faces. I guess this was the look that people said Reaganomics caused, but I doubted the truth of that, because as long as I could remember I had seen Mom wear that same fixed expression of hopelessness. The striking thing here was that there were so many of these expressions together in one room. Certainly the pain in those faces was not the result of just four years of Reagan, nor could the sudden shift to conservative economics be the result of one bad man in office. I sat back on a dirty bench and watched until it was time for lunch, at which point I went home.

The next day they sent me to Garfield High School in East L.A. I never went. The following day I didn’t show up at all, and I never returned again.

Instead I went to Whiteboy Eric. He gave me some drugs to sell. The first thing I bought with the proceeds was a ’68 Chevy and some sounds. Then Tamu and I got an apartment on Eighty-fourth Place and Western Avenue. After being out of Y.T.S. for only three months things were smooth.

Since I had no comrades from my unit out in the field, I bonded with those whom I had the most in common: Gangster Brown and Tracc. Both Brown and Tracc were still heavily into PCP, so as a social link I too fell heavily into it. For almost two months straight we’d smoke whole Sherman cigarettes dipped in PCP every day, sometimes two and three times a day. I had gotten a blue flag from downtown that was as big as a bed sheet. Oftentimes while I was high on PCP I’d arrange the huge blue flag on my head in Arab fashion, secured by a black stretch belt. I’d put on my Locs, roll down all the windows in my car, and fly around the city looking stone-crazy! Everyone thought I was a nut.

That summer we all got skinheads. We’d pile into my car four deep, bald-headed with dark shades on, and ride around L.A. We’d never smile. We actually had a good time, though we were heavily armed. After all, you can only play so much in L.A.

Finally Stagalee got out of prison and I was grateful, as the Sherm was starting to take a toll on me. Stag and I subsequently became road dogs. He was at least four years younger than me, and I found myself in almost the same role with him as Tray Ball had been with me. Although Stag had been with the set before he and I met in Y.T.S., his clique was a noncombative unit of wannabees. By hanging with me, he got turned onto some righteous soldiers. He was a tragedy waiting to happen. Like Tray Stone, he was a sleeper who just needed someone to coach that ruthlessness out of him. Once I’d tapped into it, he roared to life like an age-old volcano. I knew we’d be good friends.

One afternoon, much to my surprise, Muhammad came by my mom’s house and he and I rapped awhile about the circumstances surrounding his suspension from Y.T.S. He also showed me a letter he’d received from Warith D. Muhammad that forbade him further entry into prisons in the capacity of an imam. The letter said, “You are teaching hatred and breeding terrorists.”

Muhammad asked if I would attend Salat with him the following day. I agreed. He left me with two books—Black Panther Leaders Speak and The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I went in the pad to look over the material.

“Who was that?” Mom asked as I entered the house.

“Oh, that’s Muhammad. He used to teach us at Y.T.S. Remember I told you about him?”

“Uhm, I’m not sure. You got so many friends. What’s that he gave you?” she asked, reaching for the books.

“Books on us, black people. Mom, you should hear him talk. He can get off!”

“Yeah, well he needs to take that turban off before someone mistakes him for the Shah of Iran.”

“Naw, Mom, the Shah of Iran was a U.S. puppet. You mean the Ayatollah.”

“Well, whoever, shit,” Mom said and handed me back the books.

I had surprised myself by remembering what Muhammad had told us so long ago about the Shah being a U.S. puppet, but as soon as it was fitting to speak on it, it just came out. Muhammad was always able to bring out the sharpness in me.

The following day we went to the Islamic Center on Fourth Street and Vermont Avenue and I totally tripped out. I saw Muslims from all over the world. Sisters my age—nineteen—wore traditional Afrikan dress from the continent. There were Iranians, Saudis, and Libyans, too. I saw flowing thobes of various colors, turbans, jewelry, and manners unlike any I’d ever seen or known. I was standing there in 50Is, Puma tennis shoes, a Polo shirt, and a Raiders cap and felt like a damn fool! I got a few looks that today I would define as Third World people seeing me as a benefactor in their oppression, but at that time I thought they were just curious about my dress code.

Muhammad went in and did Salat and I milled around by the shoes. The women and girls went to another part of the center to pray.

“You know,” Muhammad began as we walked out into the noonday sun, toward the car, “Al-Islam is not compulsive. Allah will raise up those he sees fit. Insha Allah, you have a mission.”

“I always thought that only actors in Hollywood wore those geni shoes that curled up in the front.”

“Brotha, the European has twisted and turned everything to fit his warped way of thinking. He has made himself the center of the world, indeed of the universe. Have you ever heard the words Oriental and Occidental?”

“I heard of Oriental. Don’t that mean Jap?”

“No, now listen,” he said, with a precautionary finger up. “Orient means East and Occident means West. Now here’s the twist. Europe, as put forth by the European, is the center of the world. Therefore, anything to its east is Oriental, while anything to its west is Occidental. This is what is meant by Eurocentric.”

“Yeah, but if Europe is not the center of the world, then what is?”

“Check this out. When a baby is born what is the most essential thing needed for its survival?”

“Uhm, food?”

“Food! Right. And where does that food come from?”

“The mother, or the doctor.”

“All right, therefore what’s central to the baby?”

“The mother?”

“Right. The cradle of civilization is Afrika. Afrika is the motherland. Therefore, Afrika is central to all of humanity.”

“But—”

“Wait, wait, let me explain this. Now those whom we know today as Europeans are actually mutants who left the safe confines of the Motherland and evolved in Europe. Their food for survival was doctored by an unnatural mother. The side effects of their development outside of the natural womb has been albinism, aggression, and universal weakness predicated on their minority status in the world.”

“Well, if that’s the case, why don’t we just tell everybody what’s really going on?”

“I wish it were that simple. Hey, ever heard the words mankind and human?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard ’em.”

“Do you know what hue is?” he asked, looking at me now over the top of the car.

“Hue? No, don’t know what it means.”