I was driven to take risks with my freedom by the frightening thought of being the type of father mine had been to me. Absentee fatherhood was despicable, and I vowed to get to my family when and wherever I could. Being a prisoner for great lengths of time helped in one very real sense: it had prevented me from having multiple children by different women. All of my children are by Tamu. I can’t imagine having children and not being able to raise them, to live with them.
The job I found was directly behind our house. I worked for a security firm owned by a New Afrikan man. My job was to simply watch the construction equipment and building materials so that they weren’t stolen. My hours were from 11 P.M. till 7 A.M., which gave me most of the day to do things around the house.
My motivation was grounded in being an upright father to my children, a proper husband to Tamu—though we weren’t yet married in the traditional sense—and a revolutionary symbol for my people. I went from college campus to college campus passing out pamphlets I had written on Tamu’s typewriter. I still held small backyard lectures for the young Eight Trays at my mom’s house. But the hardest thing I had to do was go to the Los Angeles County Jail and see Crazy De, I tried everything to avoid going. I made excuses and appointments and outright lied to myself several times in useless attempts to avoid what I knew would be perhaps the most painful thing I’d had to face in some time. Crazy De and I had talked on the phone a few times, and I could almost hear the certainty of the future for him in his words. He’d urge me to come see him and I’d tell him I was busy that particular day or say something else to change the subject. But I believe he knew all along what I was going through. My phone number had gotten out, and soon every one of the homies with murder cases were calling me. I began to function like sort of a counselor to some of them. Others wanted me to neutralize their witnesses. But De, all he wanted was for me to come and see him. I resisted right up until he sent his mother to get me and bring me down to the county jail. When Alma, De’s mother, came over, I couldn’t refuse. I had to go and face my road dog in jail, where perhaps he’d be trapped for the rest of his life.
Alma and I made most of the trip in silence. I had to gear up psychologically to deal with the police-state atmosphere of the L.A. County Jail visiting room, where some of the officers would take liberties with hassling those visitors they felt were coming to see gang members. Sympathizers, girlfriends, supporters, and especially affiliates were discouraged from being regular visitors. One’s dress code often brought down the wrath of the deputies. I no longer dressed like a gang member, but I didn’t dress “normal” either. I usually wore a red, black, and green fez, a black t-shirt, and black fatigues bloused over my combat boots. This was my standard attire in 1988 and 1989, long before hip-hop made it fashionable.
Alma and I waited in line for our chance to sign up to see De. I scanned the waiting room, focusing on the women, mostly young New Afrikans and Chicanos, with their children running happily about the filthy room. I began to recall memories of times past I had experienced with Crazy De, my loyal companion. It was De who taught me how to persevere under police interrogation. It was he who’d advised me to stick with Tamu over China because, as he’d explained it, Tamu would teach me things that we could only dream about from where we were then. It was De who’d accompanied me when I visited my godparents’ home in Windsor Hills. I’d left him in the van, high on PCP, only to come out with my godmother and find that the van had rolled backward down the hill and onto someone’s front lawn. When we got down the hill and opened the van door, De stepped out like an embalmed zombie, in full Crip gear, never having realized that the van had moved. He’d smiled and said, “Nice to meet you, godmama,” and Delia had damn near fainted. My “dog.” I remembered seeing his electric smile through muzzle flashes on many missions. I recalled hearing his hardy laughter echoing off the shack walls in reaction to a good joke. I’ve seen him in tears of joy, pain, and rage. He taught me how to cry with dignity, with strength, and with pride. That I had learned to express emotions was attributable to De. If I was the epitome of the militarist in the ’hood, then De symbolized the most multifaceted gang member. De was one you wished to have around you at all times, under any circumstances. He was a leader of leaders, with the potential to be a king of kings. But I couldn’t get to him in time enough to show him a new path of expression, a meaningful way of achieving realistic goals. A path that emphasized knowledge of self and of kind, while not requiring the dehumanization of anyone else. De would have liked that.
“Visitors for Denard,” said a metallic voice over the P.A. system, and Alma and I moved through the crowded visiting room toward the area sectioned off for visitors. De was already there waiting. When he saw us he lit up like a thousand-watt bulb. He talked with Alma first, but kept looking up at me and smiling, his whole face beaming. Knowing that each visit is limited to twenty minutes, Alma spoke quickly and handed me the telephone.
“Hey, you, what’s up, De?”
“You,” he replied, and then added, “I’m glad you came, Sanyika.”
“Yeah, well, you know, I didn’t want to have to see you like this.”
“I know, but you know what, this may be the only way you will ever see me again. Sanyika, I’m stuck. They caught us dead-bang with a kidnapped hostage. That alone carries a life sentence. On top of that I got two murders. They gonna gas me, homie.”
He was staring hard into my face, waiting for a response, a sign that would signal that I could actually feel the weight of what he was expressing. Sitting there with his mother, I didn’t know how to respond. What, I wondered, could I say to make him see and feel that I knew what he was going through? And did I really know?
“Damn, De, how you get stuck like that, man? I mean, what…” But I couldn’t even talk, I was so choked up.
“Dope,” he said simply. “One word. You hear me, Sanyika? I’ve fucked my life up for a kilo of cocaine. Don’t get involved in that shit, homie, I’m telling you.”
“Naw, naw, I’m not. But, De, I want you to know, man, that I’m here for you. I love you.”
“Check this out. You have chosen another path now, some other way to make your mark. And although I’m not what you are and haven’t been through some of the things which contributed to your decision to be a revolutionary, I respect what you’re doing, and no love is lost from me to you. But you gotta understand that I’m still in this to the fullest. This is all I know. It’s Gangsta for life, homie.” And then, to get his point fully across he said solemnly, “Gangsterism continues.”
This was not a challenge or a smite, just the facts as they were at that moment. De felt perfectly comfortable inside of the chaotic confines of the set and the larger subculture of banging.
To break with the set, I’d had to draw on my well of strength and sum up the courage to step out of myself, my set, my learned ways and take an objective look at what was going on in the world around me. This had been neither easy nor comfortable. The process was slow, often obscured, and always painful. I’d had to look back beyond the good times and happy days to the tears and grief-stricken faces of mothers who had lost their children. I’ve found that unless you have children you’ll never know what it’s like to lose a child. I’d had to open my eyes and ears to hear the sounds of clips being pushed in and weapons being cocked, screeching car tires, running feet, the hunted and the hunters, the sudden blasts of gunfire; to see the twisted, lifeless bodies, the wounded still trying to run or crawl, the yellow homicide tape being strung, the tears over a family’s lack of funds for a proper burial, the drugs, the alcohol, the angry faces—this process, the way of life for so many, repeated itself over and over. Two sides, each violently throwing itself against the other. These are the scenes that contributed to my awareness: a firsthand knowledge of life and death on the front lines of all-out war.
Although I didn’t agree with De’s continued participation in the cycle of violence, I did overstand how he could still feel content. I had been fortunate in my capacity to get a perspective and make a break. And now, sitting here with De, I felt fortunate once again.
“De, what I have chosen to do with my life is, I think, the answer to the question of why we bang in the first place. You see, it comes down to—”
But the phone abruptly clicked off, signaling the end of the visit. De heard it, too. We sat there for a moment, just staring at each other, separated from a handshake, a hug, and now conversation by a thick Plexiglas window. When the deputies came to retrieve De and we both stood to go our separate ways, we simultaneously saluted each other—my salute was a clenched fist and his was the Eight Tray sign. The final chain had been broken.
Gangsterism continues. But more importantly, the struggle to eradicate the causes of gangsterism continues. And it is this struggle to which I am dedicated.
In January of 1991 I was captured by the L.A.P.D. for assault and grand theft auto. These charges stemmed from a healthy beating I had given a stubborn crack dealer who had refused to stop selling his product on my corner. His van was confiscated because of his stubborn insistence, which led to the GTA charge. I make no excuses for this, and I have no regrets. When the police and other government agencies don’t seem to care about what is going on in our communities, then those of us who live in them must take responsibility for their protection and maintenance. As it turned out, this specific dealer was also a paid police informant.
Because of my terrible record, I faced a sentence of seventeen years. I eventually pleaded guilty and received seven years. When I arrived back at prison, I was immediately put in solitary confinement for an indefinite stay. Charged with being a threat to institutional security, I am now into my third year of solitary confinement.
I admit that I am responsible for deeds that have caused irreparable damage, such as the taking of life, but I did so in a setting that seemed to dictate such action. I do not mean to place total blame on outside forces, though they do play a prominent role in my behavior and that of many others. But I feel I’ve done nothing to warrant the treatment I’ve received since returning to prison. I am held here in isolation because of my political views and for assertions I’ve made.
Many developments have taken place since my capture and incarceration. Kershaun has given up dealing drugs and has come into the New Afrikan Independence Movement. He and his wife have had a child, which I think has contributed greatly to his awareness. He now travels throughout the country giving lectures on the all-powerful trappings of gang activity and the gang life. He and I are still the closest in my family. Tamu and I got married just months before my incarceration and we had another child: Sanyika Kashif Shakur. Crazy De escaped the gas chamber and was given a life sentence without the possibility of parole. He’s still dedicated to gangsterism.
One of the most important things to occur was the Rodney King beating, which is not unusual given the current relations between the New Afrikan community and the police. The unique thing about the incident, though, was that it was filmed by someone from the community and shown by the media, which says a lot in itself. For me, it was not so much the beating itself that hit home, but the repeated sight of it actually happening in all of its ugliness. The obvious helplessness of Rodney King as he was pummeled continuously by the robot-like gunslingers, despite the fact that he was clearly submitting: This summed up for me the condition of the New Afrikan man in this country. Rodney King could have been any New Afrikan male in America. He could have been my son.
This incident also brought the realization of my powerlessness crashing down upon me, and with it, my rage and appetite for destruction rose. It was while in this mind-set that I clearly overstood the agitated rage meted out during the 1992 rebellion in Los Angeles, which was truly surprising to me. I wasn’t surprised that it occurred—that was inevitable. But I was surprised by the swiftness with which it unfolded. Some people say that the participants burned their own neighborhoods, which seems as crazy as saying that the Vietnamese destroyed their land to route out the Americans. The point I’m trying to make is that the businesses that were destroyed were not owned by the people who lived in those communities. They were owned and operated by folks who live in the suburban areas. The services that they were supplying were provided at astronomical prices, and the products were often inferior. No matter how many Toms try to paint a different scenario, there was a collective consciousness among the oppressed that is evidenced in their selection of targets and items taken. As a victim of exploitation I know the mind-set of the average rebel who took part in the burning and expropriation of goods.
What it boils down to is an overwhelming sense of inadequacy: the invisible man syndrome. The contributing factors are complex and many, and no singular person or group has the absolute solution. From what I’ve studied and seen it would seem that this country’s 130-year-old experiment of multiculturalism has failed. Perhaps it was never designed to work. My fear is that an atmosphere is developing here similar to that in Bosnia and Herzegovina, due to the failure of positive multicultural existence. My personal belief is that separation is the solution.
The majority of Crips and Bloods have come together under the banner of a cease-fire, an effort which I applaud. But realistically, it hasn’t accomplished the objective, which I believe was sidetracked by the open media coverage. Before there can ever be Crip and Blood peace there must be Crip and Crip peace. As evidenced by the accounts in this book, the number-one enemy of Crips is other Crips. This fact must be addressed before any one Crip set can come forth with an offer of peace to the Bloods. Although the cease-fire is still holding in Watts, where C.J. from Bounty Hunter and Tony Bogart from PJ Watts first organized it, other parts of South Central are still conducting their “talks” with fullies, body armor, and pagers. During the writing of this Epilogue, two Eight Trays have been killed, reportedly by Rollin’ Sixties, bringing the Eight Tray death toll to thirty-two.