Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 14

"You Monster Kody. Ain't n.o.body gonna let you live in peace. . . . The set needs you . . ."

My young consciousness screamed back in an attempt to exert itself.

"Who is Monster Kody? . . . J am Monster Kody . . . a person, a young man, a black man . . . Anything else? . . . No, not that I know of. . . What is Monster Kody? . . . A Crip, an Eight Tray, a Rollin' Sixty killer . . . a black man . . . Black man, black man, BLACK MAN . . ."

The words reverberated again and again.

"n.o.body gonna let you live in peace . . ."

"Who ain't gonna let you live in peace?"

"Black men, black men, black men . . ."

"Why?!" my consciousness shouted back, "WHY?!"

I had no answer. The confusion gave me a headache. I knew that I was reaching a crossroad, but I didn't know how to handle it. Should I accept it or reject it? In a perverted sort of way I enjoyed being Monster Kody. I lived for the power surge of playing G.o.d, having the power of life and death in my hands. Nothing I knew of could compare with riding in a car with three other homeboys with guns, knowing that they were as deadly and courageous as I was. To me, at that time in my life, this was power. It made me feel responsible for either killing someone or letting them live. The thought of controlling something substantial-like land-never occurred to me. The thought of responsibility for the welfare of my daughter or a nation, New Afrika, never crossed my mind. I was only responsible to my 'hood and my homeboys. Now I was being subjected to a wider reality than I had ever known.

Then I heard it. As I was struggling with this dilemma I grasped the point that Muhammad was trying to make.

"When you were born you were born black. That's all. Then, later on, you turned Crip, dig?"

In this light I found clarity. But, I asked myself, what was Muhammad really asking of us? Did I have to be a Muslim to be black? I surmised that it was like being a Crip or a Blood, as opposed to being a hook or a civilian. Where I came from, in order to be down you had to be "in." Did I have to be "in"-that is, a Muslim-to be down with blackness? Surely much thought and internal debate had to go into this issue.

My thing was this: I didn't believe there was a G.o.d. I just had no faith in what I couldn't see, feel, taste, hear, or smell. All my life I have seen the power of life and death in the hands of men and boys. If I shot at someone and I hit him and he died, who took his life? Me or G.o.d? Was it predestined that on this day at this time I would specifically push this guy out of existence? I never believed that. I believed that I hunted him, caught him, and killed him. I had lived in too much disorder to believe that there was an actual design to this world. So I had a problem with believing in anything other than myself.

My interest here was drawn by the militancy of Malcolm X and Muhammad, not by the spirituality of Islam. The first book I got was Soul on Ice by Eldridge Cleaver. Most of it was too hard to grasp, but what I did get was militant and strong. I found that this was my preference.

I was subsequently taken off the Rock and put back in Unit Three, in company U-V. While attending school for my G.E.D., I met a brother named Walter Brown. Bro-who worked at Y.T.S. as a teacher but functioned better as a guiding light-had been a prisoner himself in the 1960s. He was stern but flexible and held great influence over most of us who were considered O.G.s. Brown was militant but responsible. Not to imply that militants are irresponsible, but Brown was specifically responsible for the upbringing of us-young, New Afrikan males. His degree of effectiveness can be measured by the fact that he was designated to "teach" parole cla.s.ses. That gave him access to prisoners for one week, one hour a day, before they were paroled. This skimpy time frame could not possibly have helped prisoners deal with the multi-complex phenomena of society. Most of what was taught was useless, old inst.i.tutional garbage that was not applicable to the streets. Brown, however, was beyond that and taught hard-core reality-politics that drew those of us who listened closer to the brink of consciousness. Some of us, those who Brown felt had potential, would stop by his cla.s.s long before pre-parole and sit and listen to him talk about the raw reality of America.

"Kody," Brown would say, "these white folks ain't playin', man. They will lock you up, lock you down, lock you in just like they have locked you out of this society. If you haven't got any marketable skills to sustain an income on your own, man, your chances of survival are slim. You are high-risk living-actually just existing. You young, black, unskilled, strong . . . you smoke cigarettes?"

"Naw, just bo'."

"Well, that's good enough. You use drugs, you drink, and to top it off you g.a.n.g.b.a.n.g! Man, how you gonna make it?"

"Man, I don't know . . ."

Brown, like Muhammad, had a great impact on my development, though it took a few years to appreciate their contribution. The strongest New Afrikan men I had known up until that time were bangers. Verbalizing was not an issue. Shoot first and let the victims' relatives ask questions later. Guns were our tools of communication. If we liked you, you weren't shot and we'd go to any length to shoot whomever disliked you. If you were not liked, you were hunted, if necessary, and shot-period. Instantaneous communication. That's all I had known for years. Words, I thought, could never take the place of guns to communicate like or dislike. But here I was, totally absorbed in the spoken words of Muhammad and Brown, and the written word of Malcolm X. Each emotional lash was tantamount to the resounding echo of gunfire. But unlike gunfire, no one was killed. This was my first encounter with brothers who could kill with words. Their words were not mere talk, either. Action followed in the wake of their theories, and their presence demanded respect long before their words were spoken.

One Monday night we fell to Islamic services to find another "Muslim" there. In appearance, this cat was totally out of sync with the Muslims we had known. First of all, he had a Jheri curl, which was dripping juice onto his collar and the shoulders of his Members Only jacket, which was black and collarless. He wore some gray double-knit slacks and black penny loafers. Standing approximately five feet, four inches and weighing a meager one hundred and twenty pounds, he was the opposite of Muhammad. As soon as we had taken in his dress and fried hair dripping nuclear waste, we knew we had been undermined.

"Where's Muhammad at?" I asked, walking up on him.

"Oh, well," he began stammering, obviously intimidated by my size, "Muhammad was suspended by the California Department of Corrections Youth Board and restricted from entering the inst.i.tution until further notice."

"What?!"

"Sorry, fellas, but Muha-"

"SORRY"?!

"Yes, you see-"

"Man, we want Muhammad. You don't even look like no real Muslim. Where you from? Who sent you?"

"Please, please," he said, raising both hands like a jack victim. "If you all sit down I will explain everything to you. Please, just have a seat."

We moved slowly and reluctantly to our seats, murmuring "f.u.c.k that" and "This dude is a fake" under our breath. Once we were seated it was apparent that the "Muslim" felt even more intimidated by standing in front of eighty irate youths demanding an explanation for the sudden removal of our teacher. He began with "Asalaam Alaik.u.m" and not one of us responded with "Walaik.u.m Asalaam." Why should we? He wanted us to be peaceful with him, but we had no intention of bidding him peace until a full explanation was brought forth about the removal of Muhammad Abdullah. The "Muslim" extracted a white kerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat mixed with Jheri curl juice from his brow.

"I am George Muhammad and I have been sent by the American Muslim Mission. My job is not to teach you revolution, but Al-Islam. Mr. Muhammad Abdullah was a fomenter of violence and separating. He was-"

"Man, f.u.c.k you!" came a voice from the back, immediately followed by a balled-up piece of paper.

"We live in violence," said L.C., one of the original members of the services before we came. "Always have and, by the definition of ghetto, we already live in separation. Muhammad did not teach us violence and separation. He taught us self-defense and nationalism. And anyway, Al-Islam teaches us, by way of the Holy Koran, that it is our duty as Muslims to fight oppression everywhere it a.s.saults us in this world."

"Yes, but-"

"Naw, ain't no 'yes, but,' see, 'cause you ain't right. I heard Muhammad talk about you one day. Yeah, yeah that's right. He taught us 'bout how you be lookin' like us, talkin' like us, and livin' with us, but all the time you be workin' with the oppressor. Yep, we already up on you. Yo' name ain't no George Muhammad. Yo' name is Uncle Tom!"

"Get that m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka!" yelled someone to the left of me, and we all rose and began to advance on Tom, who stood bug-eyed and motionless. Just before he was seized, the doors to the chapel burst open and staff in full riot gear came rus.h.i.+ng to his rescue.

We were all sent back to our cells and put on C.T.Q.-Confined to Quarters-during which time I received a letter from Muhammad. His letter was my first lesson in counterintelligence activity.

The pigs sent the Negro preacher to gather intelligence on me. He climbed in the air-conditioning vent and taped several of our services. He has always been our worst enemy, unfortunately, for the Uncle Tom is so hard to detect among us. I will not be coming back to Y.T.S. for some time, if ever. But I will always stay in contact with you. Insha Allah, don't be deceived by those who look like us but think like the oppressor.

I was stung by the reality of Muhammad's letter, by the prophecy of his "don't be deceived by those who look like us" when just this week I had witnessed the undermining of our services by the inst.i.tution. I pa.s.sed Muhammad's letter around to those who were responsible for informing their troops. For those who had a problem reading, I took it upon myself to explain what had happened.

Attendance at Islamic services under the guidance of the Uncle Tom fell off completely. No one attended, so Tom packed up and left. Because of what we had found out about Reverend Jackson spying on us, no one attended his services, either. As for the staff bursting in and rescuing the Uncle Tom-he was wired! I later found out the staff had antic.i.p.ated such a response.

My consciousness about the larger enemy was being raised bit by bit. Why wouldn't someone want us to learn about who we really are? Is our knowledge of self so threatening that such measures as sending a Christian preacher into an air conduit are necessary to hinder its attainment?

Muhammad and I kept in contact, and he sent me a lot of literature, mostly Islamic but always Afrocentric. The banging mentality was still uppermost in my mind, as demonstrated in my everyday relations with most people. But questions of right and wrong now came to my mind immediately after every action I took. Muhammad had made a tremendous difference in my life that was barely noticeable then, but cannot be overlooked today.

My time in Y.T.S. after the closing of Islamic services continued in a fas.h.i.+on characteristic of prison life. To occupy my time I had structured a daily routine that gave me little opportunity to be blue about confinement. It was 1983, and I wanted to make a statement for the set somehow, someway. But I didn't want to do it in a physical manner, which seemed uncharacteristic of me. Actually, it was uncharacteristic of Monster.

Diamond, Superman, and I decided to get tattoos for 1983. I wanted mine on my neck, in clear view for all to see. This, I knew, would be a status symbol, as relatively few New Afrikans had tattoos on their necks at that time. Today it's hard to find a banger whose neck isn't written on, advertising his or her particular allegiance. In 1983 it was unpopular to have your set written across your neck, but h.e.l.l, was I into this for popularity or was I committed for life? My all-out commitment for life would, if I lived long enough, bring about popularity, as I was already experiencing. But with Eight Tray written across my neck, it would be an everlasting bond.

In Black August 1983, I had the tattoo put on my neck. Superman had his mother's name put on his neck, and Diamond had some shading done on his back. Against the lightness of my skin and the thickness of my neck, the tattoo stood out as a beaming testimonial of my lifelong commitment to the 'hood. One staff member said something adverse about it, but most people didn't care. I felt content about it, and to me, that's all that mattered.

Not long after I received the tattoo I got more depressing news from the 'hood. C-Ball, who had been in the 'hood for years, had shot and killed Tray Stone. From what I was able to gather it was over a ca.s.sette tape stolen out of C-Ball's car. But after doing a bit more research I uncovered a possible link in a relations.h.i.+p with a female whose brother was from the 'hood. It was my overstanding that C-Ball was jealous of Stone's flirtations with the female and that he'd only used the tape issue as camouflage. Supposedly Stone was confronted on the north side by C-Ball, who was armed with a .32 caliber revolver, as Stone had grown too large for C-Ball to fight. When C-Ball asked after his missing tape, Stone became belligerent. C-Ball then fired one round at point-blank range into Stone's torso. Stone fell to the ground and said, "Ah, cuz, he shot me," as if he could not believe it. He died thereafter.

C-Ball turned himself in and received eight years. Now the debate was about what to do with C-Ball. Tray Stone was the highest level of combat soldier and was loved deeply by those whom he fought for and beside. C-Ball, while not a combat soldier, had been in service to the set for years, much longer than Stone. Those of us in the combat wing who favored Stone were calling for the on-sight execution of C-Ball, while the voices of the traditionalists in their armchair posture rang just as loudly for the forgiveness of C-Ball for slaying "Tray Stone the bully." The set remained divided over this for quite some time. Even today there are those on both poles of the issue still debating what's right and what's wrong. I have let it rest. Stone was eighteen years old.

I was paroled out of Y.T.S. on March 7, 1984. Mom and Tamu were there to pick me up. Li'l Bro and I had been at Y.T.S. for one year.

8.

TAMU.

"Slow down!" I yelled at Tamu as she zoomed through traffic, dodging and darting between trucks and cars. I had been confined for three years and had lived practically at a standstill, moving from place to place inside the inst.i.tution only by foot. Even then my stroll was slow and cool with an obvious sway of gang culture. But now here I was, stuffed into the back seat of this red Toyota Tercel with Tamu and Mom sitting up front, chatting away, flying along the Pomona Freeway headed for Los Angeles.

"Tamu, did you hear me? Slow this d.a.m.n thang down!" I shouted, holding the seat for leverage.

"Babes," she said, almost turning completely around in her seat.

"Don't turn around, watch the road!"

"I'm only doing fifty-five. It's the regular speed limit."

"Why it seem like we doin' two hundred, then?"

"'Cause you ain't been in no car in years, babes."

"I ain't gonna never make it home, you keep drivin' like this."

"Oh, boy, relax," Mom said. "You picked a fine time to be scared of something."

"I ain't scared, I just-"

"Yeah, yeah," Tamu said, giving Mom a we-really-know look.

I tried to relax, but I couldn't shake the excitement of being out. The last thing I wanted was to crash on the way home and fail the mission of coming back. Besides, this d.a.m.n Toyota was awfully small for me. I was huge, muscles bulging from everywhere. Tamu and I kept making eye contact in the mirror, both our gazes dripping with l.u.s.t. What would it be like to be with her again, I wondered? Even that seemed a bit frightening.

Cars zoomed past, irate drivers flipping f.u.c.k-you signs in our direction. I looked over Tamu's shoulder at the speedometer: fifty miles per hour. She had slowed down, but still we seemed to be moving at an alarming pace. Of all things to die from, I didn't want to go out in a traffic accident.

We swooped through downtown and up and over into South Central. It was dusk, and the sun lay somewhere out beyond Venice Beach, slipping into the water and bringing the deadly night to Los Angeles. To my right I saw the lights of the Goodyear Blimp hovering over the Coliseum. Perhaps there was some function there. It always amazed me to see that huge football-shaped airs.h.i.+p floating effortlessly through the air, displaying an unspoken peace of nongravitational bliss. Over to my left I saw two helicopters dipping, dodging, and cutting through the air in violent twists that telegraphed their aerial pursuit of someone. One helicopter was labeled POLICE, the other SHERIFF. Peace in the air to my right and war above to my left. Good old South Central: nothing really changed.

When we got on Normandie I started reading the walls. The Brims, it seemed, had resurfaced with a little force. Once we pa.s.sed Gage and moved into our 'hood, the writing became more p.r.o.nounced, more violently scrawled on things, no doubt the sign of a neighborhood at war. Graffiti, although mainly used for advertising, can also function as messages to enemies-evil spirits-that "this territory is protected and it's not like we didn't give you fair warning." BEWARE OF EIGHT TRAYS was written in several places along Normandie Avenue. I found that amusing. Turning onto Sixty-ninth Street, I felt a pang of nostalgia for the block, my stomping grounds-my s.p.a.ce.

As we pulled into the driveway I felt a stab of pain and a sense of loss. None of the homies from my combat unit was there. No one. Although there were at least twelve people from the set, they were not of my clique. Tray Ball was dead, Crazy De was in prison, and Diamond, who I had seen go home from Y.T.S., was already back in for murder. Tray Stone was dead, and my li'l brother was still in Youth Authority. But I did see Joker and Li'l Crazy De, which made it a bit easier to deal with the group. A few people I didn't know at all.

When Mom opened her car door, a horde of homies rushed to help her out. Someone held the front seat up so I could lumber out of the constricting back seat. Once I had gotten out and stood to my full height, the comments from the homies fell from everywhere.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n, cuz, you swoll like a m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka!"

"d.a.m.n, check dis n.i.g.g.a out."

"Cuz' arms big as my head."

"What was they feedin' you, Monsta, weights?"

I stayed out front a while, answering some of their questions and asking some of my own. Once this grew tiresome I s.h.i.+fted and asked to speak to Li'l Crazy De and Joker alone. We went into the backyard and left the others to mingle out front.

"Cuz," I began, "I need a gat."

"Yeah," responded Joker, "we got some s.h.i.+t for you."

"Right, right."

"So, what's up with them n.i.g.g.as across the way? Y'all been droppin' bodies or what?"

"Aw, n.i.g.g.a, I thought you knew!" said Li'l Crazy De. "Tell him, Joker."

"Monsta, we caught this fool the other night in the 'hood writin' on the wall. Cuz, in the 'hood! Can you believe that s.h.i.+t? Anyway, we roll up on boy and ask him, ?, what the f.u.c.k you doin'?' Boy breaks and runs and-"

"I cut his a.s.s down wit' a thirty-oh-six wit' a infrared scope!" interrupted Li'l De. "Aw, Monsta, I f.u.c.ked cuz up! He was like all squirmin' and s.h.i.+t, sufferin' and stuff, so-"

"I put this," Joker said, pulling out a Colt .45 from his waistband, "and KABOOM! To the brain, you know. Couldn't stand to see the b.i.t.c.h-made m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka sufferin' and s.h.i.+t."

"Who was he?" I asked.

"s.h.i.+t, we ain't heard yet, but he was probably one of they Baby Locs, 'cause he looked young, you know?"

"Have they rode back?"

"Naw, not that we know of. Most of they shooters in jail like ours."

"Who killed Opie?"

"Word is that Sissy Keitarock did it. Anyway, cuz in jail fo' it."

"Oh, but De, tell cuz how we to' s.h.i.+t up fo' Opie," said Joker excitedly.

"Aw, cuz, we shot so many-"

"Cuz, I need a gat," I said, trying to insinuate to Li'l De that I wasn't really interested in his war stories.

"Don't sweat it, big homie, we got some s.h.i.+t fo' you, cuz."

"Anyway-" Li'l De tried to continue.

"When y'all get the gat for me come back. But like, right now, I want some p.u.s.s.y and some food. Now if either of y'all got some of that I'll stay back here with you, but if not, I'm goin' in the pad to get some," I said, smiling.

"Aw, man, f.u.c.k you, cuz, we gone."

"Oh, but Monsta, we be back in three minutes, awright?" Joker said over his shoulder.