Before the immigration riots: Trouble in Los Angeles County and on the border. A story. Gangster Crip Cartel
The death knell of death
Admittedly, I have made bad decisions. One occurred in the fall of 1988—It could actually be defined as an ill-advised master choice comprised of ill-advised sub-choices. But I got out unscathed. That’s gotta be worth something. I spun a Dodge Neon rental car around Los Angeles County inadvertently searching for danger to satisfy an academic curiosity. The rental of a vehicle for that purpose was the macro, and short jaunts to gang territory or so-called gang turf were the micro. Now, I didn’t roll up to the Rollin 60’s or Piru Bloods. I wouldn’t know where to go. However, Ice-T kinda laid it out in 1987-
Miami Vice is small time, L.A's the big league
From the rollin' 60's to the nickerson "G"
Pueblos, grape street, this is what I see
The jungle, the 30's, the V.N.G.
Life in L.A. ain't no cup of tea
Sylmar, Bell Cudahy, Compton. I toured. Wait, Compton? Yeah, I did.
The end of the tour went something like this-
Hard-core glares with gangster eyes met me as I came to a halt waiting for the Santa Fe Railroad freight train to pass. The red lights rapidly flashed like they were announcing a warning beyond an approaching train. The bars came down at sun-dial speed, exacerbating my fear, while sweat immediately formed on my scalp and back. I nervously tapped the wheel, hummed and prayed.
I think the tracks ran along Alameda. It could have been the intersection of Rosecrans and Alameda or Compton Blvd? and Alameda. Nevertheless, I ended up somewhere that begged: consider once, decline twice.
And then looks became malicious gestures. Perhaps the train would derail like it did one time in rural Illinois when I was about to cross a track with a van full of high school athletes. Any diversion here, Lord. But God is awesome. The train was short and passed rather quickly. The few thugs who had stepped out onto the street retreated. It was time for the Neon to get straight outta Compton. (But not before a redemptive instance occurred amid the tension. A man reclining on a chair in front of a sizable mural depicting gestures of community unity smiled and waved, not ironically or sardonically. It felt genuine yet the circumstances were still unsettling.)
This contemptible boldness all started with my arms-length involvement in a community group trying to eliminate street gang violence. For the record, it was a mix of white and black folks. The focus was on a set called the 24th Street Crips. The gangsters brutally assaulted the son of the couple who founded the group. I watched, as three of the street gang members were tried. I even attended the trial on my birthday. I rode my scooter through 24th Street on a few occasions looking for clues and snapping Polaroids. A community resources police officer said I was stupid. Touché.
But then it happened again. Sort of. It wasn’t by choice. Not really. It wasn’t a case of “That sand trap got in the way of my ball.” What happened next also corresponded with an academic interest of mine, albeit unintentionally. It wasn’t the type of thing I could prepare for or even wanted peripheral involvement in.
Sanchez had been disappeared. Well, hopefully not disappeared. Hopefully, just snatched. Abducted by the cartel. Zetas, Juarez, who knew for sure. This was a neutral zone. His sister-in-law, my sister-in-law, Canción, sat at an adjacent table, her back toward me, studying a sheet of paper while heaving sobs of sorrow. Her mobile phone was placed parallel to the sheet. She’d been at it all week, one call falling into the next. A 1.5-liter plastic bottle of the ubiquitous Topo Chico water wrapped in its iconic yellow label stood solo on the old brown oblong table between us. I poured some of its contents into a glass and listened to it fizz and splatter. No consumption. The world seemed too flat at that moment for ingestion. This time, I felt closer than an arm's length.
I wasn’t in the fire, but near enough. When you live in a locale, where driving a main road that traverses isolated areas, means you’ll cross paths with a Santa Muerte shrine staring death at you, you know your arms have been cut off. The sight of large dog carcasses littered about and left to the turkey vultures after being on the losing end of an illegal dogfight, a political candidate assassinated after a rally and indigenous witchcraft practiced in government-subsided housing? Yeah, now you’re kissing it.
Canción wiped the tears and reset, continuing to call in favors. Her life was a two-part act. The favors were from Act I. The pleading was from Act 2: the libertine and the pastor. Most think of men when hearing those titles, but they most certainly apply to women. Pause, sob, wall, sheet, wipe, call. The routine went on for more than two hours until Canción hung up her phone and turned toward me, slightly cracking her thin lips into a cautious smile. She must have made a sale.
“We wait.” Canción clasped her hands together in prayer and turned to the wall. No, the deal wasn’t closed. We sat and painstakingly speculated for another hour about different outcomes. All in silence. I could hear the melodramatics emanating from a telenovela and elderly sighs and prayers from the room next to the kitchen. The only movement was perspiration as the split AC did its best to hum along and counter the triple digits enveloping the dwelling’s limp insulation. Juna, my mother-in-law, mysteriously appeared from the room, disrupting our hushed detachment. She stood resolute. Her right arm was extended and her hand performed a squeezing motion.
In Spanish, Juna shrieked, “Mija, you gotta talk to this puta madre with balls!
“Ma, por favor.”
Canción turned around and hunched over the sheet of paper while Juna returned to the room exasperated, her purpose quickly dismantled. I watched a fly navigate the rim of my glass and settle in a spot as I spent the next 30 minutes retracing my life steps. Many were missteps, but some avoided the pitfall. The funny thing about the steps…Canción’s phone rang. It startled her and the fly. She nervously looked at me, tears flowing, and then caught sight of Juna, who suddenly reappeared. The phone rang again. Canción didn’t want to know the verdict as Juna honed in on the phone with a life-or-death expression. It rang a third time. What was gonna happen to Sanchez?
I considered what it all meant. Why the ugliness? It was death and more death. Death begetting death. And so I reminded myself that mankind is broken; it’s our default mode. So true harmony among people is really impossible, unattainable. For each one seeking peace, it seems two will seek power, wealth and control through intimidation and corruption. Socioeconomic circumstances or privilege are irrelevant. Just convenient excuses. Every one of us has a choice. For each one that places their trust in God and Christ, five to six choose to wear their own crown, sporting it benevolently or malevolently. What’s the saying, idiom? “A mosquito can’t kill malaria.” A corruptor cannot crush corruption. So they fall, because they are not down, down with the King. Can I get an amen?