My household was not your so-called typical broken home theory and created the man I became and later, the man I would end up becoming. Even though my parents were polar opposites, they both came from a New York City Housing project, 7th floor. My mother was a workaholic that didn’t drink or use drugs, and my father didn’t work legal jobs; he drank, smoked crack cocaine and injected heroin.
While growing up in a two-bedroom apartment, I had plenty of their habits to learn and choose from, take on as my own. Because my mother worked constantly, her presence, her protection from my father’s behaviors, was not felt much so I often did unsafe things around the house with my younger brother and sister. That level of neglect helped me develop a nasty habit of taking life-threating risks while just playing with my siblings. My father would either be out scoring his next hit or just too high to watch us.
I can remember at least 5 times I almost killed my little brother by accident. I remember almost killing my sister at least once. I almost set the house on fire by lighting up to the bed while my brother sleeping in it. To this day, my brother brings up the day I had him inhaling bleach and ammonia which resulted in him passing out and hitting his head on bathroom sink and then the tub. Thinking back on it now, it was not only the nature of these acts that bothers me, but I believed these things to be funny, after I realized no one was seriously hurt.
My parents never had a clue. How could they correct my actions when my siblings would never tell on me? They figured the beating my father would unleash would go way overboard and they wanted to protect me. I got used to people protecting me after I harmed them in some way, similar to how my mother and I protected my father’s drug habit and abuse of us from the outside world. Shame may have played a part in not exposing his behavior and getting help; my family witnessed his ongoing mental pain from trying to escape his horrific past.
I was around my father a lot because my mother was at work often to pay the bills and rent. She knew of his risky lifestyle and harsh drug use and would attempt to separate me by having family members watch me or enrolling me in daycare, but that didn’t work. He would physically beat on her or just simply threaten whoever was watching me. The end result was always the same; I ‘d end up roaming the streets with him. As I was in his care, he was teaching me to be what he called a “well-rounded gangster,” a criminal and a womanizer, so that I could take on the world as he saw it. From crack dens to multiple visits to sex workers. I saw it all. It was my father who informed me how to conduct myself in different situations when dealing with the streets.
As early as 8 years-of-age, I had seen shootouts, stabbings, and my father’s drug use from smoking crack stem pipes to stringing up his arm and skin pop shoot up dope packs. Confused by a lot of what I saw, but also acting as a human sponge, I realized that my father used drugs to numb and feel better about his struggles and the struggles of those around him. Many times on these father-son adventures, especially at crack houses, I saw other kids there. Like me, they were confused or sometimes forced to do things like trade for drugs for their parent. That part bothered me and gave me a lot of sleepless nights just thinking of the day my father didn’t have enough money for his addiction. Would I have to do something sexually just so my dad can numb his pain for a moment?
That day never came, or at least not in that form, but that fear created the beginning of my self- mutilation. I had watched my father get high endlessly and kind of had an idea why. By 8 years old, I had already seen enough that my head hurt constantly, so I began to look for an escape as I often saw my father do. I started out sneaking around at night playing old vinyl records just like my dad did as he shot up dope with his friend’s playing old 70’s songs and drinking beers. Now I had access to a beer or two but I was afraid of drugs and didn’t have access to them at the time. The day my life changed was when I he asked me to light a Newport cigarette for him on the stove and I accidently burnt my wrist as I fell to the floor.
As I hit the floor, my bigger fear was not that I just got hurt but that I broke my father’s cigarette; I was also taking too long and his beer was getting warm. My wrist began to ache from the burn and for some reason, my anxiety about life and my father suddenly when away. From that day on, I learned to burn and bite myself and play with electric outlet sockets to shock myself. Physical pain took me away from the mental anguish I was experiencing.
My life continued along this path as I learned more and more vices to get by in life. By that time, the notorious Blood gang ideology from California had reached New York City streets. I had been robbed a few times so one day I decided to carry a weapon and use it to protect myself. That day I had pushed a rusty metal knife through the hand of one of the older boys who tried to take the 2 dollars out of my pocket for the second time this week. Seeing the blood as it poured from his flesh so effortlessly changed me; at that very moment I didn’t feel weak or like a victim as I often did just going to the store for my mother.
From that day, I would never be caught without a weapon again. I used a knife whenever I could not get my hands on a gun, and I had no hesitation to use violence against any aggression. By 1996 October 16, I had joined the East Coast chapter of the Blood wave that hit NYC and New Jersey. Within months, I began to experience the deaths of my peers, starting with my friend getting shot in the head at 12 years of age in 1992. We all bonded so tightly together because we had the same traumatizing childhoods.
The shift from abusive households where no one defends the weak to having a gang react protectively against any offense against me created a sense of hope in everyone involved with the lifestyle. Gang behaviors didn’t seem wrong; everything from fighting to killing was justifiable because who was there to protect us from the hell we were born into. The police barely came around and when they appeared, they often did more harm than good, so now you have groups of teenagers protecting street corners and themselves. It’s a perfect combination — despair and destruction — when you have underlying untreated traumas and no knowledge about how to communicate and work out your differences. You add up all the deaths from either Bloods or Crips, and you have a ongoing war with no way of stopping itself from growing and living in future generations.
As I enter this new world of gang banging, I had no clue clue as to where it would take me mentally, physically, or to my soul. The first thing I could remember was that gang life felt warm and there were consistent open arms of greeting from people I barely knew; it was like meeting your new relatives from the deep South at your family reunion. At the first meeting, I tried to pay for a soda at the store and they would not allow it; someone stepped up and paid. The look on my face showed confusion and before I could ask for an explanation, an older member said, “we take care of our own with everything”.
“What is mines is yours,” he said as he walked me outside the store and into an adjacent park while explaining the culture. “It’s 10 percent physical and 90 percent mental. Always be on point and constantly checking your surrounds,” he said. I didn’t speak much as he broke down the do’s and don’ts of the gang. I was indoctrinated into the Original Blood Brothers, or 417 BTB, the name of my new set or chapter. Walking closer and closer to the park, I began to see the force of the gang as they were spread throughout the park as if they owned it. Entering the park, I was greeted as if I was a god walking next to another god. I was confused; this had never happened before. I’m sure the reason was because I was with a well-decorated member who they all seemed to love and respect.
Music blasted as he took me on a tour, introducing me to each person. No one was exempt nor did the respect level change once. Blown away at the power I was witnessing, I needed to sit and gather my thoughts. Their presence continued to overwhelm me and a young woman offered a cup of liquor and a blunt to smoke. I turned down the smoke but took the cup and me and big bro continue to talk more about what they had to offer. Night began to fall. I guess I looked cold because another member took off his coat and offered it to me. I can admit that I don’t ever remember being treated this well in my life. When I went home that night I couldn’t wait to come back and do it all over again and learn more.
After a week, I felt a drastic change. The honeymoon stage was over, and a more serious side of the members appeared. I was given three books to read and study and I had a deadline of two weeks to grasp the ideas and incorporate them into my new world. I thought it was a joke at first until I saw another new recruit get jumped on for just misplacing one of the books. The books were The Art of War by Sun Tzu, Message to the Black Man by Elijah Muhammad and a book of Confucius teachings and quotes.
Next came the gang’s rules and the penalties of breaking each one. I would learn, however, that each rule could and would be broken. Your punishment depended on who you were or what you could do for the people who judged you.
I kenw I was finally in the inner circle of my chapter of the gang when some of things I thought I knew about the gang probed to be myths. I read that we were not to conduct any black-on-black crimes, with exceptions. Soon it was agreed on that I was worthy of my first test and I was to put in work. To put in work meant different things for different chapters, but for us it meant to inflict some level of violence onto an enemy. Fight, stab or shoot, they told me pick your choice. Before I could answer, a friend of mines that knew me spoke up and said, “Jay already does stick up’s. He good.” Instantly an agreement was struck that sparked the comment, “fuck that I don’t know that nigga he might be scary. “I laughed and spoke up for myself, saying “I am good. Just tell me who I’m putting in work on.” Then they all laughed. I set out. put in work on someone random that night in front of 4 witnesses at my favorite stick up spot, 138th Willis Ave. bridge, breaking my first rule on my first night because we didn’t find any enemies; I was granted the go ahead to harm a black man.
At this time in my life, I didn’t care too much because I had been robbing men since the age of 12. I had no moral compass against committing the act. Plus, the excitement of joining the gang officially was everything to me then. There was a sense of fun and showing off that came over me knowing that they were watching me in action and more than likely, I would show my newly embraced family what I was made of. The first man I saw was carrying shopping bags and far from a small man, but the urge and rush of violence kicked in and before he knew it, I was pounding this man over and over again in his chest and head until he was weak. I took his wallet and all of his bags and felt a little weird afterwards because the bags were full of kid’s clothes and sneakers. Most of the stuff we trashed just for the sake of acting tough in front of one another.
Things happened so suddenly but before you knew it, you were learning to love a street family and you were also learning their habits and you all began to share. There was a euphoric feeling that came over me when hanging out with the gang; it is addictive in itself. They would always encourage going to school even though many didn’t see the point. I made sure I was there. You held your head high mainly due to the reputation of the gang.
When young, you don’t fully understand what you have signed up for nor do you understand that this reputation, this pride you embraced will leave you with a history of deaths; murders, traumas and countless years prison time. This feeling of glory easily fell into cult-like behavior where it would now be a honor to hurt, to kill, to go to prison, and die gladly for the gang. Deaths were celebrated as birthdays and going to prison and hurting enemies got you strips and badges of honor and praise.
The first time I witnessed the unified strength and blind loyalty was when I came to our park after being robbed at gun point. I was in search of a gun to borrow to get revenge. The moment I mentioned that I had gotten robbed, it was as if I had kicked a hornet’s nest and guns appeared from everywhere. Before I knew it, there was about 7 armed brothers asking me where were the dudes that stole my gold chain? I was instantly overwhelmed with a love I couldn’t explain. Surprised and honored, I knew from that point on I would do the same for them, and I would spend years of my life doing just that. I soon found myself finding every chance I could helping, defending, protecting and representing my chapter of Bloods.
From females in domestic violent situation to rape survivors, we found ourselves protecting them by hurting the offenders; it was a savior’s complex on steroids. As for my Blood brothers, we died at an alarming rate at the hands of our opposition. The force of street justice — better known as retaliatory killings – had us completely. To this day, I am still attempting to figure out what the mind set was, what compelled us so strongly to commit revenge killings. Is it the dysfunctional way we love or us being unable to cope with death properly? Or maybe we needed real treatment and healing for all of the traumas we endured during our early childhood development.
The darker side of the gang that haunts me the most is the constant death and the wasted time of prison. I don’t believe I have ever seen more talent and creativity either die or get locked up. It was something about that pain and struggle that created something inside of us that makes us wise before our time. It gave me a strength that I can utilize for anything. I am often torn between the strength I received and my survivor guilt. My life is full of reminders of many of my dead friends in gang culture. Now I watch their kids and one is going through the same cycle I barely escaped in my life.
Death has followed me everywhere, including college, where a friend died in my arms, the back of his head blasted off. He was shot by another friend who went home and killed himself a day later. All I can remember was the look people always had towards me after the incident, as if I was the one that pulled the trigger or had something to do with it. That was the beginning of end of the fun and love. I had it with the dark side of gangbanging. I started to question why I had to live under the radar so that whoever I was dating or my kids would not be the target of some foul shit that I did to someone days, months or even years ago.
Violence is a disease that easily spreads through one simple act. Loved ones who have nothing to do with the act can still receive the disease/violence. I still feel shame that people I had claimed to love, defend, and protect had to serve prison time or death and violence had come to their doorsteps. I had to stop this feeling of madness and I began to use my guilt as a driving force to make change. I started addressing the hearts of people I hurt the most, my family and my community. I realize that there is pain greater than just mine, so I began to see the hurt in other communities and how it mirrored mine and their struggles and pains became my obligation.