time my mother came to the hospital, which didn’t bother me too much then. We had grown very far apart, so I’d never expected her to come, anyway. But she had to come on my discharge day because I was still sixteen and she had to sign the release form. Our mutual greetings were lukewarm. We talked little on the way out of the hospital. I was rolled out in a wheelchair pushed by Mom. Over my knees was a blanket, and underneath it the weapon, my hand fully on the grip.
In the car we both made small talk. The days were past where Mom sought to talk me out of bangin’, but still she was firmly set against it. Little did I know that Mom was under as much strain as I was. This is universally true of every mother who has a child in a gang. But usually communication has long been broken with that parent, who the child looks upon as a familiar intruder trying once again to offset stability. In this light, anything proposed by the parent—whether positive or not—is rejected. The intruding parent becomes enemylike in thought, and is to be avoided. Nothing is to alter the set’s existence. For a youth with no other hope in a system that excludes them, the gang becomes their corporation, college, religion, and life. It is in this reality that gang members go to the extreme with tattoos. I now have “Eight Trays” written across my neck and “Crips” on my chest. Ever see George Bush with “Republican” on his chest or “Capitalist” on his neck?
The moment I got home the phone began ringing off the hook.
“Yes, I’m all right.”
“No, I didn’t get my dick blown off.”
“No, I wasn’t shot in the head.”
The calls went on like this all day. When night fell, I hit the streets on Li’l Monster’s bike. Li’l Tray Ball rode with me and carried the weapon. We weaved our way through the ’hood, stopping here and there to explain blurry details to concerned citizens of the ’hood and a few parents who were looked upon as “friendlies.” When we had circumvented a good portion of the ’hood, we doubled back toward the north. It had gotten chilly, and because of my stay in the hospital I was unaccustomed to being out in such weather. My open wounds made my trek in such weather all the more dangerous. When we reached the house, Mom was standing out on the front lawn accompanied by a host of homegirls. Kesha, Judy Brown, China, Bam, Prena, and Big Lynn were all there. Before I came to a halt I knew something wasn’t right. Everyone looked grief-stricken. Mom began in on me right away.
“Kody, where you been?”
“Just ridin’ in the ’hood, what’s up?” I asked in a nonchalant tone.
“You are not supposed to be out in such weather with those open wounds. You know what the doctor told you.” Her voice was almost a whimper.
“Aw, Mom, I was just ridin’ around. Anyway, I got my jacket on,” I retorted.
“But honey, you could catch pneumonia out here. Please come in the house.”
“Awright, but just let me kick it a minute out here,” I said defiantly, not about to be talked down by Mom in front of the homies.
“No,” Mom said with new force. “Come in here now.”
“Mom, you trippin’, I’ll be in there in a minute.”
“Monster,” Kesha spoke up, “you should just go on in the house.”
“Wait, wait, hold it, hold it,” I responded with both hands up, one palm showing and a cast on the other.
“Naw, Monster, you hold it. Yo’ mama only tryin’ to tell you what’s right.” This was Big Lynn.
Knowing her prowess I eased closer toward Li’l Tray Ball, who was armed. If she made an attempt at physically persuading me into the house I was going to bust a cap in her ass.
“Check this out, I’m only right here in the yard. I’m comin’ in in a minute, okay?” Now I was looking for some support from the homegirls. I got none. Mom had apparently wooed them before I rode up.
“Kody, please come in the house.” Mom was so overwhelming that even Li’l Tray Ball was now urging me to comply.
“Homie, you should go on in the pad.”
I laid down the bike and stalked off toward the house, arguing about Mom being of another generation and not over-standing me. This, of course, was a genuine cop-out. For it was I who had lost touch with reality. I had encapsulated my block of reality into a tamper-proof world that made every other point of view absurd. This was especially so if I felt the other point of view was threatening to my livelihood.
Once in the house I went to my room, shut the door, and sat on the bed. Li’l Monster was out campaigning, so I began sorting through our “oldie” collection. Actually, the records belonged to Li’l Monster, who was, and still is, an ardent oldie fan. I dug out something fitting and placed it on the turntable. “I’m Still Here” by the Larks came screaming over the stereo, and I fell back on my bed and let the lyrics seep in. The refrain, “I’m still here,” kept lifting me up. It held a special meaning to me after being shot six times. “I’m still here.” I undressed and dozed off with the refrain still resounding in my ear, though the record had long been off.
I got up the following morning and pulled on some fresh Ben Davis jeans, a sweatshirt, and croaker sacks— shoes made from burlap. I gathered up Mom’s car keys to go to the store for some cereal. When I began rolling out of the driveway I found I was blocked by an unmarked police car. Two American detectives got out and approached the driver’s side of the car, so I got out. One of them asked if I was Kody Scott. I replied that I was. The other then produced a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his suit coat. He explained that they had apprehended the guy who shot me. When I asked who that was, he said Pretty Boy. I knew who Pretty Boy was. He and I used to be friends, until the start of the conflict. He, like Crazy De and me, was fiercely loyal to his ’hood and had on many occasions shot or shot at our homies. This was widely known. In fact, after his involvement in Twinky’s death, he was elevated to Threat Level Two and put on our Most Wanted list. I knew he hadn’t shot me, but to try and explain this to these two would be futile. The paper the officer handed me was a subpoena to appear in court as a witness to Pretty Boy’s shooting me. I took the paper and threw it into the car and they left.
I made my way to the store and back without further incident. When I returned, I found my mother and my niece, Tamara, in the front garden cleaning out weeds. I spoke to them briefly and then went into the house to enjoy a big bowl of cereal, as I was quite hungry. My mom’s house is a moderate three-bedroom mid-sixties dwelling with two huge picture windows on either side of the front door. When the drapes are open one can see clear into the house. We had a nice front lawn and a huge rubber tree out in the yard that gave us great shade in the summer and camouflaged military launches at night. Right in front of the porch was a beautiful garden that Mom took great pride in keeping up. It was in this garden that she and Tamara now worked as Li’l Monster and I sat staring out of the picture window eating raisin bran. As I lifted a spoonful of cereal to my mouth a car drove past at a slow observer’s pace. I stopped in midmotion and let the face of the staring occupant sink in. Enemy Sixty!
“Sixties!” I shouted to Li’l Bro, who had already recognized them and was heading down the hallway toward our room and the cache of weapons now stored there. Once we had seized two weapons—both long-barrel shotguns—we made it back to the front room just in time to see the vehicle turn up into a driveway and begin to come back our way. Perhaps their intent was to shoot into the house, shoot Mom, or simply undertake a reconnaissance mission. Whatever it was, we had no intention of letting them leave this block. As they began approaching us, going westbound—the driver closest to the house—we burst through the door and leapt over Mom and Tamara and ran at top speed toward the car, weapons leveled. When Mom recognized what was happening she shouted for Tamara to go in the backyard. Before the driver could mount a response we were within killing distance of them.
Leveling the barrel to the driver’s head, I shouted, “This is Eighty-third Street, muthafucka!” and pulled the trigger.
The gun was on safety.
If there is a God, He was between me and that driver because the driver, for sure, was dead that morning. Ducking down into the seat and swerving sharply to the right, he punched the accelerator, jumped the curb, and ran down Mrs. Bucks’s fence.
Mom said nothing as we retreated past her and back into the house. We ate the rest of our cereal with guns in one hand, spoons in the other. It was this particular incident that rang the bells in Mom’s head that said, “Hey, this thing is serious.” No sooner had we finished our cereal, not ten minutes after the incident, than a black-and- white patrol car came to a halt in front of our house. Bending down so as not to be seen by the police, we darted down the hallway to stash the straps. We both discarded our clothes and donned bathrobes to shake a description, in case someone had seen us in action earlier. We then heard talking up front.
