Monster

writing, not turning to look at me when I entered the room.

“Kody Scott?” asked the New Afrikan officer, peering over the rim of his glasses.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Monster Kody Scott?” he asked again, to be sure.

A bit hesitant now, I finally answered, “Yeah.”

“Well,” the officer began, sighing, pushing his glasses up on his nose and sitting back in his chair all in one fluid motion, “we don’t want you here. That is, in our institution.”

“What you talkin’ ’bout, man?” I asked, eyebrows automatically connecting in preparation for a mad-dog stare.

“Welp,” he started, through another sigh. “Kody, you don’t mind if I call you Monster, do you? It kinda keeps me focused here,” he said, making a playful attempt at clearing his junky desk.

“Naw, it’s cool.”

“Good, good,” he said, as if he were instructing someone who had done a good job at something. “I must admit you are nothing like I imagined.” And then, as if to himself, “No, no, nothing like I imagined.” He went on, “Well, Mr. Monster… ha, ha, ha… Mr. Monster… sounds funny, huh?”

I didn’t smile.

“Yes, well, the point is every gang member that comes through here—and we get a lot—has something to say about you.

“Is that right?” I said, more bored than flattered.

“Oh, yeah, you betcha. And so from talking to them, and overhearing others, I’ve come to know that you have killed many people.”

“That’s a lie, I ain’t kilt nobody!”

“Hold on now, Monster, don’t get riled up now—”

“Naw, man, people be lyin’ ’n’ stuff, I—”

“Well, we just think it’s best if you are sent directly to Youth Training School to complete your introduction up there, where there are more kids of your caliber around. Besides, the security is much tighter there. You’ll like it”

“Like it?!” I shouted. “What makes you think that I like tighter security? You muthafuckas be trippin’—”

“Calm down, Mr.—”

“Man, fuck you!”

Just then the door burst open and in rushed two linebacker-sized Americans who grabbed me, kicking and yelling profanities, and cuffed me.

The next morning, before the sun rose, I was in chains and on a bus to Y.T.S. to begin serving my four years.

7. MUHAMMAD ABDULLAH

The Gray Goose, as the Youth Authority Transport bus was affectionately called, rolled through the double sally port gates at the Youth Training School under the watchful eyes of those prisoners who worked in 500 Trade jobs behind yet another chainlink fence. After meeting the security requirements of the last checkpoint, the Gray Goose chugged forward, further into the institution. Once this third fence was opened and we rolled through, the expansive sight of the landscape almost took my breath away. I saw the same effect on the faces of a few other prisoners aboard the bus. It looked like a huge college campus, or what I thought a college campus would look like from watching “Room 222” on television.

There was a standard football field of plush, green grass surrounded by a red dirt 440-yard track. On one side of the track sat the bleachers, and behind them was a boxing gym. On the other side stood another huge gym containing Olympic weights and a full, hardwood basketball court. Adjacent to this was a swimming pool. After being locked in the concrete confines of South Central all my life—with the exception of youth camp—seeing such open spaces of well-kept grass surrounded by a track, gyms, swimming pool, and bleachers only conjured up beautiful images of college campuses and well-to-do students.

But, as with all things, that which looks good outwardly may be horribly ugly within. The well-kept face of Y.T.S. was but a facade, for behind the walls of the gyms and in the three units that stood around the outer track like mysterious statues on Easter Island, corruption of every kind was rampant—and for profit.

In 1981, the Youth Training School held 1,200 prisoners. No one, under California law, could stay in Youth Authority past the age of twenty-six. Y.T.S. was considered a senior Youth Authority. A maximum-security youth prison, it comprised three units, each divided into quarters. Each quarter was subdivided into halves, and each half was again divided into banks, or tiers. Every prisoner was assigned to his own cell. Each cell had a sliding door of solid steel with a small glass window for observation by the staff. The units were organized so as to meet the individual needs of each prisoner as set forth by the diagnostic researcher designated to individual casework.

Each unit had four companies, all structured alphabetically. Unit One housed companies A-B, C-D, E-F, and G-H. A-B was for orientation. One had to stay here at least two weeks without going anywhere else but to testing —math, reading comprehension, and so on. If your grade-point average was not up to par, you were made to go to school. If you did not have your diploma or G.E.D., you had to work half a day and go to school the other half until you got it. C-D was where you could be trained in fighting fires and then sent out to do easy time at one of the many Youth Authority Camps. E-F was for drug abusers and people who, when sentenced, were specifically ordered by the judge to complete the twelve-step program as a requirement for release. G-H was for alcoholics with the same presentence or board-recommended stipulations in their file.

Unit Two, consisting of I-J, K-L, M-N, and O-R, was the last unit of specifications. I-J was a medical unit for mentally ill prisoners and prisoners with rape charges or with character defects that had led to the charges and conviction. K-L and M-N were young companies. Young prisoners, even though maximum-security material, were kept together. O-R—better known as the Rock, was the hole, one of the strictest maximum-security holes outside of Pelican Bay’s Security Housing Unit and Marion’s MCU. Once on the Rock you had to practically jump through hoops to get off. Every week a bus came and took prisoners off the Rock and onto a state prison. The Rock loomed as the ultimate discipline for those considered fuck-ups. Whenever we passed the Rock, which was up above K-L, we gave sort of a thankful salute. The cool people just nodded respectfully.

Unit Three was considered the unit to be in: S-T, U-V, W-X, and Y-Z. W-X was where all the riders were. It had a reputation for everything from race riots to football, dope to weight lifting. It sat above S-T, which was a regular company, as was Y-Z. U-V was for those in 500 Trade. These were the upperclass sort of folks. Everyone in U-V got paid for their work. They kept the institution clean and functioning properly. Everyone wanted to be in 500 Trade. The Youth Training School also had a huge Trade Line, where everything from upholstery to plumbing was taught. Upon completion of the Trade Line, one was given a certificate.

As with almost every institution, correctional facility, or penitentiary, Chicanos and New Afrikans were in the majority. In Youth Authority, one began to learn about the larger prison culture that touched everyone’s lives, including the staff who, after being in the institution so long, began to assume some of the characteristics of the prisoners.

Lines of race, of national unity that defied political logic and overstanding, were clearly drawn in Youth Authority, which served as a junior college for the larger university of prison. The most blatant was that of the Allied Forces of Southern Chicanos—“southern” meaning any land south of Fresno—with all Americans. The Americans could have “White Pride,” “White Power,” swastikas, lightning bolts, “100% Honkey,” and such tattooed all over them, clearly stating they were stone-cold racists, and the Chicanos would be more than comfortable in their presence. New Afrikans allied themselves with the more cultured Northern Chicanos. The Northern and Southern Chicanos were, and still are, locked in a very serious war. The film American Me illustrates this. So, like the warring factions of New Afrikans, the Chicanos were split by geopolitical boundaries. What’s striking is that the division of the two is signified in colors. The Northern Chicanos—Nuestra Familia, Northern Structure, and Fresno Bulldogs—wear red flags. The more numerous Southerners—Mexican Mafia, Southern United Raza, and South Side Government—wear blue.

The New Afrikans from Northern California—primarily Oakland, Berkeley, Richmond, San Francisco, and Palo