Alto—call themselves 415s, which, until recently, was the area code for most of the Bay area. As if the Crip and Blood conflict was not complicated enough, the Crips do not get along with the 415s. Actually, the 415s don’t like the New Afrikans from 213—the Los Angeles area code—but for strategic purposes they have chosen the Bloods as allies over the Crips. So in Youth Authority, the ground rules of prison are set—your friends, your enemies. As a rule, all Americans get along with all North, South, 415, and 213. This, I believe, is because of their minority status in most institutions.
Tribalism was most prevalent amongst New Afrikans, who began as one then split into Crips and Bloods. The Crips, ever the majority, were then plagued—indeed, traumatized—by the internal strife of “set trippin’.” There was also struggle within each set for leadership. In prison, beginning in Youth Authority, sets try to organize themselves on some level to deal with the new complexities of institutionalization. With this new quest comes the rise of antagonistic contradictions. Since most leaders were not politically equipped to properly recognize, confront, and resolve the contradictions in organizing the unorganized in relation to the larger society, their efforts usually failed, doomed from the outset, or were aborted in the early stages by those who opted for the old platform of anarchy. This start-and-stop process of organization was characteristic of most sets there.
When I was at Y.T.S., we began our organizing process when our numbers swelled beyond fifteen. Our critical concern was organizing around the larger reality of the war. I had been reading Mario Puzo’s
My opposition came primarily from Diamond. It got continually worse until 1983, culminating in my charges of set neglect against Diamond. This prompted a meeting of the entire set. Diamond was exonerated, but after that our relationship never recovered.
By this time, I had become very egotistical. My reputation had finally ballooned to the third stage and, by definition, I had moved into the security zone of O.G. status. My rep was omnipresent, totally saturating every circle of gang life. From CRASH to the courts, from Crips to Bloods, from Juvenile Hall to death row, Monster Kody had arrived. This, coupled with my newfound curiosity and interest in Mafia-style gangsterism, made me very hard to approach.
By 1983 I was physically the second biggest in the institution, second only to an old friend, Roscoe, the Samoan from the Park Village Compton Crips. We were weight-lifting partners. He had twenty-one-inch arms, and mine were twenty and one-quarter. He was bench pressing five hundred and ten pounds and I was doing four hundred and seventy. I heard after I left that he went considerably higher—five hundred and ninety, I was told. My size added to the Monster image, and I capitalized on it at every opportunity.
We had planned a righteous gangster ceremony of bloodletting for the year 1983—the year of the Eight Trays. But 1983 found the set in shambles. Most of our combat troops were locked away, dead or paralyzed by lack of motivation. We found ourselves compensating for this in Y.T.S. by vamping on the Sixties. What sped this process up, apart from it being 1983, was the fact that Opie had just been murdered by the Rollin’ Sixties. Caught in a secured driveway trying to climb over a chain-link fence, he was hit once in the side and died waiting for an ambulance. We were incensed with rage, because other than Li’l Spike—who was the darling of the ’hood—Opie was our sort of mascot. He was always filthy and unkempt, which didn’t seem to bother him at all. But De and I would always make fun of Opie’s appearance and shabbiness. We even had the Opie National Anthem, which opened:
Opie would just look at us like he felt sorry for us, and De and I would double over in laughter. We’d take our hats off and place them solemnly over our hearts, looking very serious, and then fall into the Opie National Anthem. We loved Opie like a brother.
We needed to consolidate a meeting of all twenty-three of us in the institution so we could move simultaneously. The only feasible place we could congregate without the staff detecting our intent was in Muslim services, which was held every Monday night. We knew that the attendance was low and that our move to this service would not be viewed with alarm by the staff members who worked as operatives for the gang coordinator— the dreaded Mr. Hernandez.
When Li’l Monster came to Y.T.S. from Ventura for whipping a female prisoner, Mr. Hernandez called us both to his office. Li’l Bro was in Y-Z and I was on the Rock. I had been put there as a result of Li’l Fee from the Rollin’ Sixties telling Hernandez that I had instructed Stagalee to beat him down, which of course was true. Li’l Fee had just come down from Dewitt Nelson and was trying to be hard. When I dissed his set, he surprisingly dissed back, though he was out of firing range. In fact he was clear across the front field. The diss was not verbal, and no one other than he and I knew it was going on. When I saw him looking in my direction I flashed his set’s sign and then, still holding my fingers in place displaying his ’hood, I put them in my mouth and chewed on them, insinuating that “I be eating his ’hood up.” He in turn did the same to my set. But my gesture was based on fact; his was empty. Nonetheless, he had done it. I would have charged him immediately myself, but he was in step with his unit, escorted by two staff members and clear across the field, and I was in step with my unit, accompanied by staff. The chances of getting him were slim, taking into account the distance and the staff coverage. Besides, had I gotten there, how long would the brawl last? Surely not long enough to punish him for the crime of disrespect. In addition, I was a “G.” That meant I had people to handle this type of thing. No problem.
I sent word to Stag, who was in M-N with Li’l Fee. The very next day, Stag put an old-style gangster whipping on him. Li’l Fee informed Hernandez—who got involved in every fight that was gang related—of the dissing the previous day, and Hernandez locked me up on the Rock. Li’l Fee was sent back to Dewitt Nelson. The next time we would meet would be over the barrel of a gun.
When I got to Hernandez’s office I was surprised to see Li’l Bro. I had heard that he was here, but had not seen him because I was locked on the Rock. Hernandez gave us some bullshit-ass speech about not wanting to allow two Monsters into his institution. I wasn’t even paying attention to what he was saying. When in the course of his spiel about what he would not tolerate I jumped up out of my seat and shouted “Fuck it, I’m ready to go to the pen!” Mr. Hernandez was shocked and sat looking at me bug-eyed. Li’l Bro grabbed my arm and told me to “be cool,” I sat back down and burned a hole right through Mr. Hernandez, who now knew that I was beyond his little threats. How could I be cordial with the same man who had locked me up and now sat before me espousing threats? I was escorted back to the Rock without further comment from Hernandez. I saluted Li’l Bro and exited the room.
From the Rock, I sent word for the meeting in Muslim services. The following Monday evening we fell into Muslim services twenty-three deep. Besides us there were seven or eight others, including the two Muslim ministers, Muhammad and Hamza. Although staff members escorted them for supervisory coverage, they left soon after the ministers began to speak. On this night, our first night, the Muslims had set up a film on slavery, which held no interest for us. As soon as the lights went off I began in on our needed sweep to rid the institution of the Sixties. During the course of my talk to the homies, the lights flicked on, and the film projector was turned off. We sat up from our hunched positions and were faced with a very angry Hamza.
“Check this out, brothas,” began Hamza, who stood before us in a black thobe over black combat boots and a leather jacket. “Y’all disrespecting our services, over here rappin’ among y’all selves like little women—”
“Wait a minute, man,” I said in quick defense of our status. “We Eight Trays, we ain’t no women.”
“Yeah, well the way y’all—”
“Naw, man, fuck that, we gangstas.”
“Well, if y’all ain’t gonna watch the movie, then y’all can leave.”
“Oh yeah?” I said, standing up and slowly turning in the direction of the homeboys. “Let’s bail.” I stalked off without a backward glance, followed by the troops.
Once outside the Protestant church, which is where Islamic services were held, we made our way to the Trade Line’s smoke-break area and stood around. All at once powerful lights hit us from the tower overlooking the
