too. We both were young, but I knew I had to do something to generate revenue to provide for Keonda.
One day while I was still on the Rock in Y.T.S., I wrote to Mom in one of my militant moods, stressing as best I could the dominance of the white power structure over us as a people, something I had learned from reading
The following Monday I drove over to his office. I felt awkward, because applying for a job just wasn’t the gangsterish thing to do. You either jacked for money or you sold dope. Working was considered weak.
The business was a computer school called Trans-Western Institute. The position I applied for was recruiter, which meant I would be sent to designated areas to recruit students for the school. Students were eligible for government grants, student loans, and other financial help. For every student I recruited I would be given a fifty- dollar commission.
The first place they sent me was the unemployment office downtown, which was cool because I wasn’t in danger of being recognized. I didn’t want anyone I knew to see me with a job and I surely didn’t want to be caught by some enemies while recruiting.
My first day I didn’t try to recruit anyone, I simply walked around, amazed at the unemployment lines snaking around inside the tiny building. Hordes of people, mostly Chicano and New Afrikan, stood around, shifting from foot to foot, waiting, hoping, trying to find something to do. Utter despair was marked like tattoos on most of their faces. I guess this was the look that people said Reaganomics caused, but I doubted the truth of that, because as long as I could remember I had seen Mom wear that same fixed expression of hopelessness. The striking thing here was that there were so many of these expressions together in one room. Certainly the pain in those faces was not the result of just four years of Reagan, nor could the sudden shift to conservative economics be the result of one bad man in office. I sat back on a dirty bench and watched until it was time for lunch, at which point I went home.
The next day they sent me to Garfield High School in East L.A. I never went. The following day I didn’t show up at all, and I never returned again.
Instead I went to Whiteboy Eric. He gave me some drugs to sell. The first thing I bought with the proceeds was a ’68 Chevy and some sounds. Then Tamu and I got an apartment on Eighty-fourth Place and Western Avenue. After being out of Y.T.S. for only three months things were smooth.
Since I had no comrades from my unit out in the field, I bonded with those whom I had the most in common: Gangster Brown and Tracc. Both Brown and Tracc were still heavily into PCP, so as a social link I too fell heavily into it. For almost two months straight we’d smoke whole Sherman cigarettes dipped in PCP every day, sometimes two and three times a day. I had gotten a blue flag from downtown that was as big as a bed sheet. Oftentimes while I was high on PCP I’d arrange the huge blue flag on my head in Arab fashion, secured by a black stretch belt. I’d put on my Locs, roll down all the windows in my car, and fly around the city looking stone-crazy! Everyone thought I was a nut.
That summer we all got skinheads. We’d pile into my car four deep, bald-headed with dark shades on, and ride around L.A. We’d never smile. We actually had a good time, though we were heavily armed. After all, you can only play so much in L.A.
Finally Stagalee got out of prison and I was grateful, as the Sherm was starting to take a toll on me. Stag and I subsequently became road dogs. He was at least four years younger than me, and I found myself in almost the same role with him as Tray Ball had been with me. Although Stag had been with the set before he and I met in Y.T.S., his clique was a noncombative unit of wannabees. By hanging with me, he got turned onto some righteous soldiers. He was a tragedy waiting to happen. Like Tray Stone, he was a sleeper who just needed someone to coach that ruthlessness out of him. Once I’d tapped into it, he roared to life like an age-old volcano. I knew we’d be good friends.
One afternoon, much to my surprise, Muhammad came by my mom’s house and he and I rapped awhile about the circumstances surrounding his suspension from Y.T.S. He also showed me a letter he’d received from Warith D. Muhammad that forbade him further entry into prisons in the capacity of an imam. The letter said, “You are teaching hatred and breeding terrorists.”
Muhammad asked if I would attend Salat with him the following day. I agreed. He left me with two books—
“Who was that?” Mom asked as I entered the house.
“Oh, that’s Muhammad. He used to teach us at Y.T.S. Remember I told you about him?”
“Uhm, I’m not sure. You got so many friends. What’s that he gave you?” she asked, reaching for the books.
“Books on us, black people. Mom, you should hear him talk. He can get off!”
“Yeah, well he needs to take that turban off before someone mistakes him for the Shah of Iran.”
“Naw, Mom, the Shah of Iran was a U.S. puppet. You mean the Ayatollah.”
“Well, whoever, shit,” Mom said and handed me back the books.
I had surprised myself by remembering what Muhammad had told us so long ago about the Shah being a U.S. puppet, but as soon as it was fitting to speak on it, it just came out. Muhammad was always able to bring out the sharpness in me.
The following day we went to the Islamic Center on Fourth Street and Vermont Avenue and I totally tripped out. I saw Muslims from all over the world. Sisters my age—nineteen—wore traditional Afrikan dress from the continent. There were Iranians, Saudis, and Libyans, too. I saw flowing thobes of various colors, turbans, jewelry, and manners unlike any I’d ever seen or known. I was standing there in 50Is, Puma tennis shoes, a Polo shirt, and a Raiders cap and felt like a damn fool! I got a few looks that today I would define as Third World people seeing me as a benefactor in their oppression, but at that time I thought they were just curious about my dress code.
Muhammad went in and did Salat and I milled around by the shoes. The women and girls went to another part of the center to pray.
“You know,” Muhammad began as we walked out into the noonday sun, toward the car, “Al-Islam is not compulsive. Allah will raise up those he sees fit. Insha Allah, you have a mission.”
“I always thought that only actors in Hollywood wore those geni shoes that curled up in the front.”
“Brotha, the European has twisted and turned everything to fit his warped way of thinking. He has made himself the center of the world, indeed of the universe. Have you ever heard the words Oriental and Occidental?”
“I heard of Oriental. Don’t that mean Jap?”
“No, now listen,” he said, with a precautionary finger up. “Orient means East and Occident means West. Now here’s the twist. Europe, as put forth by the European, is the center of the world. Therefore, anything to its east is Oriental, while anything to its west is Occidental. This is what is meant by Eurocentric.”
“Yeah, but if Europe is not the center of the world, then what is?”
“Check this out. When a baby is born what is the most essential thing needed for its survival?”
“Uhm, food?”
“Food! Right. And where does that food come from?”
“The mother, or the doctor.”
“All right, therefore what’s central to the baby?”
“The mother?”
“Right. The cradle of civilization is Afrika. Afrika
“But—”
“Wait, wait, let me explain this. Now those whom we know today as Europeans are actually mutants who left the safe confines of the Motherland and evolved in Europe. Their food for survival was doctored by an unnatural mother. The side effects of their development outside of the natural womb has been albinism, aggression, and universal weakness predicated on their minority status in the world.”
“Well, if that’s the case, why don’t we just tell everybody what’s really going on?”
