“Wha’cha mean,
“We in the Consolidated Crip Organization, or C.C.O., believe that CRIPS means Clandestine Revolutionary Internationalist Party Soldiers. And with this knowledge of ourselves we believe we as a tribe have an obligation to our people. We don’t disrespect our people and we don’t fight against the United Blood Nation.”
“Who?”
“The U.B.N.—United Blood Nation, which is the vanguard organization representing the Blood Nation.”
“They got a constitution, too?”
“Yep,” Killer replied.
My head was spinning with all of this. Clandestine Revolutionary Internationalist Party Soldiers—CRIPS. That was heavy. Nation and tribe, Kiswahili and unity—words that when spoken in isolation from anything tangible were meaningless. But when they were applied in sync and sequence to concrete developments and everyday circumstances, they held meaning and could be seen as clearly as the bars that held us captive.
“Monster, Crip is a bad word only because we have turned inward on our community, preying on civilians and turning them against us. We are our own worst enemy. So C.C.O. has set out to re-establish CRIP as a positive influence in our community.”
“Yeah, but how you plan on doing that?”
“With people like me and you who have clout and pull in our ’hoods. But we gotta be sharp, ya dig?”
“Yeah, yeah I hear you.”
From then on Killer would pull me to the side and drop little lessons on me. Elimu talked to me, too. He was especially strong academically and was a great inspiration to all of us in the module.
There were ten C.C.O. members in the module, spread out on different tiers, all working their magic on the uncultured Crips. They began to transform Forty-eight Hours into a training station teaching military science, political science, Kiswahili, and Crip history. People knew more about American history than Crip history, so that was definitely an area of concentration. Most of us were receptive to their knowledge, but as always, there were those hardheads who had to “be their own man.” They were tolerated initially, but when they began to disrupt the program they were dealt with and removed. Most complied out of the realization of C.C.O.’s presence in the population. San Quentin was the C.C.O. headquarters—though recently the Central Committee has been moved to Folsom—but they had well-disciplined cadres in every prison who, upon order, were ready to plant some steel in anyone’s chest. More important, they were educators, teachers, and protectors of the Crip Nation.
It’s a trip how fast their language became our language and how their ways became the ways of us all. Together we were a nation—the Blue Nation. The tribalism all but ceased. One cell was designated as the Community Canteen; everybody had to donate something out of their share of store-bought items to the Canteen. It was used for those who had nothing and no one to send them anything. At night—every night—instead of East Side–West Side chants we did the Universal Crip Cadence. Initially Elimu would lead, but he eventually taught me the words so I could conduct them. Everyone would be up on their feet, facing the tier, repeating the words, shouting after me. The sound was earth moving. We called it Machine in Motion.
“Monsta Kody!” Big Rebo from Compton would holler every night.
“Yeah?” I’d say.
“MONSTA KODY!” he’d holler again, just to make sure everyone knew what was going on.
“YEAH?” I’d reply again.
“MACHINE IN MOTION!” which came out with a rhythm like “MAH-SHEEN-IN-MOE-SHUUUN!”
And I’d answer “MACHINE IN MOTION!”
Then, from my left, Elimu would yell, “Handle that shit!”
And I’d begin.
