“Yeah, all right, Monster. We gonna see how long you think like that,” Li’l Spike said, looking over the top of his Locs at the others.
“Yeah,” I said, standing to walk away. “You’ll see.”
My commanding officer was Kidogo—Whiskey from Santana Block—who I had known from the county jail back in the early eighties. But the line was being run by Drack from Six-Deuce East Coast. He had been there two or three years. There were thirteen of us—C.C.O.—in Soledad. I was in charge of C-wing. It was my duty to make sure that no Crips came out on the tiers with shower thongs on, because this was a security risk. One couldn’t very well defend himself in shower shoes. I had to make sure that there were at least two knives out on the tier and available whenever we were out in the wing or the dayroom. I designated two people to carry the weapons. Any time one of us took a shower, the area was cordoned off and secured. A quiet period was designated from eleven P.M. till seven A.M. Every Saturday was mass exercise day. All two hundred and twelve Crips would form three huge circles on the yard and go through the routine.
Kidogo was dissatisfied with Drack and petitioned the Central Committee to remove him. He had to go to Folsom for court in a stabbing incident and said he’d handle it down there. I was left second in command. When Kidogo returned, Drack was removed for ineptitude and poor leadership. Kidogo and I forged ties with the other new Afrikan groups there—U.B.N., Vanguards, B.G.F.s and 415s. We networked with communication, military intelligence, and in some cases, weaponry. We got our hacksaw blades from the 415s who worked as plumbers. I had Crips in C-wing cutting steel off of everything to make weapons. There was never a shortage of knives or people to make them.
One afternoon I came into the wing from the yard and found Red from Shotgun showering with no cover. I went in the dayroom, and there was Shark from Harlem watching soap operas! I asked him who had security and he said he did. I told him to go and cover Red in the shower. But Doc from West Covina, who was on the disciplinary crew—those who were used to stab and beat law breakers—said he’d supply cover for Red. Well, that wasn’t his job. So I again told Shark to go handle it. When he left I called over Zacc from Hoover and began discussing the lax atmosphere. Unexpectedly, Shark came stomping back into the dayroom saying how tired he was of being a security guard and how he wanted some action. I asked him where Red was. He said he had left him in the shower.
I exploded and slapped him hard across the face. He responded by reaching for his waistband, where he kept the knife. But before he could draw it, Doc stepped up and put his knife to Shark’s throat. I disarmed Shark and slapped him again.
“If you would have pulled the kisu out I would have killed you! Now get yo’ sorry ass outta my face!”
He staggered out of the dayroom, holding his face.
I gave the kisu to Zacc and he took up the slack at the shower. Doc stayed by me.
That evening I held a meeting in the back of the unit to explain the importance of security.
“Today we had a problem with our security,” I began, looking disgustedly at Shark, “that we shouldn’t have had. Don’t y’all know what’s going on in Folsom and San Quentin? War, that’s what. And it’s just a matter of time before the Surrats try to strike at us here. We gotta be ready! They ain’t gonna walk up to our face and stab us. They gonna bring they sneaky asses up from behind and stab us in the back! So we have to watch out for each another. Secure one another, dig? And another thing, I want to apologize to the community for disciplining Shark in public when I should have taken it to a discreet area. It won’t happen again.”
A few others spoke and the meeting was adjourned.
The next day I was given orders by Kidogo to plant one in a renegade from Folsom. The following week G- wing erupted in an all-out knife fight. The Southern Mexicans attacked the Northern Mexicans and the pigs started blasting away. The Americans were herded into the dayroom. Since the Southern Mexicans and the Americans were allies and the New Afrikans and Northerners were allies, the New Afrikans attacked the Americans, stabbing seven of them. One prisoner was shot and killed.
It was during this time that the New Afrikan community at Soledad began to get flack from one particular pig. That one particularly racist guard was attacked. I was implicated in the accident and three days later, Buck, Zaire, and I were locked in solitary confinement for the incident and given forty-eight months in Security Housing Unit (S.H.U.). Buck and I were sent to San Quentin and Zaire was sent to Folsom. We appealed the decision to put us in the Hole based on confidential information, but the appeal was denied. They did, however, reduce our sentence to twenty-eight months.
I cannot begin to describe how I felt as the prison bus rolled through the massive gates at San Quentin. An incredible sense of destiny seemed to overtake me. And with each successive foot the bus moved forward, additional layers of the “old me” seemed to peel away. When the bus swung around the lower yard and I saw the Native Nation—American Indian—tepees and sweat lodges enclosed by a chainlink fence, I sat upright in my seat.
“This is the house that George Jackson built,” Buck said. He had been here several times. “You’ll feel the comrade strong here. Bro, you’ll read books here, see things here that are gonna change the way you walk, talk, and think. This is the best place for an aspiring young revolutionary. This is repression at its best.”
We filed off the bus under the watchful eye of gunmen with mini-14s. The shotgun had been phased out because it failed to disable attacking prisoners. The mini-14 is an assault weapon. It shoots a .223 round, as does the M-16 and the AR-I5. We moved from the bus to R & R, guards on the huge industrial wall’s catwalk watching us from above.
San Quentin is one hundred years older than Chino, and it shows. As soon as we got inside of R & R, the pigs took Buck to the Adjustment Center, which is like the triple-max unit. I would be spared this time and only put in double-max. I was being sent to East block, and two others—a Chicano and a Native brother—were being taken to North block. They were escorted out first. Ten minutes later I was taken out of R & R in leg and wrist chains, marched up across the upper yard and into East block.
When I stepped in I was astounded. I was dwarfed by the unit. It looked like a huge slave ship. There were five tiers, and they were so long that if you were at one end it would be impossible for you to recognize someone at the other end. I was put in a holding cage and stripped. The chains were removed, and I was handcuffed. The awesome size of the block continued to blow me away. I was apprehensive, as well. Damn, this was the major league, the big house, the
I was taken up two flights of stairs to the second tier and walked down. I got mad-dog stares from every occupant in the tiny cells along the way. New Afrikans, Chicanos, and Americans, all in single-man cells. I was put in 2-East-26. My neighbor in 25 was an American, and to my right in number 27 was a Chicano.
Once I got in my cell the handcuffs were removed. There was a bed—with bedsprings that could be used to make ice-pick knives—a sink, and a toilet. There were two circular vents, one above the sink and another below it.
The American and the Chicano were talking to each other, seemingly about nothing in particular. But just by hearing them talk I knew that the Chicano was a Southern Mexican and the American was a Nazi (the Unholy Alliance). I began to feel around under the bed for loose metal, something I could pull or yank out that I could fashion into a weapon for spearing. Might as well start my time here off right. One of these cats is going to get speared.
I found a piece of metal loose enough to get my hand under, so I slid halfway beneath the bed, braced my foot against the wall, and began to pull violently. Heave-ho, heave-ho. Back and forth I pulled until it moved with ease under pressure. Just a few… more…
“Hey, twenty-six?”
The American and Chicano went silent.
“Hey, twenty-six?”
Twenty-six… that was me. Someone was calling my cell number.
“Hey, twenty-six?!”
“Yeah.”
“Get that line in front of your cell.”
