It took me a full three years to get out of the Crips. I could not just go to the administration building and put in for a transfer to civilian life. I had to practice what I wanted to express, expression eventually to come through the practice of my new beliefs. Getting out turned out to be much like getting in, in the sense of building one’s name and deeds in conjunction with what you believe. Many fail in trying to make this break. Some attempt to make the change to civilian life through working, going to school or church, or moving out of the neighborhood. But many find themselves drawn back in by the strong gravitational pull of the safe familiarity of the set and the ’hood.
It was hard for me to truly substantiate my break because the opposition was quite strong and I had no support whatsoever. I knew that my enemies of old would never believe that I had actually stopped, so they would not cease trying to destroy me. My homies would feel let down, disappointed, and perhaps betrayed. And I would be locked in a defensive posture for goodness knows how long.
During my time in Folsom prison I distanced myself as much as possible from the madness of the Crips and the Bloods. Unless it was a racial conflict, I didn’t have time to walk, talk, and gather in the realm of negativity. My everyday actions demonstrated my seriousness in respect to my new direction. I got some flak from a few individuals, but overall the initial stages of my transition went smoothly. My daily routine was simple. In the morning I’d go to my electronics class and stay until midafternoon. Once the class let out, I’d do my exercise, which consisted of running and calisthenics. I had long since given up on weights in exchange for a sleek, defined, limber body. I had a job as a clerk in the evenings and would go there after my exercise routine. I used my clerk job to help make others aware of the New Afrikan Independence Movement. I began to write, and in 1988 I completed a piece called “Where Does Correct Terminology Come From?” for one of our publications. It was my first writing, and it was printed. It was so exciting to see my thoughts in print, and was a tremendous help in my revolutionary development. Talib and I were cellmates for most of my two years there.
Surprisingly, the gang community accepted my break and some even began to support my efforts, but this came after an entire year of my steadfast practice. I still talked with all the bangers, and they still talked with me. Some asked questions and others said nothing about my change from banger to revolutionary. I didn’t go around trying to persuade the bangers that their line was wrong. But it was wrong to me, though I did not reach that conclusion overnight. Once I recognized it, however, I had to stick with it.
I had faced the realization of who would ultimately be betrayed if I did not stop, which put banging in its proper perspective. While it did and still does supply wayward youth with an idea of collective being and responsibility, in the end it wrecks the lives of its participants and the innocents who live anywhere near its “silo,” or base of operations. It is, unfortunately, the extreme expression of hopelessness in New Afrikan communities: misdirected rage in the form of retarded resistance.
To continue banging would be a betrayal first of my children, who now depend on me for guidance, morals, and strength. What type of guidance or morals could I possibly offer from inside the ranks of a group that had no morals, where Monsters and Fat Rats ran around like heroes for wanton acts of mindless aggression? While I take full responsibility for all the wickedness I have done, I do not take pride in it. To me, now, there is no beauty in destruction for destruction’s sake.
The second betrayal is that of all those who have been killed in our past, who fought so hard for our freedom only to have us follow in their wake with massive destruction, rolling back most of the community unity they had constructed. What about our obligation to them?
These things are what held me against the all-powerful suction of the set. It was by no means easy, and I wasn’t always sure that I had chosen the right path. I got no pats on the back or congratulations from anyone. For a long time it was just Talib and me amidst a sea of antagonists, skeptics, and obdurate onlookers waiting in the wings for me to stumble and fall. I took it one day at a time.
In November of 1988 I was paroled. I had served four years and nine months on a seven-year sentence. I was met in Sacramento by a Muslim that Muhammad had sent to take me to the airport. Akiba had bought the plane ticket. Once I got to the Los Angeles airport I felt much better.
When I entered the terminal I didn’t see anybody familiar. Not ten steps later I heard a voice.
I didn’t even bother to turn around. I went through the motions without a word.
“Where you come in from?” the voice asked. “And what’s in the pouch?”
“I am coming from Sacramento.”
“Oh yeah? Who were you with up there, huh?”
“A friend of mine from Sacramento City College. He and I were discussing the atmosphere.”
“You ain’t got no drugs in that pouch, do you?”
“Naw, just some things from school.”
“You a student, too?”
“Yeah, I’m a student.”
I had learned to tell the pigs, and anyone else for that matter, only what they needed to know. The pig asked where I’d come from and I told him. He asked who I was with and I told him. And yes, I was a student. A student of revolutionary science.
“Motherfucker,” whispered a second pig, who’d been searching my pouch, “you just got released from state prison.”
“Yeah, it’s in Sacramento.”
He threw my pouch to the ground, the contents spilling to the floor around my feet. Then the other pig came to my left ear and whispered.
“Welcome home, nigger.”
And with that they faded back into the flow of terminal traffic. In my younger years that wouldn’t have bothered me much. But with my new direction and expanded consciousness, it struck me hard.
I was picked up by my brotha, Kerwin, and we went straight to my mother’s job. She was a bartender. She didn’t see us enter the darkened club and before she could spot us we were standing there before her.
“Oh,” said Mom, “my baby!”
“Hey, Mom,” I said with genuine love and affection as I leaned over the bar to hug her.
“Honey, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too, Mom, I’ve missed you, too.” My eyes were shut tight over Mom’s shoulder to hold back the rising tide of tears. After all our disagreements, our fights, and my total disregard for her feelings, she still loved me, still supported me. I knew then what she had gone through in trying to raise us, especially Kershaun and me, who seemingly lived in juvenile hall, court, or some other detention center. Despite this hardship, Mom would faithfully be there every time to plead for our release. Because of us, she took more abuse from the authorities than we ever knew.
“I get off at ten, but I know you have a lot to do, so let’s get together tomorrow, all right?”
“Yeah, Mom,” I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “For sure, huh?”
“Yeah, for sure.”
“All right, Mom. I love you.”
“And I love you, too, baby.”
Kerwin and I left and made our way through the South Central streets toward Mom’s house, where everyone had gathered for my arrival. I couldn’t believe the drabness of the city. Burned-out buildings and vacant houses took up whole blocks. Gas stations and liquor stores owned by Koreans were on every corner. Mexican merchants hung on corners, hawking oranges like dope. The obvious things that had been there all along I now saw differently. Washington Boulevard was wrecked, rife with empty lots and homeless people pushing grocery carts commandeered from supermarkets. They used to seem like lazy bums. Now they seemed to manifest the cruel irresponsibility of society. Graffiti-sprayed walls that I once was able to read and overstand were now scrawled with some illegible markings—a new age in banging, the preppie gangs making their debut.
We got to the house in twenty minutes. When I walked inside it seemed smaller than I had remembered. Everyone was sitting around the table staring at me. They all wanted to know, and no doubt hoped, that Sanyika was real and had finally put to rest the old beast, Monster. No one spoke. They just looked at me, hoping that the first word out of my mouth wouldn’t be “cuz.”
“Habari za jioni,” I said, which is Kiswahili for Good evening, and the whole room seemed to exhale with relief.
