Mack Daddy Legacy of a Gangsta

by Darrell King

  Before I finished pistol whipping Pretty Tee, I fired the 9mm right near his left ear, leaving burn marks on his ear and the side of his head. As I left him writhing and groaning in painful agony, I’d only hoped that I had split his eardrum with the gunshot. I didn’t hear from Tee for a while after that; but a year ago, I had to put his ass to sleep, after he unsuccessfully tried to pop me from a window of a Buick Skylark while I sat on Mama’s porch playing with DiVante. Marci unfortunately died last year from a drug overdose. Ironically both her and Pretty T were laid to rest on the same Sunday in the same cemetery. Not only did Mama eulogize Marci, but Pretty T’s family selected my mother to perform the sermon at T’s funeral as well.

  When I’d gotten arrested and thrown in the clink for the third time in ‘85, I found out that it was Rawbone who had popped Francisco along with a few SCORPIO stragglers. We both were in jail together during that time. I caught him in the shower and shanked him good. I took a screwdriver and whittled the edge down to a sharp point. So when I crept up on the crazy dred, I boorishly thrust the sharpened screwdriver into his throat over and over again, piercing his jugular. As he awkwardly fell in the shower, blood gushed from out of the wound in his neck, mingling with the spraying water, which caused a rubicund tinge to the pool widening beneath my feet. I made the gang sign of the Reapers as I gazed at his naked, prostrate corpse. This one was for Frisco.

  Things started getting shaky in DC with Paco and Aunt Jenny and their hook-up during the late eighties. Raymond Edwards and Byron Trippi were nailed by the Feds. I mean, hey, they live in DC and that’s Fed City. Aunt Jenny returned to Brooklyn but got locked up in less than a month there for previous felonies on record within the State of New York. She’s still doing time as far as I know on Riker’s Island. Paco came back here to L.A. and profited only a small amount on prostitution. So he gave up pimpin’ ho’s and moved to Oakland. Last time I heard from him he was out on parole and working on construction sites over various parts of the city. He went ahead and married this broad named Felicia from the Virgin Islands. They have a son named Julio, who’s a year old now. Paco doesn’t hustle any longer nor does he abuse alcohol or dope.

  It sounds unbelievable but you know what? The last time I spoke to the nigga he was talking about church, God, Jesus, and being saved. I guess that’s just a combination of marriage and Mama. After all, Mama did marry Paco and Felicia at their home in Oaktown. I’ve got to admit, it was a lovely wedding and Paco couldn’t have chosen a finer wife than Felicia. She’s time enough for him and she, along with Mama and God, keeps him on the straight and narrow. It’s wonderful that he finally found his true place in life. As

  Mama would say, “Thank You Jesus!”

  I never did forget about what Lawrence Tate did to me but that was then and this is now. I’m no longer who I used to be. So revenge doesn’t even enter my mind at all nowadays. Yeah! I know I might drink occasionally and every once in a while I’ll puff on a little weed, though I know for a fact that cigarettes is by far my worst habit. But as for what I’ve been telling you about myself, my reckless and turbulent past, that’s all history. You realize that you’re on a destructive path which leads you to an unpleasant end. I do regret all of the wicked things that I’ve done back when I was but a lost soul. There’s no way that I can resurrect those that I’ve slain or fully apologize to the many families who suffered grief because of my inhumanity and callousness. How can I truly face the children that I left fatherless? Those of my victims… and also, my very own. That which increased my wealth and prosperity, without a doubt increased the addiction of poverty of others. I was nothing more than a vampire, a parasite leech feeding off of others, weakening them in every possible way that one can imagine.

  I’ve witnessed far too many 187’s, attended endless funerals and have had my fill of viewing numerous coffins containing young black bodies being interred. Now surely my dear young Eric Lovette, you don’t want to be a gangster now do you? Believe me if you think that shooting somebody in order to avenge Lewis is gonna make things right, think again. There’s gangs all over South Central just waiting to roll up on somebody just like yourself who gives them a reason to blow you away. Do you want that Eric?”

  *****

  My brother stared at me a long time. Neither of us spoke to the other. The prime of the morning peeked out from the eastern horizon. We had talked the entire night. Well, rather DiAngelo did. I’ll never forget that recollection of DiAngelo’s upon that hill overlooking the city of Compton. Even now I sometimes go up on that small summit to meditate, reflect and pray.

  My brother did a good job working with the gangs of L.A. through city programs and helping Paco organize a prison ministry. He had often talked about joining with ex-football great actor Jim Brown and his efforts in gang rehabilitation. Because of his widespread popularity among youths of both African and Mexican American descent, his word was gospel and his positive viewpoints were widely accepted and respected even among the most ruthless convicts and gangbangers. Even the Los Angeles police department, now long since under new management, made a truce with the one individual who had in past years been their worst nemesis. DiAngelo was sort of an unofficial mediator between “Five-O” and the gangs from the hood. Consequently, as a result of his keen wit, diplomacy, and tact, he kept the inner-city streets free from drugs and bloodshed for a time.

  DiAngelo’s anti-violence movement attracted the attention of some of Hollywood’s biggest names, both black and white. They showed great appreciation for the movement and supported it to the fullest. Political leaders of the black community united with African American groups such as the NAACP, the Nation of Islam, the Rainbow Coalition and many other smaller yet no less important groups gave DiAngelo’s movement their help and assistance.

  Recreation centers, new playgrounds, and better educational facilities were erected within the neighborhoods of South Central and East L.A. Soon DiAngelo was traveling nationwide, speaking out against drugs and violence all the while promoting education, rehabilitation, and minority-owned business. DiAngelo was highlighted on the covers of Ebony, Ebony-Man, Jet, Essence, and Players magazines. Of course I have all the issues. He’s been a guest on the Ebony-Jet Showcase, Soul Train, Yo! MTV Raps, Rap City, and 20-20. Even though he was well-known, he never forgot where he came from and would turn down a lavish black-tie dinner or celebrity roast to shoot some ball with the fellas or take a busload of ghetto children to see the Lakers play. Eventually DiAngelo did get in contact with a proud Jim Brown, who congratulated him on his accomplishments.

  DiAngelo was overjoyed at the compliments and acknowledgement of Brown who joined forces with my brother to increase the peace among L.A. gang members. He was honored at the 1992 Black

  Achievement Awards for his endeavors within the black community. Also in 1992, the president of the United States cordially invited DiAngelo along with his antiviolence group “Salvation” to the White House for a luncheon and brief discussion on the state of the inner cities throughout the nation.

  After the meeting, the Chief Executive remarked that “The conversation with Mr. Lovett and colleagues was the most enlightening, provocative, thoughtinspiring exchange that I’ve yet been engaged in, exposing a very real and malignant cancer affecting the very core of our minority communities. We as Americans must no longer stand idly by and turn deaf ears to the cry of our fellow countrymen victimized by poverty and crime.”

  DiAngelo Lovette was a lot of things to a lot of people. He, like any other fighter for justice before him, had his critics and hatemongers, but like the strong black leaders of the past he too continued the struggle for black Americans – to free us from violence, poverty, drugs, prostitution, and ignorance. He tried his best to rebuild what he and many like him had once destroyed. On October 31, 1993, Halloween and my brother’s 29th birthday, he met his death at the hands of a drive-by assassin, coming home from a lecture he had given on the campus of Berkley University. The assailant was only fifteen-y
ears-old. He wept bitterly when he realized that it was the beloved DiAngelo Lovett whom he had killed instead of just some ordinary “Joe” picked out as a sacrifice for gang initiation.

  The activity that he so relished as a youth and despised with a passion as an adult, had at last claimed his life. DiAngelo was laid to rest on November 11, 1993. The most celebrated gangster turned activist was entombed within a marvelous limestone sepulcher enclosed in a casing of obsidian and lapis luzli. The funeral was held at our mother’s church, “The Holy Tabernacle of the Galilean.” But because of the church’s moderate size, its capacity could not contain the large scale legions of mourners who came from far and near to pay their final respect. The number of female mourners came along in a countless procession from the beginning of the services until the ending. Gang members representing their individual groups came from all parts of the state of California.

  As a matter of fact, gang members and drug dealers from all parts of the U.S. came to pay homage to one of their own. And for one day, they all put aside their differences and weapons, grieving sorrowfully for a man who had fought with, against, and for them. Hip Hop stars, especially gangsta rappers, came in groups from both coasts of the nation, decked out in all their gold-jeweled grandeur, several including Ice T, Too Short, and members of the now defunct N.W.A., took to the podium and delivered moving eulogies to the homie they referred to as “The Mack Daddy”!

  Public Enemy, along with the lead rap artist

  Chuck Dee and Flavor Flav, praised the departed DiAngelo upon his civil rights activism. Among the galaxy of lamenters were intermingled a variety of recording artists, pro athletes, big and small screen entertainers, and distinguished black community leaders. The Los Angeles Mass Choir sung “Goin’ Up Yonder” and several other appropriate gospel selections in honor of DiAngelo.

  It’s been two years since my brother’s untimely death. Shortly thereafter, the ghettoes of Southern California began to slip back into the ugly state of deprivation that they were once accustomed to. DiAngelo’s memory however, lingered on, larger than life – almost mythical. He was a legendary figure of the South Central hood. Many a gangbangers spun tall tales of his acts of gangsterism and his enviable wealth and power. Due to his reputation, he had gained immortality.

  EPILOGUE

  On March 18, 1994, I, Eric Lovett, completed a biography of my brother DiAngelo’s exploits and life experiences. As I now attend Howard University, here in the District of Columbia, I’ve little time in between classes, studies, and football practice, to do any further work on these journals. But I received help from my fiancée, Ms. Crystal Seagram, who took it upon herself to type up the crude manuscript and present it in the legible format in which you now hold. I’m glad that I did heed my brother’s warning that day long ago and chose not to go on that drive-by. DiAngelo’s guidance, along with our mother’s, helped me through high school. It also helped earn me a football scholarship. I now start as tailback for the Bisons. This past summer I went back home to visit my family along with Crystal, whom I introduced to everybody.

  Later that evening, a group of young hardheads cruised down the avenue near my mother’s house, loaded inside a huge black and chrome, 1964 Impala with the stereo blasting the latest gansta lyrics. The big car pulled up to the curb and the driver got out. He had the typical gang style dress: flannel shirt, colorful bandanna, etc. He also sported a massive solid gold herringbone chain with a diamond studded uzi machine gun pendant attached to it. On his hands every single finger except the thumbs were encircled with brilliant golden rings, some of which also were imbedded with diamonds. “What up fool? Break yo self!!” barked the teenage gansta pulling a 9mm Glock from his baggy shorts. I simply stared back at the youth who started smiling sheepishly, placing the firearm back down into his pants.

  “Come on lighten up nigga! You act like you ain’t got no pussy last night or somethin’,” said the teen playfully throwing jabs at my midsection.

  “I know watcha need nigga!” With that declared, the young man pulled from his shorts a sandwich bag filled with marijuana. Its powerful aroma filtered from the bag to the surrounding area. He then reached into another pocket and came out with a small box of Phillies blunts cigars. But before he could go to work transferring the cannabis to the emptied husk of the cigar, I stopped him, telling him not to light up in front of my mother’s house. “Awright! It’s all good; I won’t light the end in front of grandma’s house. Let’s go for a ride to Crenshaw. While we’re riding I can get ya ffuuuucccckkkeddd uuuuuup!!” he said, huggin’ me around my shoulder.

  “No thank you, man what kind of bullshit are you all getting ready to get into?”

  “Who knows?” said the gangbanger, “I’ve gotta check on my homies in Watts. They should’ve sold all of my shit by now. It’s time to collect my money, know what I’m sayin’ boy?”

  “You betta check yo’self!” I said in a stern tone.

  “Look here Uncle Eric, I don’t need no fuckin’ preachin’ today. That’s just why I don’t hang around grandma or Uncle Paco. ‘Cause they need to stop comin’ at me with that preachin’ shit!”

  Just then several of his thug friends yelled out at him to come on. He looked at me, smiled, then made a gang symbol and tossed me a joint of weed turning to leave. He then stopped and turned around.

  “Oh yeah, here.” He tossed a rolled up wad of money at me. I opened it up. It was three hundred and fifty bucks.

  “What is this for?” I asked.

  “That’s for you, grandma, and give some to my little sister Chantel while she’s here in Compton. Later nigga!”

  I watched as DiVante, now eighteen years old, departed from my sight and disappearing down the street amidst the blaring music of his car speakers and the wild revelry of his malt liquor drinking, pot-smoking criminal minded companions. I shook my head and turned to enter my mother’s home, all the while knowing that the spirit of evil that had once dwelled within DiAngelo had reincarnated itself. It was resting now in the soul of DiVante, son of DiAngelo. History looks as if it shall repeat itself once again.