Once a King, Always a King: The Unmaking of a Latin King

by Reymundo Sanchez

  A FORMER LATIN King with indirect ties to my past conducted the NA meetings. Although he didn’t remember ever meeting me, he told me he knew many Kings and Queens from the Kedzie and Armitage (KA) area, including Loco, then leader of the KA Latin Kings; Loca, the older woman who took me as a lover and whose son died in my arms; and even Morena, the murdered Latin Queen who cared enough to show me how to survive on the streets, even if that meant being a ruthless gangbanger. Having him as my counselor allowed me to go to St. Elizabeth, have him sign my participation form, and then leave to go see Lilly without actually attending the meeting.

  Lilly now lived on Damen and Division with a friend and her boyfriend. She had had a falling-out with Loca while I was in jail and had stopped working for her. Because of that, Lilly lost her apartment, so she sold everything except the bed and moved in with a friend. Lilly would often be waiting for me outside St. Elizabeth’s when I arrived there. Lilly’s roommates were watching television and getting high on just about every visit. To avoid the temptation of joining them, I locked myself in Lilly’s bedroom and had sex with her. In essence, my visits to Lilly’s were like conjugal visits. I would arrive, we’d go into her room and have sex, and then I would leave. We never said very much to each other.

  DURING MY THIRD week at the work release center, one of the counselors gave me some information regarding temporary data entry positions at the University of Illinois at Chicago. He thought that my brief employment at the University of Chicago and the computer skills I had gained at Shawnee made me a prime candidate for the job. They would be accepting applications that upcoming Monday. The counselor had already taken the liberty of making arrangements for me to be there. “Call your people and tell them to bring you a shirt and tie and some good slacks,” the counselor advised as he handed me his office phone. I called Lilly and told her what the counselor said. That weekend she showed up at the work release center with a black two-piece suit, a white shirt, and a tie with black and blue designs on it. She also brought me a pair of dress shoes and socks to go along with the clothes. The clothes and shoes fit perfectly; either it was a sign of good things to come, or Lilly knew me a lot more that I had imagined.

  Monday I left the center dressed as I had never dressed before in my life. I felt uncomfortable, yet confident and mature. What I liked most about my attire were the looks of approval and respect I got from the passengers on the bus I took. I didn’t see the customary looks of fear and nervousness. People just looked my way and smiled politely, some even said, “Good morning.” As I approached an empty seat next to an older woman, she moved her bag away from the seat to make room for me instead of further occupying it, as I was used to people doing. I sat next to her and said thank you. “It’s quite all right. Are you having a good morning?” the lady said. “Yes, I am,” I responded. I didn’t know what to make of all the politeness directed my way. I’m sure the lady would have wanted to have a brief conversation based on absolutely nothing to help kill time until she reached her destination, but I sat there quietly. I began to think about how she, and the rest of the passengers on that bus, would react if they found out that I was a convicted felon. I knew that the nice clean suit made all the difference in how they reacted. “Have a nice day,” the lady said as I got up and started for the exit. “You, too. Thank you,” I responded.

  I will never forget that day. The reaction from the other passengers on that bus still makes me smile and helps me keep my priorities in order. Although I’m well aware that some of the world’s biggest felons wear suits on a daily basis, I’m still satisfied with not projecting a fear of violence upon those around me.

  I arrived at the University of Illinois at Chicago’s employment office about twenty minutes before the appointed time. The receptionist gave me the application so I could fill it out while I waited. This would be the first time in my life that I actually completed a job application on my own. Loca’s sister had filled out most of the application for the University of Chicago job I once had. I had never realized before how tough it was to write about myself, especially when I had very little information of positive substance to provide.

  I became extremely nervous as I glanced down the application. When I got to the education portion, I began to doubt myself. Had it not been for the possibility of being taken out of the work release program and sent back to prison, I probably would have walked out without completing the application. The previous employment section further increased my self-doubt. Here I was, a man in perfect physical condition, in his twenties, and all the work experience I could account for was a year at the University of Chicago. It didn’t help that the reason for leaving was “I quit.” Then came the most embarrassing and anxiety-building question on the application. Have you ever been convicted of a felony? If yes, explain.

  That question blew my mind. I slumped in my chair and just stared at it. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would have to share the fact that I was a convicted felon with the rest of the world. I stared at the “If yes, explain,” and saw a clear reason why they would never hire me if I checked this. But I also knew that the address I provided as my place of residence was the work release center, and I would surely be caught in a lie if I chose to answer “no.” As far as I was concerned, the consequence of choosing either was that I would not be considered for a job. Answering yes meant that the person reviewing the application would look at me and see a criminal instead of an applicant. The date of the conviction would alert them that I was on work release or on parole. Either way, they would know that I was the property of the Illinois correctional system. “You can go in now,” said the receptionist, waking me up from my nervous daydream. I quickly checked the “No” box of the felony question, signed the application, and handed it to her.

  I felt so humiliated looking at a work application and not having anything positive to put on it. I was incredibly embarrassed to be in my twenties and have no work experience or education other than a G.E.D. In fact, had I shared the life experiences that the application sought to discover, I would have painted the picture of a good-for-nothing bum. Up until then my only major accomplishment was straightening out my thought process via incarceration.

  I have never forgotten the shame I felt that day, just as I’ll never forget that at twenty-something I was elated to land a six-dollar-an-hour job. (Each and every time I fill out or see a job application I feel the same way I felt that day, especially when I read that question that still sends chills up my spine: “Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” I still check “no.”)

  The receptionist took the application and led me to a room that held about eight computers. She instructed me to sit wherever I wanted and wait for someone to come in and see me. In the next fifteen minutes, five other individuals joined me in that room. Then a woman came in, closed the door behind her, and announced herself as the test administrator. She explained that we would be taking several tests we needed to pass in order to be considered for the data entry position. We would be taking a reading and comprehension test, an alphanumeric code memory test, and a typing speed test. We had to score ninety percent or higher on the first two tests and had to accurately type at least twenty-five words per minute. The computer we were taking the tests on would tell us that we passed or failed at the end of each test. The woman advised us that, if we failed one, to continue and take the others, and that an opportunity to retake the test we had failed would be given at another date.

  I passed all three tests and was surprised that I got a perfect score on the reading and comprehension portion. I stared at the computer screen, looking at my passing scores with a wicked grin on my face and a feeling of superiority. Even if I wasn’t hired, I would definitely leave UIC feeling that I had accomplished something. Only two other applicants passed all three tests. The three that didn’t pass were dismissed, and the rest of us were told to report to the admissions and records office the next day at eight in the morning. We were advised to arrive at least fifteen
minutes early and to bring identification with us.

  I left the UIC employment office feeling happier than I had ever felt in my life. The six dollars and twenty-five cents an hour this temporary position paid represented one of my greatest accomplishments. I walked toward the bus stop in a fantasy world built on the good things to come. At the center I immediately announced, “I got the job, I got the job,” when I saw the counselor who had told me about the position. He shook my hand, congratulated me, and asked when I would start. I told him that I would start work the next day. As I spoke, it dawned on me; I had no means of identification.

  “Oh, shit, man,” I said as I sat on a chair in the office. A sudden feeling of doom engulfed me. I began to get the feeling that I had been put on this earth to suffer failure after failure, with only teasers for happiness. “What’s wrong?” the counselor asked. “They want me to show up with IDs tomorrow,” I said, “and I don’t have any.” “Come on, let’s go get you some IDs,” the counselor said as he put some files away and got up from behind his desk. He pulled my file from a cabinet and off we went.

  The counselor took me to get a State of Illinois picture ID and a social security card. That’s all the identification I needed to present at UIC. On the ride to and from getting the IDs, the counselor explained the rules that came along with being an employed inmate at the work release center. He told me that I would have to sign over my check to the center every payday. They would provide transportation and lunch money until my first paycheck, and then I would have to pay my own way. He also told me that a small amount would be taken from my paycheck as payment for room and board. Also, an allowance would be granted to me for clothes and other personal items. The remainder of my pay would be put into a savings account that would be given to me in full upon my successful completion of the work release program. This procedure was set up to teach me the responsibility of taking care of my finances and myself. I had no problem with the rules; I was just eager to start a new life.

  On Monday, I showed up at UIC confident that I would do a good job. I showed up at seven-thirty in the morning and waited for the woman who would be my new supervisor to arrive. While I waited, I filled out a W-4 and had copies of my IDs made. When the supervisor arrived, I was all ready to go. While the other two applicants waited for their paperwork, I had already started training for the job at hand.

  My job was to key student grades into the university database. It was a simple procedure. All I had to do was call up the student record by ID number, fill in the blanks with a letter grade for the respective class, and hit the enter key to update the record. I caught on quickly and did a good, efficient job. Overtime was available, so I worked ten hours a day for the first two weeks. I loved my job at UIC and did not look forward to the end of this temporary assignment.

  AT THE CENTER, the distractions were minimized to the point where they became nonexistent to me. While others planned on how to get high, or get laid, I planned out my next day of work. I got to the center from work, showered, ate, and prepared myself for the next day. When I didn’t work overtime, I would go to NA meetings in order to see Lilly for my sexual fix.

  I wasn’t doing any drugs, and I really didn’t want to. I saw several guys sent back to the penitentiary because they couldn’t fight that temptation. They got caught in a crack house just days after they arrived at the center. They were supposed to be out looking for work. That the crack house was just several blocks away from the center, and that it was raided on the day these guys had decided to go there, was a sign of destiny to me. It made me think hard about the actions I took when I was allowed to roam the streets. I considered that it was a privilege that could be taken away from me at any moment, and I treated it as such. My only vulnerability was my desire for sex. I had no second thoughts about going to be with Lilly when I should have been at the NA meetings.

  A few guys at the center came in from the streets noticeably intoxicated and were tested right away. When the results came back positive, Chicago police officers escorted these men to Cook County Jail, where they then waited to be sent back to the penitentiary. I was also tested on several occasions—a standard procedure—and the test always came back negative. Although I knew the results could not be anything other than negative, I was always nervous. Seemed like all the years I spent involved in criminal activity now made me feel guilty even when I was innocent.

  Some people thought of me as sort of a goody-two-shoes Latin King around the center, which was just fine by me. Although the jokes flew freely in the presence of many, on a oneon-one basis, many talked to me with respect and asked for advice. I was also asked by one guy to sell him my urine so he could pass a drug test. He had apparently found a way to cheat the system but still required a clean urine specimen. I refused to cooperate with him. I didn’t want to do anything that would risk my losing the new freedoms I had gained. I could smell total freedom just ahead in my life, and I lived every day with the intention of gaining it and keeping it. (The guy did pass the test. I guess he found somebody to sell him some urine.)

  I had many reasons to keep to myself while I lived at the center. The only casual conversations I routinely pursued were with a man named Kalil. Kalil had been born in Jamaica and raised on the south side of Chicago. He was about ten years my senior, a Muslim, and a member of the El Rukn street gang. The El Rukns were best known for plotting to commit acts of terrorism in the United States for Gadhafi’s Libyan government. The FBI raided them and dismantled the alleged plot before any terrorist act had actually taken place. The El Rukns exemplified the power and connections street gangs had been able to acquire.

  I enjoyed my conversations with Kalil mainly because of the spiritual terms with which he connected everything. I told him about how I had ended up in prison, and he said it was the hands of Allah that took a hoodlum headed for a certain tragic end and led him to see the truth. Kalil tried to make me understand that everything that had happened was Allah’s way of teaching me and opening my eyes to the ways of the world I had been living in. “Think about it, my Latino brother,” Kalil said. “Can you deny that the time you spent in jail served as a salvation for your life? Not many brothers can say that, nor can they even begin to think it. Allah works his miracles for those who seek them faithfully.” “But I don’t believe in or even recognize Allah,” I responded. “Call him what you will,” Kalil answered. “It’s faith that will lead us all to the promised land. As I sit here talking to you, all my questions regarding the path my life suddenly took are being answered. Your journey has just begun, young brother. Just be faithful, even when faith seems not to exist.” Of all the conversations I had with people who tried to give me advice on where and how my life should go, Kalil’s words were the ones that stuck with me the most.

  My nights at the center became restless as I slowly became an everyday working citizen, and continued talking with Kalil. I became obsessed with the idea that the possibility of a fruitful, successful life could be ripped away from me without my realizing it. This idea began to control all my thoughts. I regretted not finishing school. I regretted not staying away from drugs. I regretted joining the Latin Kings. I began to consider hard work and intelligence the only reasons for deserving respect. I no longer bought into the theory that, to be a man, one must be violent and uncaring. I would twist and turn all night, trying to find the reasons why I had fallen into the path I had. I could only fall asleep when I lost myself in the fantasy of a woman there at my side, holding me and understanding me. I got into the habit of conjuring up imaginary relationships with women whose sole reason for existence was to worship me. I have no doubt that every man has done this at least once in his lifetime, but for me, it became something I could not function without.

  I CONTINUED TO experiment with the talents I had discovered within myself to put words together and create poetry. Unfortunately, no one understood their meaning except me, so I kept them to myself. I also believed my art should have a clear meaning to all who looked,
but I found that not to be true either, so I kept my drawings to myself as well. The more I wrote and drew, the more I realized that my inspiration came from the feelings of anger and desire for love I harbored for my mother. I realized that I could not just sit down and write a poem or draw images without some kind of turmoil running through my head. When I did work without turmoil, it was usually on something I did for someone else, something that was not for my own self-expression. My frustration with no one understanding my work intensified when I showed the art and read the poems to my mother and she just stared into midair, clueless. I though that if anyone would get my meaning, she would.

  My mother visited me every week with Lilly, and I hoped the art and poetry would open a dialogue that would allow me to express to her how I felt. I was wrong. I could never find a way to just come out and say the things I wanted to say. I waited eagerly for her to come to me, hold me, caress me, and tell me how much she loved me. I waited with my heart exposed to the elements for her to tell me she was sorry for having neglected me. But as the days came and went, it became obvious that I would never hear those words come out of her mouth. I distanced myself from her emotionally to the point where she didn’t exist as a person who radiated love. She became only my mother, the person who gave birth to me, and nothing more.