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

by Reymundo Sanchez

  I slumped back in my seat and just stared at the steering wheel. I had never before shared the details of my relationship with my mother with another person. I felt somewhat hesitant, not sure how she’d react. I thought that maybe Marilyn would make comments in defense of my mother, but at the same time I felt relieved. Then she solidified my feeling of peace with her words.

  “Have you talked to her about it?” Marilyn asked. “She left my ass on the streets, came back to find me in jail, and hasn’t even taken the time to find out what happened,” I responded. “Do you really think she’ll talk to me about it?” “What a bitch,” Marilyn said. I couldn’t believe those words came out of her mouth, and even though she had only spoken the truth I felt the need to come to my mother’s defense. “She’s not a bitch,” I said as I looked away from Marilyn. “What?” Marilyn asked. “She’s not a bitch!” I looked her straight in the eyes with an angry glare. “I can’t believe you,” Marilyn responded. “This woman beat you, left you in the hands of a drug dealer, never cared for your well-being while you were on the streets going through hell, and you still defend her?”

  I sat there quietly pondering Marilyn’s words. I couldn’t understand how this strong Puerto Rican woman could question the oldest of all Puerto Rican traditions—honor and protect your mother no matter what, especially if you’re male. Marilyn seemed to be angered by my show of loyalty toward my mother. I wondered if we had reached a turning point in our relationship. But then she explained herself, and as always awakened a new thought process within me.

  “Rey, you don’t have any reason to protect your mother. It is pretty obvious that if she had cared for you she wouldn’t have put you through all that suffering. She is probably in denial and will probably always deny that what she did to you was wrong. She will no doubt justify her actions by saying that she did it because she loved you and had to provide for you in any way she could. I don’t think she has a clue that she was the cause of your joining the Latin Kings, and going to jail. I don’t think she will ever take responsibility for how you went from an exemplary student to a violent gangbanger. And she doesn’t deserve credit for how you managed to turn your life around and start all over.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “You, Rey, you are the one who deserves credit for figuring out where your life went wrong and dealing with it in a positive way. You shouldn’t look at you mother as some kind of saint; you should see her for what she is, the person who made your life hell.”

  I sat with no reaction, soaking in every word Marilyn said. I began to wonder how my life would have turned out if my mother had not been so determined to find a man to support us. I imagined we would have lived in extreme poverty, but we would have been happy. By now I could have a master’s degree with honors, too. I could have moved us out of the ghetto and never have questioned my mother’s parenting. Then I looked out the window into the cold streets of Chicago and saw my reality. I would never have the opportunity to do those things. I had been robbed of my childhood and young adulthood. I was finally realizing that.

  “Let’s go home,” I told Marilyn as I started the car and drove off. Marilyn didn’t say a word as we drove; I didn’t either. We avoided eye contact until we got to our destination. We looked at each other and kissed deeply, reassuring each other that everything was all right.

  I went home and couldn’t fall asleep until I was absolutely exhausted. I lay on the bed, then got up and watched television, and then went through that routine over and over again. Hundreds of questions went through my mind about my mother. I started to see clearly how the abuse I had suffered at home led me to stray from being a law-abiding and responsible person. The realization that I would never experience a prom or a high school graduation tortured me. And now I was finally piecing together the reasons why. I didn’t like the reasons. They made me angry.

  I finally fell asleep and was immediately threatened by a frightening nightmare. It was the first one I had had since I met Marilyn. When I started taking classes at UIC I began keeping a journal of the things I had done, seen, and experienced as a lost child of the streets, and that had helped me to get rid of the nightmares I had been having. I would write late into the night when the nightmares kept me up and at school as I sat and waited for class to start. My previous nightmares were about gang life. The new ones were about my mother.

  In my dream I saw my mother beating me with an extension cord, but I wasn’t crying or screaming. I was just looking at her. Blood flowed out of wounds on my back, legs, and arms, but it never hit the ground. My mother then sat next to me and smiled as if nothing had happened.

  I woke up thinking I had slept only minutes, then realized it had been almost ten hours. I got up and rolled a joint. Then I sat and stared at the walls of my apartment. Missing were the family pictures that adorned most homes. I didn’t even have a picture of myself. I looked at the joint in my hand and thought about Marilyn. I knew I would lose her friendship if she found out that I still did drugs. I got up, picked up the bag of marijuana, went to the bathroom, and flushed it all down the toilet. My affair with marijuana had finally come to an end. I then located my cigarettes and did the same with them. I was determined never to smoke again. Marilyn had become so important to me that I didn’t want any of this to jeopardize our relationship.

  I called her and told her about the nightmares I used to have, and that I had begun to write, and that this had reduced the number and made me feel better about them. I told her about the nightmare I had the previous night. She told me that it was probably because I was starting to deal with something I had blocked out for so long. Marilyn encouraged me to write about it and also asked to read what I ended up writing. I agreed to take my journal to her that night.

  That night Marilyn and I didn’t talk much. We had dinner and walked around the Uptown area, saying very little to each other. It was as if we were both too deep into our thoughts to actually share them. I drove Marilyn home and, as always, we parked somewhere near her house before we got there. This time, however, we did no talking at all. We spent close to an hour kissing and expressing our passion to each other. Then I walked her to her door and drove home.

  13 Lovers

  MARILYN TOLD ME that her mother was giving her grief about spending so much time on the phone, and she had decided to avoid it by making our conversations briefer. She also told me that she wanted time to read through my journal, which I had given her, so that she could give me some feedback.

  During that next week I didn’t see Marilyn at all. I visited my older sister every day. We hadn’t spent this much time together since we were in our very early teens. We were never close. I had always thought that I bore the brunt of the abuse in our household so that she and my other sisters could be spared. I knew she had been pregnant and that she now had a baby girl, but this week was the first time I ever saw my niece. My sister was shacking up with her baby’s father, a tattoo-covered Latin King, who I didn’t want any part of. All three of my sisters and I were like strangers to each other, and none of us made a move to change that. My reasons for visiting her were self-serving. I planned on eventually striking up a conversation regarding the physical abuse we endured as children.

  My visits to my sister’s place never lasted more than an hour, basically because her apartment reeked of marijuana and cigarette smoke. She didn’t smoke either, but her boyfriend chain-smoked both and didn’t bother thinking about the harm it might do to his infant daughter. The few times I commented on the subject I was made aware, in no uncertain terms, by my sister and her boyfriend that I should mind my own business. Their unhealthy habits bothered me; nevertheless, I kept visiting in order to achieve my goal.

  Marilyn and I continued to reveal things to each other that had caused us pain. But while I was eager to talk about the troubles I wanted to deal with, Marilyn did so only in bits and pieces. She declined my invitations to my apartment, saying that she wasn’t ready to step into that part of my world yet. But we still spent most of our time
together and got into some very passionate moments in the car. Marilyn was certainly mysterious, and that fascinated me. Although it seemed to me that Marilyn’s main cause of turmoil was not having the opportunity to confront her father, it became obvious that her mother’s overlooking her accomplishments was also an issue with her.

  WE MET ONE day to talk about my writing. We went to the UIC computer center so that we could make the corrections she suggested. Marilyn began trying to convince me that I should organize what I had written into a book and have it published. She thought that my work could positively affect other people who had dealt with or were dealing with the same things I had, to help them move on with their lives. Marilyn said that she would work with me to get it together and would support me every step of the way. I was so caught up in the emotion about getting all my thoughts and feelings down on paper that I didn’t even consider the generosity Marilyn was extending to me.

  We were alone at the UIC computer center on a cold rainy night. I dictated to Marilyn an episode of my past to be included. I told her about the thirteen-year-old kid who had died in my arms because he worshipped my lifestyle as a Latin King. I broke down in tears as I told her the story. Marilyn stopped typing to hold me. She decided that night that the details of my life were too painful for her to read and write about, and even though she encouraged me to finish and publish it, she regretfully could not help me with it.

  I didn’t like Marilyn’s decision to stop helping me—I thought it was something that would bring us closer together—but at the same time I understood. All too often I found myself crying my heart out about what I was writing. That night did, however, serve to get us more emotionally close. It was the first time I cried in the presence of another person for as long as I could remember and I did so without regret. I wouldn’t revisit my writing until many years later.

  THE NEXT DAY we cruised around Marilyn’s favorite part of Chicago—Uptown. We had dinner and talked about how comfortable we felt in each other’s company. We left the restaurant and sat in the car kissing and becoming strongly affectionate. I invited Marilyn back to my apartment and again she declined. She did, however, say she would spend the night with me at a hotel. Immediately I drove to an area where I knew we could get a room.

  During the drive, neither of us said a word. We held hands and made brief eye contact from time to time and smiled. I was nervous. I had not pressured Marilyn into sex and I didn’t just think of her as another piece of pussy. Most important of all, neither of us was under the influence of drugs and alcohol. Although I had been with many women before Marilyn, I had never been with anybody like her. She was so different from all the others. Marilyn was the first woman I would make love to who I actually cared about.

  When we arrived at the motel, Marilyn waited in the car while I went and got a room key. We were given room 222. We made our way into the room as silently as we had been on our way there. Once inside the room, we started kissing and undressing each other. Marilyn asked me to turn off the lights, but I talked her out of it by demonstrating how fascinating I found her. I was as nervous as I was excited. I kissed my way up and down her body slowly and gently. In whispers I told her how soft and beautiful I thought she was. I pronounced her the sweetest woman in the world when I performed oral sex on her and tasted her juices for the first time. I felt like a man when I made love to Marilyn. I took my time, thinking only about her needs. I looked at her with the feeling that I would be with her forever and not just until I got my rocks off, the way I had thought about all the women before her.

  After we made love, I stood up and admired how beautiful Marilyn was. I told her that her ex had no clue what he had lost, and made sure she knew what a wonderful lover I thought she was. After that I jumped up and down on the bed expressing how lucky I felt to be with her. This was all meant to relieve her of the insecurities I imagined her ex-boyfriend had left her with. My sincere antics seemed to work. I turned off the lights and we made love all night. We fell asleep as the sun came up.

  We woke up in each other’s arms and went back into the silent mode we’d been in when we arrived. Our silence didn’t stop us from expressing ourselves to each other physically. We kissed and touched each other, and helped each other get dressed. Marilyn decided to keep the key as a memento of what she called one of the most special nights in her life.

  Marilyn and I went and had breakfast before we headed home. During breakfast she said that she expected her mother to be pissed off at her again for showing up in the afternoon. I kidded her by saying at least she wouldn’t be upset about her coming in early in the morning. Marilyn seemed to enjoy the fact that I saw the lighter side of her dilemma, then she put me on the spot.

  “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight so my mother can see who has been keeping me out all night?” she asked. “OK, but only if you cook,” I responded, thinking I was putting her on the spot. “Take me to the store so I can get some things to feed you with,” she replied, taking me by surprise.

  We went to a supermarket and Marilyn got some things to make dinner with. We then headed to her home, joking about what might happen when we arrived. As we drove to her place, she started to prepare me for the worst. Her mother, her uncle, and his wife were all sitting on the front porch in what was an unusually warm, early March afternoon in Chicago. “You’re going to have to walk me to the door,” Marilyn said. “I don’t have a problem with that, but you have to promise to send flowers to my funeral,” I said. Marilyn laughed as I backed the car into a parking spot a couple of houses down from our destination.

  We walked toward the house holding a bag of groceries each as if we were delivering a peace offering. Marilyn started greeting her family members as we approached the gate. I opened the gate, and Marilyn walked in front of me up the stairs. I followed slowly behind her. When Marilyn reached the top of the stairs, she introduced me as her friend to the members of her family, starting with her mother. I shook their hands and greeted them in Spanish.

  “¿Tu eres Puerto Riqueño? (You’re Puerto Rican?)” Marilyn’s mother asked. “Sí (Yes),” I answered. “Yo creia que tu eras blanco (I thought you were white),” she said. Marilyn looked on in amazement as I carried on a conversation with her family. She finally excused herself and left me there talking to them. After sharing bits of information about what part of Puerto Rico our families originated from, I said my farewells and made my way back to the car. As I drove off, Marilyn’s mother waved goodbye with a smile on her face. I left with a feeling that I made a good first impression and would be welcomed back for dinner that night.

  I went home and prepared myself for dinner at Marilyn’s. I was anxious to go and meet the rest of her family. The short conversation I’d had with her mother made me feel much more comfortable about going there. Marilyn called me and told me to be there at six that evening. Although it was only a couple of hours away, it seemed like forever to wait. I decided to go over to my sister’s to kill time before I went to Marilyn’s.

  When I arrived at my sister’s, she was outside with her boyfriend, her daughter, and her sister-in-law enjoying the warm weather. There were also three Latin Kings present. The group was drinking beer and smoking marijuana. I felt very uncomfortable there, as if I didn’t fit in, even though I wasn’t that far removed from that lifestyle. It had been almost four years since I hung with the Latin Kings, and two of those years I hung in jail. Yet it seemed like I had never been there. My sister’s boyfriend introduced me to everybody as an ex-Latin King. When he did that, I knew I had to find a way to get out of there as soon as I could. The Kings began asking questions about when I was a member and the drunken sister-in-law started to make comments about my looks that seemed like come-ons. My sister saved me from having to deal with any of them by handing me her baby daughter.

  I talked baby talk to my niece as I made my way away from the Kings. My sister told me that I could take my niece up to the apartment if I wanted to. I did just that. Upstairs I watched te
levision and played with my niece, waiting for my sister to come up. I figured that if she came up by herself it would be a perfect time to ask her about our upbringing. My sister never did come upstairs, but her sister-in-law did. She went into the bathroom and then sat next to me when she came out. Then she began asking questions about my availability. I told her I had a girlfriend and then asked her to stay with my niece because I had to leave. Outside I told my sister that her daughter was with her sister-inlaw and that I had to go. I said good-bye to everyone present and went on my way.

  As I drove to Marilyn’s house I felt proud of myself for ignoring my sister’s sister-in-law’s passes. I realized that, in the past, I would normally have jumped at the opportunity to have sex with a woman who was so clearly making herself available to me. Even when I did have a girlfriend, I would have at least arranged it so there would be an encounter at a later time. As I arrived at Marilyn’s, I smiled at what I saw as a victory in my personality change.

  As I made my way up the stairs, her uncle came out into the hallway. He stopped and chitchatted with me about the warm weather until Marilyn came down and escorted me upstairs. Her mother was in the kitchen and her little sister was in the dining room. We made our way into the kitchen, where I sat at the table while Marilyn cooked. Then Marilyn’s mother began talking to me about a subject that made Marilyn uncomfortable. She talked to me about her daughter, my girlfriend.