by Jorja Leap
I tried to spend time with what researchers would call “the control group”—the individuals who grew up in the same geography as the gangbangers I knew but did not join gangs, barrios, neighborhoods. And again it all came down to their mothers. Every one of them talked about their mama or their madre, living at home, keeping an eye out, chasing them up and down the street to make sure they ate dinner and finished their homework. What was going on?
I had my own problem with mother wounds. When I was growing up, my mother and I clashed wildly over what was to be a familiar theme—my rebellion against conventional life and the Greek community. Along with my father, she consulted an elderly Greek priest, who counseled, “Jorja Jeane is a little bird who belongs to the world. You will have to let her fly.” My parents came away unconvinced and insistent on order. They were not interested in freedom. What they wanted was control. In fact, my mother told me, sotto voce, that she and my father felt that I had some very serious problems. But as I listened to her speaking I thought about her own serious problems. The fact that she could not drive on the freeway—a severe disability in Southern California—and that she spent at least one day a week in bed with a migraine headache, the household brought to a standstill. I felt emotionally abandoned. And I rebelled against her, my father, and the whole Greek ethos. I vowed if I ever decided to have children, I would never be like her.
Now that I was raising my own daughter, I was determined not to repeat my parents’ mistakes. I wanted to be there for Shannon, providing her with the experience of unconditional love that I had longed for. And yet, because I spent so much time in the streets or at Homeboy with people from the neighborhoods, there were times I ran the risk of emotionally abandoning Shannon. She doesn’t rebel. Instead, she confronts me.
“You scare me, Mom,” she begins. “You never think about how dangerous it is. Promise me you’ll be careful. Promise me you won’t go out at night.” I am listening to my daughter and I am thinking about a line in a poem she wrote. “I am a child of cancer.” She has lost one mother to a horrible disease but has the courage to trust me—the woman who became her second mother. I am amazed at Shannon, in awe at her ability to love. I promise her that I will be careful. But I am not sure it is a promise I will keep.
Just like my family relationships, the picture with the homies and the homegirls is complicated. A little over one year into the study at Homeboy Industries, I had collected a large sample of three hundred homies, and it seems like so many have been locked up, have relapsed, are on the run. In reality, only one-third of my sample goes back to gangbanging—but everyone who falters breaks my heart. I’m beginning to wonder how anyone leaves the neighborhood. I want to cry.
Instead, I wait.
Eighteen. Fathers of the Community
I think it’s funny, it’s a funny, funny thing—no one is asking us how to solve the problem. No one be asking us—everyone else has the idea. You tell me how some skinny white guy downtown knows how to fix what’s wrong with us.
—Maniac
For several weeks in 2010, gang violence has spiked. Homies I see on a regular basis suddenly drop off the radar. After asking around, I find out that most of them have been locked up. But a few are carefully avoiding their neighborhoods, barricading themselves at Homeboy Industries. Carlos is there, front and center, shakily telling me how his cousin was shot right in front of him, victim of a drive-by. Comforting Carlos, I wonder why there was a hit. According to William Dunn, an LAPD detective, in his book The Gangs of Los Angeles, “In 1993, Eme, as an organization, hosted a very public picnic in Elysian Park. . . . At this picnic, over 3,000 gang members from throughout Southern California were in attendance. At its conclusion, it was announced to reporters in the crowd that Eme had negotiated a number of truces between warring gangs and, most important, declared a moratorium on drive-by shootings.” Dunn claimed that later “Eme amended their edict: gang members could shoot from the car, but only as long as they opened the door and put one foot on the ground.” Khalid Washington had assured me that representatives from both black and brown neighborhoods had met and agreed there were to be no more drive-by shootings. But Carlos explained that the driver had actually stopped the car; the shooter opened the passenger door and started firing. “That way it’s not a drive-by.” Evidently the neighborhoods understood something about the nuance between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law.
I don’t want to press Carlos, who finally stops shaking long enough to tell me he has to go to his anger-management class. Later, Hector offers more information: Carlos told him his cousin had taken a bullet in the neck and died in his arms. This all took place in America’s newest hot spot, Bell. A few hours after the shooting, three members of Florencia had shown up at Carlos’s house asking, “What’s up? Do you want to take care of business?” Carlos withdrew from their offer of revenge, saying he was going to sleep. “He handled that beautifully,” Hector declares, “but now he needs therapy.” When Hector approached him, Carlos initially resisted the idea but later went to see Christina, one of the mental health staff.
That night, Carlos does not want to go home. Instead he helps set up for Greg’s book signing at the Homegirl Café. Tattoos on the Heart, Greg’s beautiful book of stories and experiences he has shared with gang members, has just been published and there is a major celebration and launch. For one evening, homies and public figures celebrate together. But no sooner do things settle down with Carlos than there is trouble with Ronny, who calls to tell me that his cousin, who was shot two nights earlier, has just died. Ronny is still at the hospital. I ask him if I should drive out to see him, but he tells me it’s not safe, the neighborhoods are shooting at everyone. For once I listen.
For the next week, Ronny doesn’t want to leave the house, but his girlfriend, Destiny, finally convinces him to return to work. He stays planted in the lobby of Homeboy until closing time. I sit with him, sharing the Greek butter cookies Mark has packed in my lunch, which he makes for me every morning before I go out to interview homies.
“I just can’t handle it,” Ronny tells me. “I really can’t.”
I remember what Ronny had said back in Nickerson Gardens—that no matter what happened in his life, he would always be seen as a member of his hood, including in his own heart. While we eat cookies, I ask him, “Do you ever think you’ll see yourself differently? What if you became a schoolteacher? How would your neighborhood see you?” He barely hesitates.
“It doesn’t matter what I think I am. I’m still a member of my hood.” It comes to me, while he’s talking, that this is all he possesses.
“Where do you belong?” I ask him. He explains that Bounty Hunter Bloods is his hood. And his family is a set or a clique.
“But in your feelings—your heart—what’s the difference between your set and your hood?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
The next day Ronny doesn’t show up. I call Destiny, but she doesn’t answer. I have learned that, for most people in the neighborhoods, telephones exist for texting, not talking. So I text Destiny and she quickly responds that she is not with Ronny. When I tell her we need to talk, she texts me that she can’t; she is waitressing during lunch hours at the Homegirl Café. I tell her we can talk after lunch. All this avoidance isn’t a good sign.
When the lunch rush dies down, we walk outside and Destiny tells me she’s scared: first Ronny’s cousin was killed and now two more of his homies have been killed.
“I don’t wanna say any more,” she says quietly. It’s time to fill in the blank.
“Does Ronny wanna retaliate?” I’m not afraid the way I used to be. When violence is in the air, it’s best to be blunt. Destiny starts energetically shaking her head.
“Oh no.” She is loudly emphatic, then looks around carefully. “You can’t tell him I told you. Ronny’s afraid to leave the house. He doesn’t want revenge—he’s afraid they’re gonna come after him. I keep telling him he should come to work.”
“Does Ronny have any strikes?”
“No, he doesn’t,” she says, and despite what I see as a good prognosis, she is anxious. “He doesn’t have any strikes. But he’s on parole. And his PO is dyin’ to violate him.” I soften and tell her that I know both she and Ronny are good people. I trust them. While there are good probation and parole officers, Ronny has drawn a bad hand. His parole officer is setting him up to fail—calling him all hours of the day and night, demanding drug testing, stopping by Homeboy to make certain he is working. “I’m worried his PO is gonna come by,” I admit.
“Ronny’s gonna be here tomorrow,” she tells me. “I’m gonna get him to come to work. He has gotta come to work.”
There is more violence, and it is claiming both brown and black gang members. Smiley, a nineteen-year-old trainee at Homeboy, is crying. His cousin, who, just like Smiley, was MS-13, has been shot and killed. Smiley carries around a coffee can, collecting money for the funeral. Carol Biondi quickly writes a check and stuffs it inside. She is Mother Teresa with a manicure—she just cannot help herself. If there is a birthday or a death or an upcoming trial, Carol finds a way to quietly help. She has stopped by Homeboy to pick me up so we can drive out to Scripps College to talk with Tom Hayden’s students about gangs and juvenile justice. The three of us go out to dinner after class and focus on the plight of Alex Sanchez, who has finally been released on bail to await trial. He has no money and no way to earn a living. Out comes Carol’s checkbook. Tom is worried that the judge, Manuel Real, is unpredictable and hopelessly biased in favor of the government. Carol and I wonder how Alex is going to feed his family. There is no doubt among the three of us that he is innocent and that the US attorney just doesn’t understand the gang problem on the ground.
Two days later I go to see Hector, asking if he can talk to Ronny. Despite his management status, Hector relates well to homies, whether black or brown. Even the most hardened guys, with long prison records, relax around him. I listen while he talks to two men, both just released from Folsom two days earlier. They show all the signs of institutionalization, the usual dividend of long-term incarceration. It happens to almost everyone who has been locked up—their independence and sense of responsibility, often not strong to begin with, diminishes so much that once they are back “outside,” they feel overwhelmed and unable to manage the simplest demands. Of course, this piles more psychological problems on top of the PTSD and depression they already suffer.
“You’re kinda stiff,” Hector begins. “But I understand, you’re just out of prison, emotions and stuff. Y’know, it’s hard to change. When you got into the gang—you had your reasons—you got hurt. If you’re born and raised that way in a neighborhood, that’s some deep shit in your brain. If someone comes to you and tells you, ‘You can’t think that way no more,’ you can’t do it. You gotta decide you want to do it. And you gotta leave. For good. And you gotta see, the youngsters are looking to you for guidance.”
One of the guys listening to him says, “I wanna do this. I think I got it.” The other guy remains stiff—he wants to believe, he is leaning his upper body forward, but he won’t look directly at Hector. These guys look so young and yet so old.
Hector’s words come back to me a week later while I sit in a small, hot room at Toberman Neighborhood Center. Everything Hector talked about fits in with the discussion at this gathering of OGs and prospective gang interventionists. Most of the men here expressing an interest in street intervention are just out of prison. This is one of the few jobs available to them, particularly with the economic downturn. At Homeboy Industries, the staff finds that living up to one of its core values, “Jobs, Not Jails,” presents an ongoing challenge. Hard-core street intervention provides a positive employment option, but it also puts many of these former gang members right back in the neighborhoods they are trying to avoid.
Big Mike sits next to me at one end of the table. The meeting has been organized to teach these men street fundamentals: how to practice “violence interruption” and effectively talk gangbangers out of shooting one another. These OGs are expected to communicate with the younger gangbangers.
A former gangbanger turned pastor and intervention leader, Ben Owens, is running the meeting. He is neatly dressed in a pressed white shirt, tie, and vest. Ben—who is also known as Taco—usually wears a jacket as well, but it is 9:45 a.m. and the temperature has already soared to 81 degrees. I don’t know how these guys are going to sit through the next five hours. I don’t even know how I’m going to sit through the next five hours. All of the faces around the table—with two exceptions—are black.
One of the OGs points to me as if I am on exhibit and asks, “Who she?”
Taco patiently explains that I am a researcher, writing an evaluation to describe the impact of street intervention.
“She will spend time with you in the streets, you will talk to her. She writes what we do so we can apply for more funding and get more money to pay you.”
I introduce myself and explain how confidentiality protects gang members, unless they start planning a crime in front of me.
“We’re not gonna tell you stuff, we can’t tell you stuff,” one experienced interventionist, Eric, insists. He addresses the group. “We’ve been in the pen. We know we can’t tell her everything.”
I try not to smile. Every time a new group of men comes out of prison, wanting to become interventionists, we go through the same drill. Some of the men here—like Eric—will never talk to me; some—like Felipe Mendez—will become close confidants. Some hate women; some need a mother. But right now this is a show of force precisely for my benefit. More importantly, they are posturing in front of one another. They are like dry drunks—maybe they’ve left their neighborhood, but they still act like gangbangers.
Carl, an interventionist in training, kicks back. He reminds me of Khalid, with the same blend of arrogance and charisma. In a sign of disrespect to everyone in the room, he wears sunglasses. His mouth is pressed in a thin, tight line. If Carl has actually left his neighborhood, I will parade through the streets naked.
“What are people in the neighborhoods gonna do when we show up with her?” Carl begins. “It’s not happenin’. People won’t talk to me if I’m with someone like . . . her.” I still don’t have a name. It is “she,” “her,” or, in some extreme cases, “it.” I am reminded of how the men in the LAPD refer to their spouses as “the wife.” It doesn’t matter what community I am operating in; for a female, nouns and pronouns appear in place of a name.
But Big Mike is vouching for me.
“No one questioned me when Jorja Leap was with me. When you’ve gotta license to operate, they will accept her.”
“Well, what if shots get fired?” Suddenly they are acting as if they are worried about my ass. I doubt it.
“I took care of Jorja Leap. You will need to protect her,” Big Mike adds. “Now pull yo’ heads out of yo’ asses. She’s here to help us. And she’s a good lady.”
The discussion shifts. The interventionists are no longer interested in me. Instead, Kenny Green is reminding the homies that they are role models.
“People in the neighborhood know you. When a kid sees you—they learn,” Kenny begins. “If you gotta beer in your hand, these little kids are watchin’ you and they’re gonna grow up one day and remember that. They see you as false, as frontin’ if you say you’re a good citizen but act another way. I thank God that I always remembered they were watchin’. Those kids grew up, they’re major bangers but they remember what I’m like—what I represent—the positive side of things. If you fail, you can lose them faster than anything. You can lose it in a second. Look what happened to Mario Corona.”
I wince wh
en he brings up Mario’s name. Mario is serving three to five years at Federal Corrections on Terminal Island—a few miles away. But no one wants to dwell on this. Instead Kenny starts talking about the importance of community-based organizations, including Homeboy Industries. One OG rolls his eyes and says, “Here we go again with hardcore and wraparound services.” Eric joins in the ridicule.
“They keep talkin’ about tattoo removal, like that’s gonna solve the problem. What a bunch of bullshit. It’s useless,” he says, warming to his task. “First of all, every teenager in LA is gettin’ a tattoo, gettin’ a piercing—it’s not street anymore. It’s mainstream. Fuckin’ Angelina what’s her name has got more tattoos than one of my little homies. It doesn’t mean a thing. Puttin’ em on, takin’ em off, it’s all a bunch of bullshit.”
“Quit fightin’ you foo’s,” Big Mike shouts, again. “How many times am I gonna have to check you?” he asks in mock frustration.
Taco picks up from here, trying to get the group back on track. “Don’t forget, different people see you in different ways. In the community you’re called noble, the neighborhoods may call you the ‘get along’ guy. You get along with people. But just remember, law enforcement says ‘Once a gangster, always a gangster’—a tiger doesn’t change his stripes. You might be a hero to the community but law enforcement still says we are gonna get him.”
Taco almost concludes this monologue but then adds, “If you think your phone is tapped, if you think someone is watchin’ you—keep thinkin’ that, because there’s a good chance you are. Everyone is watchin’ you.” Paranoia abounds here, with good reason. The interventionists are not trusted on either side—the gangbangers believe they are snitches; the police believe they are gangbangers. They are the ultimate double agents. Welcome to my world, I think.