by Miles Harvey
Their dad and I, we grew apart. We grew up differently, but we’re still best friends. I moved back to Texas once, and they didn’t wanna go so he kept them for three years. My youngest lives with him now so I can finish school, finally. She’s a straight-A high-school student, high honors. She gets all kinds of awards and internships. She’s going to be a neuro-neuro-something-something-something. She’s just everything. And the oldest, she’s in Texas. She’s studying education. She is living on her own; she pays her own rent. Every blue moon, she asks me for, like, a piece of money or something, but they are doing excellent. That’s why I’m able to finish school. They’re making me. I had to beat them because I pushed them to go to school, so I have to have my degree before they do.
I went back to high school maybe at 25 or 26. I went through a program. It’s an actual diploma.74 It was hard, too, because I was like, “I’m not going in there with these kids!” I started at community college in 2008, Harold Washington. I needed to be babied back into this. I was originally studying business. Now, I’m double major: African and Black Diaspora Studies and English, so I don’t know when I graduate. I’m finally doing something I want.
Once you start growing and wanting different stuff, people don’t see you anymore. It’s, “Oh, there goes Miss Going to School, School Books, White Girl.” I’m like, “How am I a white girl?” Even my daughters’ dad calls me a white girl; he doesn’t understand a lot of stuff. Just because I don’t do what they do, they think I think I’m better than them.
I quit my job so I could finish school because it was too much. I was working for Nike. So I took a big risk. But I’m doing good. Now I’m working at a beauty shop. I do natural hair two days a week: Fridays and Saturdays. It’s on the South Side. Stressful, but it’s taking care of everything.
I’m actually back where I started: in a studio in Hyde Park. It’s almost on the same block, too. It’s about me again. I actually don’t know what to do. It’s a lot more peaceful. Not looking over my shoulder. It’s almost like I’m getting a second chance to be peaceful, but I don’t even go to certain areas anymore.
The original guys, there were three or four of them, aren’t around anymore. They passed away or gone to jail. A lot of the leaders are locked up, but I’ve never been to any jails. Not county, nothing. To visit anyone. I refuse to see people like that, but it’s still people I’m connected to. You branch out, you know other people. I still need the security. I have rank, so if I need something I can get it done. I don’t know everybody, but I have close ties with a few people, ranging from maybe 14-year-olds and up.
The younger kids are completely out of control. But if you can corner them, you can have a conversation with them. I think they trust me because I don’t talk at them. I know what’s going on in their heads. I know what they’re going through. It’s really big for me to not judge someone. These guys out here, with their pants sagging, they look rough, they look scary. But they might’ve had a mom like mine that put you out early. You never know what the backdrop is. I’m not saying trust them, because they are different now. They’re on pills and stuff. Back then, if you did any kind of drugs, you was an outcast because you was a crackhead or something like that. For some reason, it’s more acceptable now. You see these kids doing stuff on the news and are like, “What the hell is wrong with them?” But what’s happening is they’re on Ecstasy and drink, so they have an upper and a downer clashing with each other. They’re literally frying their brains out. It’s stuff back in the day the guys would not let be in their ’hood. So I’m more alert when I go to the ’hood than I used to be.
I’ve survived a lot, and it amazes me that I’m still able to be happy and laugh. I’ve dodged a lot; I’m not bitter. I know every single day that I’m extremely lucky. I don’t understand who I am. I’m not normal. I have to be, like, an alien. I’ve been through so much, how dare I still be happy? I’m scared if I ever figure it out, my favor is gonna go away, so I don’t really worry about it, don’t wanna jinx it.
I’m gonna break down eventually. I’m just waiting for it to crash. I’m getting softer. My ex-best friend said I was getting too soft for her to hang with because I actually care about stuff now. I probably started caring like six years ago. I don’t know what happened. I’m living in Atlanta and she calls me and tells me that some guy she’s dating, some other girl that he’s dating threatened, like, my god kids or whatever, so she’s like, “You need to come up here so we can…” and I’m like, “I’m not gonna come from Atlanta to Chicago to whoop some girl’s ass because ya’ll both having sex with the same man.” Is that soft or is that common sense? So then she calls me back maybe two days later like, “She just threatened to come shoot the house up!” So of course I’m a little more worried, but I’m still not on my way there. I can get people to do stuff for me, so I call and had somebody watching the house for a couple days and she’s full of shit. So she’s been mad at me ever since that, but the code, I mean that’s common sense: You don’t call for help like that unless you really need it. You don’t wanna cry wolf because, when you really need it, they won’t be there.
I’m not as numb now. While I was in hair school, I worked part-time at a funeral home, doing hair on the dead people. You only do the front of the hair, but I think I was able to do it for the short amount of time because I used to be super numb. Now I refuse to see anyone like that. I just want to remember them the last time I saw them. I don’t go to anyone’s funeral.
I’ve made it through a lot. You name it, I’ve probably been through it. Shot at, all kinds of stuff. But none of it is really tragic because I’m still here.
—Interviewed by Ashley Bowcott
Endnotes
72 “Saddity” is a slang word that refers to uppity-acting African-Americans who put on airs.
73 Andy Frain Services provides security at sports stadiums and other large venues.
74 Tu-Tu received her diploma from Benjamin Mays, a now-defunct alternative high school that operated out of Kennedy-King College in Englewood.
HOME WAS THE THREE OF US
JEFF MALDONADO SR.
Jeff Maldonado Sr., 41, is a teaching artist who grew up in Chicago. He and his wife, Elizabeth, live in Pilsen on the West Side. Formerly a neighborhood of European immigrants, Pilsen now has a strong Hispanic identity and is decorated with mosaics and murals by Mexican artists. The neighborhood is also home to the National Museum of Mexican Art, one of the many places where Maldonado has exhibited his work.
Sitting on his couch at home, Jeff Sr. has a commanding yet gentle presence, with a warm smile and tattooed arms. His left shoulder proudly displays the face of his 19-year-old son, Jeff Maldonado Jr.—J-Def to his friends. On July 25, 2009, Jeff Jr. was gunned down in Pilsen. As an aspiring hip-hop artist, he had hoped to be a part of the revival of underground, socially conscious hip-hop. Born Christian Devon, he decided to change his name to emulate his father when he was 9 years old. For Jeff Sr., the loss of his son, together with his Mexican and Native American heritage, are major influences on his art and community activism.
I was in seventh grade when I joined a gang. I was approached by a good friend of mine, and we actually formulated our own branch called the Satan Disciples of 24th Street. I was probably in it for a good six years or so. I was smart enough to know that it was not a true lifestyle for me. It was more about taking advantage of my teenage years and just doing my thing. It was kind of in response to my home life; my parents were divorced. But I have to say this—if it wasn’t for me actually making the decision to be in a gang, I would have never met my wife. That’s how we actually met—through another guy in the gang.
Back then, there was a level of ethics to gangbanging, as weird as that sounds. I would only engage with the enemy. That was it. I wouldn’t jump on somebody when he’s with his mother or girlfriend, or something like that. There was an honor system, and now it’s completely gone. Now it’s like the dirtier, the better.
During t
hat time, I was getting in trouble for various things: fighting, stealing cars. Finally, I got caught with a gun, and when I went to court, the judge looked at my record and said, “I’m surprised that you haven’t been dealt with.” And so what he decided to do was to put me on a year’s probation, with the stipulation that either I had to be out of the state entirely, or that I would have to spend the time in juvenile detention.
I ended up staying with my aunt and uncle on an Indian reservation in Texas. I’m half American Indian; my mother is full-blood Alabama-Coushatta. My grandfather and great-grandfather were both chiefs of the tribe.
When I was in Texas, I actually returned to drawing. Growing up, my interest was always in visual art and creating comic book characters. When I was a teenager, I found my older brother or sister’s art history book, and I started just reading through it. I was fascinated by it. But it wasn’t until Texas that I made the decision—I’m going to pursue my dream of being an artist. I’m going to drop this street identity, and I’m going to move toward what I want to do.
When I did come back, I went to high school and graduated. When I was 20, Jeff Jr. was born, right before I started going to Columbia College. Right out of college, I moved to Pilsen when I got my studio here, about 17 years ago. My head was really into the art scene. I felt like there was a level of freedom that we hadn’t had before. Elizabeth and I had a sense that it was our time to run the show and make our own decisions. We were raising Jeff in a really good way. We all grew up together, you know? And that was part of us being a successful family.
I had daily things I used to do with Jeff, like a daily hug, even when he was big. I was like, “Come here, it’s time for that hug.” Just for a minute. As he got older, he was like, “Ah, man.” And then it’s like, “All right, all right.” And when he wouldn’t give me a hug, when he was sitting at the computer, I used to come up behind him and smell the back of his head. You know, smell is a powerful memory energizer. Obviously, he was 18, he didn’t like that either. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care. Because it was for me.
At times it was difficult for him growing up because people would always say, “Oh, is your son an artist? He has to be an artist because you are an artist.” And Jeff was trying to find his own way. When he tried music, he really found his voice. Jeff started out freshman year of high school with his friend, Rich. Over the years, they recorded, they practiced, they worked together. They were actually doing their own original work. And over the years, they got better. They got really good, as a matter of fact.
The two of them kind of split off, because their styles started to become different. Rich gravitated toward the more gangster, kind of like he had something to prove. I think the difference came from their home lives. Rich didn’t have his dad around, and I know he had a lot of problems in school and in the neighborhood with gangs. So it was natural for him to kind of thump his chest, and say, “I’m here. What are you going to do?” Jeff Jr. was more introspective and had greater range.
And the great part about that was Jeff would see me as a resource. So he would call me up at the studio with questions about the Patriot Act,75 or this, that and the other. He ended up incorporating it in his music, and so it gave his work just so much more depth.
Jeff’s music was really honest. When I play his music to the different schools, these kids can all relate to what he’s talking about. These kids are like, “Yo man, he hit it right on. He’s got balance. He’s a little gangster, but he’s a little this, and he’s a little that.” That was really reassuring to me—that Jeff was really on the right track to achieving the highest form of art that he could.
Jeff wanted to be a performer; that was clear. However, he realized that he needed to have a handle on the business aspect of it. So his intentions were to get his associate’s degree and then transfer over to Columbia College and study music management.
We all knew he was going to make it. Elizabeth and I used to joke with him and say, “Yeah, when you’re a millionaire, you can buy your mother a house.” And we sacrificed part of ourselves. I took time from my career to focus on raising him. It was definitely worth it. He found himself and that’s a great thing. He was very confident. Things were really moving in the direction that we had hoped.
The day before Jeff’s murder was his 19th birthday. Since he was older, we weren’t going to get him a birthday cake, but we decided that we were going to get him a pizza. So we hopped in the truck and drove to Freddies in Bridgeport. We ordered pizza, and it came out, and we climbed back in the truck. Jeff was in the backseat. We gave him $40, you know, spending money because he was going out that night. Jeff had warm pizza in his lap, money in his pocket, and he just said, “The universe unfolds as it should.” That was a good day for us. We were really happy.
But Jeff’s murder happened on the next day, on July 25, 2009, when he was going to have his first public performance at a block party. My God, I’ll tell you about the day. He wanted to get his birthday gift, like really bad. He wanted a White Sox Carlton Fisk commemorative baseball cap, right? He wanted to look good for his performance.
I drove him to Foot Locker and bought his cap. And he was just so happy. Then he asked me if I could drop him off at the barbershop, because he wanted to get cleaned up. I remember that was unexpected. I thought we were all gonna go out and grab a bite. But I dropped him off and he climbed out, and he asked me if I was going to be home. And I said, “Yeah, I’ll wait for you at home.” It was a Saturday. It was sunny out, a beautiful day.
The next thing I know, I hear banging on my front doors. I open the door, and it was one of the guys from the block who is a gangbanger himself, and he was beside himself. He says, “Hey man, hey man, hey man. I think your son got shot.”
And I was like, “What? That’s impossible. That’s impossible.” And I remember just fumbling around.
He said, “Hurry, man, hurry!” I was looking for my shoes, and I couldn’t find them, so I just threw on some flip-flops. We both ran down the street. He led me to 18th Street. I’m thinking, “This is a mistake. This is impossible.” I turned the corner, and I came onto a crime scene. There was yellow tape. There was a van with doors swung open. There were crowds of people on both sides of the block. And there was a lot of blood.
I broke through the tape. I said, “I’m looking for my son. I’m looking for my son.” The cops were immediately like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” The sergeant actually grabbed me and pulled me aside and started asking me some questions. I was still thinking, “This is a mistake.” The sergeant ends up finding out the hospital that they had taken this person to. So he gets my information, and he says, “You need to get over there, right now.” I ran back home. I was running at top speed, and I was still thinking this has to be some mistake.
I climbed in my truck and called Elizabeth, and I asked her where she was. She told me she was walking on 18th Street, so I picked her up because I didn’t want her to see what I saw. When we finally made it to the emergency room, and I was led back there, it was this moment of complete shock. He was still alive, but the doctors had induced a comatose state because of the level of damage that was done to him. He was struck by one bullet in the head. It entered his left side, and it went through and came out.
We were together with Jeff, and he was still alive, and we started talking to him, and we were telling him, “You’re home. We love you.” We were just trying to reassure him that he was with us, that we were together. Because that’s what home was. Home was the three of us.
And he heard us. He tried to get himself up. I mean, the strength of this young man to wake himself up from a coma, to attempt to get up… The doctors went to work on him some more, and we sat two beds down, just devastated. And wondering why this happened. And what we were going to do. Just the thought of living without him—it was unimaginable. And he hung in there. He hung in there for a little while, for a few hours more. And thank God that we had that time with him. I mean, if it wasn’t for this guy th
at came and got me, we wouldn’t have had those final moments with our son. I actually did see this young man about a year later and I stopped and thanked him for doing what he did.
Right before his murder, Jeff Jr. walked into the barbershop, got his haircut, and then his friend, Angel, asked him if he wanted a ride home. They stopped at a red light. There was a gang member on the corner who saw the van, saw two guys in it, and just pulled out a gun and opened fire. Angel said he hunched back and could hear the bullets break the glass and puncture through the door. The gunman ran the opposite direction and cut through an alley. He was caught by an off-duty police officer. There was also an off-duty Cook County sheriff, so they caught this guy red-handed—the weapon and everything.
A friend of ours, who has a shop right there, later described to us how she saw Jeff when he was let out of the van. Jeff walked off on his own and got up on the gurney on his own, you know. She thought he was going to be okay.
This was the middle of the day. Broad daylight.
And the backstory to this is the gunman grew up in a completely opposite way that our family had. His family had a history of gang activity, and his father was a gang member who was murdered the year before by people who were in a white van. So the white van was really who he was shooting at. He could not even see that these two in the van were not gang members. It’s just nonsense, nonsense, nonsense.
That weekend after Jeff’s murder, we weren’t able to come home. We stayed in a hotel downtown, but when we did roll back in, one of the first things we saw was “J-Def R.I.P.” bombed everywhere in the community. That was something that his friends had put up as markers or reminders. But what blew us away was when all his friends got together and started a car wash. They washed cars for four days and four nights, in an effort to help us out financially with funeral costs. They actually managed to raise more than half.