I’d hear about Gadget or Badman or Cruz, as one by one they got out of jail and went back on the road. But they were no longer in my life. One minute someone’s there, the next they’re not. You get used to that in Gangland.
I feel old. I’ve been through so much I feel 50, not 35.
Am I completely reformed? It depends. I would like to say so, but put it this way: I trust myself more now, but I don’t trust society. I think of myself as a recovering alcoholic who tries to avoid putting themselves in the way of temptation. So I keep myself out of trouble.
If I came across someone in the street who was threatening violence, I couldn’t say I would not step in. Not so long ago I tried going clubbing again but realised pretty quick it was not for me. When some women get drunk and lash out, put it this way, I’m not the right girl to be with.
So I just keep myself away from harm. I’ve become a bit of a house hermit these days. Prevention is better than cure.
Do I feel shame? Of course. I was a horrible, aggressive little bastard.
I used to ask God, why did you let us live the way we did? Why was my mum a manic depressive? Why was my dad a rapist? My life always used to feel determined by someone else’s bad decisions.
But I also know God is merciful. He has tested me but he has also looked out for me. I’m not dead. I’m not in jail. I’ve got a lot to be thankful for. I’ve lived it. Only now, I’ve got shit to show for it.
How many people did I stab? Too many, is all I know. All it took was for someone to look the wrong way at me in the street, one glance to make me feel threatened or uncomfortable. Stabbing actions happen fast. There ain’t no time for any of that Rocky Balboa shit. Jab in, slip out. Duppy know who fe frighten.
Do you think of the consequences? Hell no. When you’re 15, surviving one day to the next, there are none.
So who’s to blame? Politicians could blame my parents, and perhaps they’d be right. Social workers might blame the poverty, and they’d probably be right too.
But here are the facts. If I went up to any of the black boys I see in Brixton now, slinking round the stairwells, cycling round the estates, they’d all have their stories. They’d all have hard times. Maybe some of their dads were like mine. Maybe their mums suffered the same shit that mine did. But here’s the truth. There are no excuses. I had no excuse.
Maybe badness is genetic – I still think it is – but here’s what I’ve learned. Everyone has to be responsible for their own actions, no matter where they come from. I made some bad decisions and I’ve got to live with it. The devil will always sit on my shoulder; the only difference now is that I try not to listen.
Mum still lives in Roupell Park. We just celebrated her birthday with music and laughter. She cooked a serious dinner, it was nice. I was playing the music. Imagine, I was selecting the same music Mum would play when we were younger. I took her down memory lane to remind her of when she was happy. Lovers’ rock and Studio One. I took it old skool.
Mum and I get on much better now. I see life differently now I have children of my own. I see first hand how hard it is to be a parent. She takes her medication to remain stable but still has relapses.
It’s hard. Every time I think I’ve overcome my past, her mental breakdowns take me back to square one, back to that trembling young girl on edge. I don’t tell her much as I don’t feel she can handle much info without over-worrying. It’s always been that way and I don’t think it’s ever gonna change.
But she does like to laugh. And I love her for doing her best to raise us. I know how hard it is to be a single mum.
I live a few miles away. I still see the youngers prowling. And true enough, they keep getting younger. Now they call themselves the Muslim Boys, Poverty Driven Children. The names change, the problems don’t.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling bold, I confront the youts out in Brixton and Tulse Hill looking for trouble. I stop and ask them what they’re doing, ask why they are wasting their time.
I don’t tell them who I am. I shouldn’t laugh, but it confuses them, seeing this fearless black lady approaching. I like to think they might stop and think about it once I’m gone.
Not so long ago a boy was stabbed right outside my mum’s home. He was screaming, bleeding bad from two puncture wounds.
It wasn’t long after Yusuf got out of prison. He’s moved to Dubai now with his family. Says he doesn’t like the way Britain is going.
Anyway, we piled this poor boy in the back of the car and I put my foot down. We were a proper urban ambulance, man.
When we dropped him off, we asked him if we could do anything. He asked me to call his mum. He fumbled for his phone. I found her number.
She had a polite voice.
“You don’t know me,” I said, “but I’ve got some bad news you need to hear. Your son has been stabbed.”
I’ll always remember her first word.
“Again?”
I explained all I could, and wished her and her son good luck, as she dashed to his bedside.
I looked out for him on the news that night, and the night after that. I checked the papers for a few days. I was relieved to see no mention.
Then again, black boys getting stabbed don’t much make for news these days.
Do I miss Sour? Hell no.
What did she achieve for me really? Not much. All she did was give me a way to relieve some anger, I guess.
I don’t even like people calling me Sour these days.
I was about to get on the tube at Oxford Circus when I last heard it. I’d seen him on the opposite platform and tried to hide, but he saw me first.
He had put on some weight, a bit chunkier round the cheeks, but he was still as short as ever. He was wearing baggy jeans and a lot of jewellery, and had modified the early ’90s limp to more of a swagger. It was Stimpy.
“Sour!” he shouted across the platform. “SOUR!” He put two stubby fingers to his lips and whistled. People were looking. I could see the rest of the passengers on the platform inching away from the swaggering hardcase who was starting to make a scene.
“Sour! Can’t you hear man calling you? Sour? You gone moist?”
Eyes glazed over, I stared into the middle distance, and prayed for him to stop. I didn’t want to be that person no more. The platforms filled up, swallowing me up. Stimpy pushed to the front. I exhaled slowly, concentrating on the sound of the next train to rumble out of the dark.
Brightly lit carriages flashed by, obscuring him in clapperboards of red and glass. He bounded in, jumped up on the seats, and banged on the dirty window. “Sour,” he mouthed, till the doors beeped shut and the carriages carried him off, out of sight. “It’s me, Stimps …”
But it wasn’t me. I’ll never be sweet, but I’m no longer Sour. She was about anger, badness and greed. I’m someone else now. I am Tracey. Tracey Miller. Ex Gang Girl.
A Note From Montana
I’ve just turned 16. Mum and Dad threw me a party. I had a beautiful dress and did my hair real nice and arrived in a limo. My friends threw away their knives before they came in. They know I don’t like that stuff.
I’m friends with people on all sides. They know I’m not going to get involved in that dumbness.
There were some groups I couldn’t invite to my party, even though I wanted to. I couldn’t have Brixton ones, and I couldn’t have New Park ones, because that’s when it all gets mad. It wouldn’t have been like a party no more; it would have been a death street.
But everything went well, and we all had a good time.
Nowadays most people have knives – usually the pocket ones that flick out – but I’m really not interested. If they didn’t carry anything, they would say that they are lacking.
Somebody on one side might ask me for the number of somebody on the other side, but I tell them I’m not going to give it to them. Just leave it, I say. I don’t see the point. It’s usually silly things, like somebody stepped on your trainers, or gave you the wrong look. And it’s
never one on one; it’s usually the whole group.
“Pagans”, that’s what they call enemies nowadays. And everyone’s got enemies. I was going to my Nan’s once with some friends, when they spotted a pagan who’d wandered into their territory. He was on his own. They went after him. He got gang-rushed. I went the other way. I know how that dumbness can end up. My mum and Nan have warned me. Some of my friends have lost close friends or family members.
I want to be a lawyer. Or a vet. My family say I’m good at arguing my case and getting my point across. And Mum let us grow up with lots of pets – birds, dogs and snakes, you name it – so I get on good with animals. I want to earn money, but I want to earn it legitimately. I know a few friends who got a bad reputation, who have done robberies, but there’s no point getting a record for that kind of dumbness.
I’d like to go on to Sixth Form College.
I’m mainly a B student, but Mum and Nan tell me not to think about Bs; I’ve got to aim for the A stars, so that’s what I do. I’m studying for sociology and business and maths and English. I know those exams are my last resort – they will follow me for life, so I want to do well.
Mum tells me not to make the same mistakes she did. She’s strict, man! We’re close. Sure, we have our differences like any mum and daughter, but mostly we get on well. And I’m close with my dad, and Nan and Granddad too. They’re good to me.
They try to make sure I get on as well as I can. They support me and buy me stuff and tell me to do my best.
Mum is the toughest, for sure.
“You don’t want to end up like me” – that’s what she always says.
When I don’t pay attention at school, she goes mad. Says she doesn’t want me leaving school being dumb, like all these kids on the street doing nothing. Yeah, I know the stories. Some of my friends can’t believe it. They ask questions about her, to check if what they’ve heard is true. Quite a few have told me that they’re scared of her.
But she has changed a lot. That was a long time ago. I’m proud of her. She came out of it alive. If I got involved in the same stupidity, she tells me I might not be so lucky.
Everyone can change if they try. She’s been able to keep me out of trouble. Even though it’s annoying she’s so strict, I know it’s for good reasons. No one messes with my mum.
Some things never change. South London has its characters. We’re all lively, I’ll say that much.
Older people see the younger generation as a nuisance. They’re scared of them. They don’t feel safe, and sometimes they’re right to – these kids want to be feared.
I’ll jam with my friends round the estate. But I’m not allowed to stay out late, like the rest. Some kids stay out from early in the morning to late, late at night, sometimes not going home till 7am the next day. They see their gang as a family; they do for each other what their own families don’t.
I feel sorry for the ones who are escaping domestic violence, but most of them I don’t feel sorry for at all. They choose to be like that. They are the ones who want status. They have to take responsibility.
As for the ones who say they’ve never been taught the difference between right or wrong, they’re just lying. How can you not know stabbing someone is bad?
But they keep on fighting – hurting each other over wrong looks across the street, dissing each other in raps, insisting on postcode wars. Soon they’ll forget what they’re fighting over. It has to get boring eventually, right? Maybe one day they’ll realise they’re not getting anywhere, that their friends are dying. I hope so.
People can’t war forever.
A Note From Brooke Kinsella
On 29 June 2008 my family and I were left heartbroken when my 16-year-old brother Ben was murdered. He had just finished his GCSE exams and was looking forward to a life filled with promise, but this was snatched away in five seconds by a knife attack that left my family, friends and our community devastated.
After Ben was killed I just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. I was a big sister who had lost a little brother and all I could think about was that I wouldn’t be able to buy him a pint on his 18th birthday, that he would never dance at my wedding or meet my future children, that he would never get to fall in love or have children of his own.
But I also wanted to make sure that Ben was never forgotten. I loved him too much for him to fade away at 16 and I was determined to try and stop this happening to somebody else’s brother. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I could put a complete stop to knife crime, but it seemed to have become a much bigger problem in our society and I wanted to make our streets safer in any way that I could.
My family and I started off by campaigning for tougher sentences for those who carried or used a knife, and our hard work finally paid off in 2010 when the tariff for murder with a knife was raised to a starting point of 25 years.
But I believe prevention is better than cure and I wanted to get through to young people before they were ever faced with the decision of whether to pick up a weapon. My family and I decided that we wanted to create a legacy for Ben, and so we built The Ben Kinsella Exhibition, which uses Ben’s story amongst others to educate young people and create awareness around knife crime and its consequences.
It was while researching stories to include in our exhibition that I came across Tracey Miller. Her story immediately stood out to me as not only was it exceptional to hear of a young girl committing such terrible acts but to then have completely turned her life around in the way that she did seemed to me an incredibly brave and inspirational thing. We wanted to reach out to young people and show them they could have a better life if they made better choices, and Tracey was a prime example of how you could do this – no matter how caught up in a lifestyle you were.
As soon as I met Tracey I knew she would be an incredible asset – not only to our exhibition but to anybody who is trying to put an end to this problem. She speaks quietly and passionately, but above all she speaks honestly about her life, the mistakes she has made and what helped her to stop making them. You can’t help but listen in awe to her story and the life she has lived – from hurting people violently to being shot herself – but it is when she talks about learning she would soon become a mum and how she decided then and there to change her life around that you sit up and take notice. On the surface it could be easy to dislike Tracey, given the things she has done in her life, but she is now so determined to make up for those things and to prevent others from doing as she did that you cannot help but admire her.
It is so important to hear stories such as Tracey’s as there are many young people out there who believe that it is not possible to change their lives, that they are too caught up in this world or that gang to ever get out. Tracey shows them that it is indeed possible and for them – and us – sparks hope that it doesn’t have to be that way.
I am delighted Tracey is sharing her story as I believe strongly it is one that needs to be told.
http://www.benkinsella.org.uk/
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Chapter 1
My brother’s 18th birthday party was an elaborate event – a glamorous celebration that had been carefully planned by my mother down to the very last detail so that nothing could go wrong. We had a beautiful meal at a hotel with all our family and friends and when everyone had finished eating, my father took the microphone and announced that he’d been asked by my mother to give a speech about his eldest son. There were many good things that could be said about my brother, and a whole host of funny and touching anecdotes that could be told about him. So as the room fell quiet and everyone turned to look at my father, they were all smiling with a benign expectancy that quickly turned to horror when he announced that he could think of nothing to say other than that he was disappointed to have fathered such a ‘useless piece of shit’.
For a moment, there was a stunned silence and then, as a low murmur of disappr
oval spread around the room, my grandfather leapt to his feet, snatched the microphone from my father’s hand and, with tears in his eyes, began to talk about all the good things his grandson, Jason, had done and how much everyone in the family loved him.
When I eventually dared to look at my brother, he was sitting completely still, staring into the distance above everyone’s heads with an expression of almost physical pain on his face. I looked away quickly, feeling sick, and wondered how any man could do such a terrible thing to anyone, let alone his own child, who was guilty of nothing other than trying for 18 years to gain his father’s love and approval.
I think I knew in that moment that my parents’ marriage was over, although it had a few more death throes to go through before they divorced.
Another event that finally tipped the balance for my mother occurred one night not long after Jason’s birthday. I had come home from an evening out and, not realising that Jason and his girlfriend, Harriet, were babysitting for a neighbour, had locked the front door and gone to bed. Half an hour later, I was woken up by the sound of the doorbell. It rang just once, but almost immediately I heard footsteps thundering down the stairs and then Harriet’s voice calling my mum’s name and screaming, ‘He’s going to kill him. Help! Please! Someone help!’
My mother had already reached the top of the stairs by the time I’d jumped out of bed and rushed on to the landing. As I ran after her into the hallway, I could see Jason standing on the doorstep with blood pouring from his nose.
Harriet was sobbing and my father was waving his arms in the air and shouting, when suddenly Jason stepped forward, pushed Dad out of the way and yelled, ‘You’re a fucking wanker. I hate you. Why don’t you go away and leave us all alone?’ Then Jason rushed up the stairs and locked himself in his bedroom. My father smirked, shrugged his shoulders and went to bed.
Luckily, the commotion hadn’t woken my younger sister and brothers, so Harriet, my mum and I went into the kitchen. For a few moments, we sat together around the table in a state of shocked disbelief, until Mum eventually broke the silence by asking the question that was in all of our minds when she said, ‘What the hell just happened?’
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