I realized early on in life that
every one has a choice on what path they want to take in life. I was Seven years old when I knew what choice I would
make. Memories of my childhood are a bit hazy. It’s probably because I started
smoking pot at a very young age; I think that was the start of my “developmental”
years. There are memories that I can revisit and vividly recall every word that
was spoken, like a movie reel being rewound, like a song being replayed, I
remember tones of voices, accents of words, emotion, and I remember all of
those things in some of my memories. These memories haunt me, they eat away at
me and make me wish I could go back in time and react differently or change the
course of the people I love. I take solace in the fact that I feel like I’ve
made some right choices in my life, I truly wish I could say the same for
others.
I grew up in San Juan Capistrano,
California. The city is known for it’s mission and beautiful basilica. When I
tell people I grew up in south Orange County they immediately think of
beautiful beaches, multimillion-dollar homes overlooking the ocean, strip
malls, Mercedes Bens, and all things that acquired wealth can get you. These
things exist in San Juan Capistrano and they always have. But behind the Orange
curtain there is a hotbed of cultural heterogeneity. San Juan was an entirely
different city when I was growing up. While up in the hills behind those gates
that guarded the million dollar homes where families that went to sleep
peacefully were calm and quiet; the neighborhoods below occupied by immigrant
families of first generation Chicano men and women were swelling with violence.
Disenfranchised youth have always
been the make up of gangs. In cities where wealth and poverty are so strikingly
apparent, people want to belong to something bigger than them selves. It is one
of the only ways to come to accept your lot in life. Gang culture has a lure
that one can’t really explain; it’s romanticized in the mind because the
outlaw-anti authority-camaraderie that one can only hope to feel at least once
in their life is a reality to those living within the culture. Gangs in San
Juan were a space for kids with absent parents to congregate and feel like
someone cared for them; they cared about each other and if someone hurt one of
them then retaliation was necessary. Imagine the closest thing you feel to a
family member is killed by a group of people who you are told and taught to
hate from the very second you are initiated. Revenge is what drives you, pain
is familiar to you, and your future seems like it is not of any importance,
because you are one of them.
My brother was one of those hurt
kids; he was born to my mother, his dad left him and her when he was born and
was hardly around while he was growing up. My mom had one more child with
someone else before she met my father, and they’ve been together ever since. My
brother was a fatherless kid with an unclear future ahead of him. Like I said;
San Juan was different back then. Everyone knew someone in the gang or had a
family member in the gang. The attraction to a group of friends willing to do
anything for you isn’t hard to understand. My father and brother did not get
along and I know my father feels some kind of regret for how things ended. I
always got along with my brother. While he was out I used to sneak into his
room and listen to his music that I knew I shouldn’t have been listening to at
that age, but I was attracted to it. I fell in love with rap music. I fell in
love with the message, because I knew my brother was living that lifestyle. I
wanted to be like my brother. I looked up to him.
Eventually things at home got a
little too out of hand and the tension between my brother and father got to be
too much to handle. My brother was kicked out of the house and sent to live
with my grandparents who lived in down town San Juan. Now I want to pause right
here and have you imagine how my brother felt. He had no father growing up. He
grew up in a household with two working parents. He was a part of a group of
people that cared about each other and shared a bond with each other that no
one else could be apart of. He is kicked out of his home. And by now I’m sure
you can see this perfect storm brewing in his head.
I don’t exactly remember how long
it had been since I saw my brother before he went away, in my memory it feels
like days. I do remember the last time I saw him, when he got kicked out. He
was angry and punched a hole in the wall. My grandparents came and picked him
up and I knew I wouldn’t see him often anymore. I didn’t know it would be the last time I
would see him free.
Not long after my brother moved in
with my grandparents, he and 3 of his friends took park in events that would
cause an everlasting ripple effect on 5 families, and completely change the
trajectory of all of our lives. The story goes like this: weeks prior to that
night, a member of San Juan was shot at in his truck with his two kids in the
passenger’s seat. The shooting was by the rival gang from San Clemente. In gang
culture, women and children are not to be harmed in these turf wars.
On Sunday October 6th
1996 my brother was hanging out at the local park where him and all of his
friends hung out. One of his friends spotted out of towners at a gas station in
town. This was a perfect time for revenge or to find out who shot at two kids
in a car. So the idea was to let this altercation be an initiation for a new
recruit, a 15-year-old kid. The 15 year old was given a gun in case things got
a little too crazy. My brother took the gun from the kid and told him to sit in
the back of the car; he was too young to handle something of this magnitude.
They all got in the car and they rolled up to the gas station, and as they were
pulling up; the other guys were pulling on to the free way. The group of
friends decided that they were going to go looking for trouble, not on their
turf. My brother recalls driving passed the freeway exits, watching them go by
in short controlled bursts. Palm trees lined the free way and as the mission
basilica faded away in their rearview mirror they knew that they were heading
into no mans land. They lost the people they were following on the freeway. So
they went to go look for them at the known hang out spots. My brother knew San
Clemente, his dad was from there, and his other grandmother lived there. When
the search seemed like it was coming to an end, my brother suggested one last
spot that he knew of. They drove up to the spot and no one was there, as they
sat at a red light ready to enter on to the freeway; they heard a whistle. They
pulled out off the red light and approached a park where three kids were
walking up and asking where they were from. “San Juan, Varrio Viejo” the guys
in the car yelled. Knowing that would set them off, they got out of the car.
That’s when they realized one of them had a gun. My brother knew that this was
a decision that meant life or death; it was either he or the other guy with the
gun. One boy was shot and fatally wounded. It was only a matter of seconds
before the guys got piled into the car and drove off. When my brother told me
this story, his words would pause in the most calculated places, as if he was
living this event all over again. The way he said he knew this would be the
last time he was free, the way he said he looked up at the palm trees that
covered the rival’s streets that are so similar to ours. The vote was made to
try to make it back to San Juan. I think they knew that they weren’t going to
make it, but when you’re in trouble; home is where you feel safest. My brother
told me that he knew he was done so he rolled a joint while Bone Thugs in
Harmony (one of his favorite rap groups, and mine considering that was the main
CD I looked for in his room while he was gone) played in the background. It
didn’t take long for the highway patrol to do their job. My brother and 3 of
his friends were stopped under the Ortega highway overpass on the 5 going
northbound.
That night my mom, dad, second
oldest brother, and I all went to celebrate my second oldest brothers birthday.
I can still remember that night so clear. We ate at a local Pizza Hut and
played arcade games. I played Bart Simpson on a Simpsons arcade game that was
covered with oil from greasy hands. We spent a lot of nights at that Pizza Hut,
but the mood in the air that night was different. We left early that night
because my mom wasn’t feeling well. Looking back, I know it was intuition; a
mother feeling their offspring in trouble. The way home took a little bit
longer than usual, as there was traffic. I remember there was a traffic stop
under us that seemed like a big deal. Traffic was at a dead stop as we made a
left onto off of the Ortega exit onto the 5 northbound. My mom couldn’t sleep
that night; she woke up vomiting, and had bad anxiety.
Monday October 7th
started out like a normal Monday. I remember waking up and starting my morning
routine of begging my mom to let me stay home from school (I’ve always hated
it). The phone rang; my mom answers “hello?” and remember when I said that
there are some memories that I vividly remember? This is one of those memories.
I remember exactly how she said “hello?” so innocently, as if it was the most
innocent thing that could have come out of her mouth at that moment. She paused
for a few seconds and she let out a big scream, “my baby! My baby!” my dad
asked what was wrong. My mom fell to the floor crying. Even at the age of 7 I
knew this was one of those turning points in my life. She told us that Michael
had been involved in a murder and he’s in jail and doesn’t know if he’s ever
going to get out. I remember the panic that she went into. She called my
grandparents. She called her boss. She needed to take us to school. Life would
never be the same again.
My mom spent most of what she had
saved on a lawyer for Michael. She even borrowed money. We never had that much
money, but she made it work. Michael and three of his friends all got charged
with murder or second-degree murder. Two of them were 17, one 16, and the other
15. Michael was 17 years old when he went to jail. He was 17 when I last saw
him outside. He is now serving a life sentence with out the possibility of
parole.
A year later on the anniversary of
my brother’s actions, his best friend was kidnapped by Varrio Chico (San
Clemente) and tortured. His San Juan tattoos were cut off with a knife, and his
tongue cut out as well. He was left against the wall facing the train tracks
right across the street from the local private Christian school. I think that
was the nail on the coffin of that era of gang violence in San Juan. There have
been multiple gang related deaths since then, but not as frequent or as brutal
as the mid 90’s.
I’m not sure what the point of me
writing this is. I think I needed to purge my self of all these conflicting
thoughts in my head. I remember for a while after I wanted to get revenge on
these people that made my brother do what he did to get put away forever. I
remember wanting to be a part of that group of people that cared about each
other, that went down with together. My mother was caught up in my brother’s
court case the rest of my elementary school years. I remember asking my self if
anyone else in my school was going through the same things I was going through.
I remember one instance where my 3rd grade teacher tried to get on
my case about me not doing my homework, I finally broke down and cried to her
about how I spent the night visiting my brother in jail, talking to him behind
glass.
I know my mom tried to juggle her
imprisoned son, her two growing boys and growing daughter, a job, and her
marriage. We all came out ok, not
unscathed, but ok. I just knew I never wanted to make my mom feel the way my
brother made her feel, I made that decision at a young age. Later on, years
after my brother had settled into his new life; he confided in me that none of
his actions were worth it. That him and his friends were a group of hurt kids
channeling their anger in violent ways. Few if any of his friends have talked
to him since that day. His position is a constant reminder of a terrible
decision he made when he was 17, and that he has seen the aftermath of his
actions and the ways it’s left it’s mark on my family.
He’s spent more time in prison than
he has spent outside of one. So I try my
best to live for him.
