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| The Warriors. 1979 Paramount Pictures |
I was jumped in Junior High.
This wasn’t traumatic. It wasn’t frightening or heart breaking. It was stupid. Bryce and I joined a gang. It was in the summer, or on a weekend. Not sure exactly. No school that day. No adult supervision. Somehow our adventures had led us to the east
side of town. We were at Ivan’s house.
Ivan’s mom knew my dad from work. In fact many years earlier Ivan and his
sister hung out at my place when his folks were over visiting with mine. That was many years prior though. I didn’t really know Ivan anymore, other than
that time I allowed him to DDT me at Simpson Park.
I cried. Not
because he busted my head or sprained my neck.
I bit my tongue. It was not my
brightest moment.
Anyway, Ivan and another boy at his place said they were in
a gang. I believed them. I mean, they were black! That gave them street cred. I liked rap music at this time. And television’s In Living Color. I was all about appropriating black
culture. I mean MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice,
Tag Team, and the Fresh Prince were all awesome. Don’t even get me started on Kriss Kross.
They were dope! Oh, oh, and Kid N’
Play! Don’t forget about Bebe’s Kids
either.
So Ivan said he was in a gang,
why would somebody lie about that? If we
wanted, he’d let us join too.
Sweet! I was gonna be an O.G.!
There was a catch. We
had to earn it. Bryce and I would get
jumped. Ivan and his friend would beat
the snot out of us. I said no way! Bryce took me aside and told me it wouldn’t
be bad. I was embarrassing him. I needed to toughen up and just do it. Ivan said it would only last about two
minutes. I reluctantly agreed and we
were jumped. Yeah. Two of us against two of them. Two minutes at the same time. Just don’t fight back. This was so pathetic.
There was no time keeper.
But the beat down didn’t take long.
They just took turns whaling away at us in Ivan’s front yard. Kicks to the rear, legs, and back. Punches to the back of the head, arm, and
gut. I don’t think there were any crotch
or face shots. No bones broken, no blood
drawn. But we were disheveled. Hair messed up, faces red. We took our lumps and were in a gang. And that was it.
I had no clue what the name was. Only gang signs and a complicated handshake.
We never had meetings, no recorded minutes or agenda or felonies. Just a couple of kids were bored and got to
give a free ass kicking. Whatever amount
of street cred that was worth, I certainly earned it I guess. I had seen Juice and Boyz in the Hood. Strangely I was disappointed. Living the life of a gangsta wasn’t really
all that dangerous.
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| My Opa, my little brother and me cleaning a car. Summer 1993. |
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