The Bad Mom

“What’s your bear’s name?” I asked thinking that’s not a question you get to ask an adult everyday.

“It’s a monkey, his name is Monchie.” She corrects me as if I had just insulted her.

I turned on the TV; I’d rather watch Italian television than try to talk to this freak. My roommate turned the TV off, spooned her monkey and went to bed.

“Fucking American” I said as if I am now Italian.

The next day the group took a tour of Sienna, it was my first organized group activity I had participated in on this trip. It was pretty interesting to learn about the culture of this small town, which was divided into seventeen contradas or districts. It reminded me of my childhood growing up in gang territory.

My mom hired an OG (original gangster) named Sergio to walk us home from school, that summer he was promoted to full time nanny. I became a “baby” gang banger. Mom was naïve to his gangbanging ways, he was affordable childcare and she thought we would be safe. One of the 13 rules is to recruit from the neighborhood; we had just moved in, and were young and vulnerable. You have no choice but to join. Joining protects you; you were safer in the gang than out. Sergio taught us the 13 rules and brainwashed us into believing it was the only way to survive. Our family had fallen apart; the gang was my new family. I was jumped into the 408 Crips at age 13. For 13 seconds I was hit and kicked, not allowed to fight back. Afterwards my home girls hugged me and gave me a bandana. I proudly wore as a headband like a shield of power. You live for your mother and die for your gang. Your frame of mind changes, from caring about your future to not giving a fuck because the odds are stacked against you. One of the rules is to make money for your gang. I got a job at the local amusement park as a carnie. My job was to take admission tickets. Instead of ripping them up, I put them in my pocket then resold the tickets at a discounted price at school.

In the gang, women became property. When I reached high school I had become sexually active, not with a boyfriend or a person I loved. I was de-virginized by my gang. Two of my homeboys who had my back at school were rewarded with daily blowjobs in my closet. This has been one of those secrets that I couldn’t admit to anyone, in fact this is this first time I’ve ever admitted it. I was ashamed, my only outlet was writing in my journal; it’s what has kept me alive. I began carrying my journal with me everywhere writing about my feelings. People noticed me journaling in class and were curious as to what I was writing about. My journal was stolen out of my backpack during gym class. The student who stole it decided to publish and distribute my journal, which became a “best seller”. Everyone knew everything and the repercussions were deadly when Sylvia learned that her boyfriend was one of my closet clients. Sylvia had been locked up in juvy for the past two years for armed robbery she was recently released and began dating my homeboy, once they began dating I no longer serviced him but she wanted me dead anyway. One night I was walking threw a dark parking lot. I heard a voice say, “hey wait up smelly whore.”

I turned around and Sylvia shoved me to the asphalt. She stuck a gun to my head and said she couldn’t wait to kill me. Suddenly something spooked her. She pistol whipped my face and said if I see you again I will kill you. I confessed to mom that there was a hit out on me, when she questioned my bruised face. It was one of the few times I believed in God, only God could have saved me from being killed that night Mom packed up the family and moved out of town.

The condradas stick together as a family, they all have their own flag with their own mascot like the Owl or the Lion. A member of the Owl contrada could not associate with a member of the Lion contrada. Every year there is a huge horse race where the winner is given seniority in town. It’s like Italian gang banging, wait that’s the mob.

from my book  Scars of Paris  available at Borders, Barnes & Nobles or Amazon