I drove the police car back to the office, and rode the cramped gray urine-scented elevator up to the fifth floor. My heels clicked on the hard tile floor as I walked back to the office.
When I sat down, there was a hand-sketched cartoon on top of my desk. Me, in my little business suit. My car, up on blocks with no wheels. The caption: "But they're really nice kids."
Harsh.
The lieutenant called. "Come see me," he said.
I walked back to his office, lingering in the doorway.
"Come in and sit down." The words of doom.
He stood up, closed the door behind me. Then he sat back down, and tipped his chair back a bit, putting his foot up on a drawer. He folded his hands across his chest.
"So," he said, drawing the word out for at least 36 seconds, "Tell me what happened."
I explained the events of the past two hours.
He watched me intently as I talked, saying nothing. Then, he passed a sheet of paper across the desk to me.
"This is a letter of reprimand for failing to control your police-issued vehicle. Read it and sign it. It's going to go in your file."
I could feel the tears behind my eyelids, hot and bulging. My mouth filled with spit, my throat tensed up. Don't cry! Don't you dare cry! I told myself.
I signed the paper and passed it back.
His face softened. "We all fuck up," he told me. "The good thing is that you'll never fuck up like this again, will you?"
"No, sir."
"Well," he said. "Nobody died. It's still a good day."
Then, he smiled, and said, "Why don't you take the rest of the day off? Spend some time with your own kids, and your husband."
"Thanks, LT."
I drove home. I stood in my family room, staring at the fireplace. I imagined the office the next day, when the guys were dishing shit to me, full force, and laughing their asses off at my stupidity. I thought about Cecelia and Flaca sleeping on concrete bunks in the DT.
I can't go back there, I thought.
And then I cried.
Showing posts with label Cecelia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cecelia. Show all posts
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
The worst phone call of my life 12:14 PM
People always talk about having a heavy heart. But when your city-issued police car has just been stolen by gang members, your heart isn't just heavy, it's beating your stomach into a pulp. I felt sick, nauseated, full of dread.
I asked the principal to borrow his phone.
"Hey, Lt. A. Cecelia Martinez and Flaca Hernandez just stole my car."
"Where are you?"
"Sunrise Alternative School."
"Which way were they headed?"
"South on 14th East."
"You drive the blue Lumina, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Okay, you sit tight. I'm going to send a couple of guys over to pick you up, and we'll get your car back. You and I will talk when you get back to the office."
I sat on a hard wooden chair in the principal's office like a misbehaving school girl, trying not to cry.
I wondered if I'd lose my job. At the least, I was pretty sure I was going to get written up.
What would the guys say, when they picked me up? They already thought I was ridiculously idealistic, and wasting my times with these kids--who were going to prison for sure.
The 20 minutes I waited for the detectives seemed like forever.
Finally, a sleek green Taurus pulled up in front of the building. I reluctantly abandoned my chair, walked outside, and climbed into the back seat of the car.
Detective Young, who was driving the car, turned and smiled a sarcastic smile at me. "Heard you got stranded, Archuleta," he said. His partner for the day, Detective Dan Rosenberg, shook his head at me: "I told you that you were going to get in trouble transporting those kids."
There wasn't much I could say. I leaned my head against the soft upholstery and looked out the window as we headed south on State Street.
"They've recovered your car," Detective Young told me. "And, they're holding the girls. You have to go identify them and pick up your car."
"That was fast," I said.
"Yeah, when police cars are stolen, we take that pretty seriously," Rosenberg said. "We had a description and they were going straight south away from the school. Easy to find."
In minutes, we'd pulled up behind a couple of marked police cars with their lights still flashing red and blue. They were sandwiching my Lumina. Two other Tauruses, that belonged to detectives from the gang unit, were parked nearby.
Cecelia and Flaca were leaned against my car, handcuffed. Detective Young walked me forward to where they were standing. "Are these the girls who stole your car?" he asked.
"Yes," I told him. The girls avoided looking me in the face, and kept their attention riveted on the ground.
"Do you have anything to say to Ms. A?" he asked the girls.
They said nothing.
He told the girls to get into the back of the patrol car. The patrol officer opened the door, and the girls slid across the hard plastic back seat. The officer closed the door, got into the driver's seat, and pulled away.
I asked the principal to borrow his phone.
"Hey, Lt. A. Cecelia Martinez and Flaca Hernandez just stole my car."
"Where are you?"
"Sunrise Alternative School."
"Which way were they headed?"
"South on 14th East."
"You drive the blue Lumina, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Okay, you sit tight. I'm going to send a couple of guys over to pick you up, and we'll get your car back. You and I will talk when you get back to the office."
I sat on a hard wooden chair in the principal's office like a misbehaving school girl, trying not to cry.
I wondered if I'd lose my job. At the least, I was pretty sure I was going to get written up.
What would the guys say, when they picked me up? They already thought I was ridiculously idealistic, and wasting my times with these kids--who were going to prison for sure.
The 20 minutes I waited for the detectives seemed like forever.
Finally, a sleek green Taurus pulled up in front of the building. I reluctantly abandoned my chair, walked outside, and climbed into the back seat of the car.
Detective Young, who was driving the car, turned and smiled a sarcastic smile at me. "Heard you got stranded, Archuleta," he said. His partner for the day, Detective Dan Rosenberg, shook his head at me: "I told you that you were going to get in trouble transporting those kids."
There wasn't much I could say. I leaned my head against the soft upholstery and looked out the window as we headed south on State Street.
"They've recovered your car," Detective Young told me. "And, they're holding the girls. You have to go identify them and pick up your car."
"That was fast," I said.
"Yeah, when police cars are stolen, we take that pretty seriously," Rosenberg said. "We had a description and they were going straight south away from the school. Easy to find."
In minutes, we'd pulled up behind a couple of marked police cars with their lights still flashing red and blue. They were sandwiching my Lumina. Two other Tauruses, that belonged to detectives from the gang unit, were parked nearby.
Cecelia and Flaca were leaned against my car, handcuffed. Detective Young walked me forward to where they were standing. "Are these the girls who stole your car?" he asked.
"Yes," I told him. The girls avoided looking me in the face, and kept their attention riveted on the ground.
"Do you have anything to say to Ms. A?" he asked the girls.
They said nothing.
He told the girls to get into the back of the patrol car. The patrol officer opened the door, and the girls slid across the hard plastic back seat. The officer closed the door, got into the driver's seat, and pulled away.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
No Joy in the Ride 10:45 AM
Cecelia - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
I talked with Cecelia the following day by phone. I'd spoken to her probation officer, and could report the following:
Her probation officer had been notified while visiting the school that Cecelia had been suspended. The probation officer immediately notified the judge that Cecelia had violated her probation status. A bench warrant had been issued for her arrest, requiring her to appear before her juvenile court judge for violation of probation.
Cecelia sat in silence after I gave her the update, on the phone. I could hear her breathing, but not much else.
Finally, she said, slowly and meaningfully, "Daaaammmn. So, whuz gonna happen?"
I told her that if a police officer happened upon her (a not unlikely scenario), she would be arrested and taken to detention.
Or, she could take matters into her own hands, and turn herself in. By doing so, she could make the case to the judge that although she'd had difficulties at school, she was making a serious effort to own up to the consequences of her action and follow through.
She was unpersuaded by my logic. Voluntarily going to detention? Yeah, right.
"I dunno, Miss A. I don't think I want to go to DT. It sucks bad in there."
"One way or another, C, you're going to wind up in there, anyway."
"Yeah, but it could be months before I get caught."
"Months that you won't be in school, won't be getting an education, and will be sitting in your mom's house bored out of your mind, hiding from cops, worrying every time you go on the street, and living in constant paranoia, knowing that it's hanging out there, waiting for you, when you least expect it."
"Yeah. That's true."
"I'll go with you. I'll take you there. I'll call the judge, and I'll explain what happened."
"Really? You'd do that for me?" she asked me.
"You know I would," I told her.
"Would you do something else for me?" she asked.
"Maybe. What is it?"
"Would you help me get enrolled in another school before we go to DT, so I can tell the judge I did that, and I can start going to school as soon as I get out of DT?" she asked.
"Yeah. I'll do that," I told her.
"Would you do it tomorrow?" she asked.
"Okay, we'll do it tomorrow. I'll pick you up at 9:00, first thing in the morning. We'll go to your school, and then we'll go to DT and you can turn yourself in."
"Okay."
After I got off the phone, I went to the Lieutenant and cleared my plan. It sounded crazy to him, but if a gang member was going to peacefully respond to a warrant, well, that was okay with him.
"Just be careful," he told me.
The next morning, at 9 a.m. exactly, I pulled up in front of Cecelia's weathered green house. She was standing outside, waiting for me, but she wasn't alone. At her side was Flaca, dressed identically to Cecelia in a white t-shirt, oversized dickies, and g-nikes. Both girls had their hair slicked back into ponytails.
Cecelia climbed into the front of the car, and Flaca slid into the back seat.
"Flaca wants to go to Skyline, too, Miss A," Cecelia told me. "We both want to go to the same school."
"Doesn't Flaca already have a school she goes to?" I asked.
The girls informed me, in unison, that Flaca wasn't in school yet, and wasn't registered to attend anywhere.
"Well, okay. Is Flaca okay with going to DT, too?"
Flaca's eyes got very wide, and she sat up towards the front seat. "What? Why are we going to DT? I don't wanna go to DT!" she screeched.
I looked at Cecelia, who was suddenly slouching in her seat.
"C, didn't you tell her what the plan was?" I asked.
"No, MIss A. I didn't tell her that part."
"What part," Flaca said, belligerently. "What part didn't you tell me?"
"Cecelia has a warrrant for her arrest for probation violation, and she's going to DT after she registers for school."
"Sheeettt, Cee Cee, what are you thinking?" Flaca asked.
"I just have to get right with Judge V, and take care of my shit."
Flaca sat back, closed her eyes, and ignored us the rest of the way to Sunrise Alternative School. She was clearly pissed.
When I pulled into the school parking lot, Flaca refused to leave the car. She was so annoyed with Cecelia that she clearly didn't even want to register for school now. She sat, arms folded across her chest, and stated that she'd wait for us in the car.
I looked at my purse on the floor of the car. For a second, I thought, "Maybe I should take it inside." Then, I asked myself, "Will Flaca think that I don't trust her, or maybe that I think she'd steal from me?" I made a decision and left my purse lying there.
Cecelia and I went into the school, met the school secretary, and were ushered into the principal's office to discuss her enrollment at Sunrise. The principal's office was wide and bright, with a large plate glass window that faced the street, behind his back.
As the Principal explained the rules and policies at Sunrise to Cecelia, I listened, and looked out the window.
I watched as a light blue Chevy Lumina turned onto the street in front of the school. It looked familiar.
Cecelia recognized it right away. "Shit, Miss A...Flaca is stealing your car!"
Before I could even react, she jumped up, and ran out of the principal's office, and then the front doors of the school. I followed her, and as I exited the swinging exit doors, I watched as Cecelia jumped into my car with Flaca, and they drove away.
I'd left my keys in my purse.
I talked with Cecelia the following day by phone. I'd spoken to her probation officer, and could report the following:
Her probation officer had been notified while visiting the school that Cecelia had been suspended. The probation officer immediately notified the judge that Cecelia had violated her probation status. A bench warrant had been issued for her arrest, requiring her to appear before her juvenile court judge for violation of probation.
Cecelia sat in silence after I gave her the update, on the phone. I could hear her breathing, but not much else.
Finally, she said, slowly and meaningfully, "Daaaammmn. So, whuz gonna happen?"
I told her that if a police officer happened upon her (a not unlikely scenario), she would be arrested and taken to detention.
Or, she could take matters into her own hands, and turn herself in. By doing so, she could make the case to the judge that although she'd had difficulties at school, she was making a serious effort to own up to the consequences of her action and follow through.
She was unpersuaded by my logic. Voluntarily going to detention? Yeah, right.
"I dunno, Miss A. I don't think I want to go to DT. It sucks bad in there."
"One way or another, C, you're going to wind up in there, anyway."
"Yeah, but it could be months before I get caught."
"Months that you won't be in school, won't be getting an education, and will be sitting in your mom's house bored out of your mind, hiding from cops, worrying every time you go on the street, and living in constant paranoia, knowing that it's hanging out there, waiting for you, when you least expect it."
"Yeah. That's true."
"I'll go with you. I'll take you there. I'll call the judge, and I'll explain what happened."
"Really? You'd do that for me?" she asked me.
"You know I would," I told her.
"Would you do something else for me?" she asked.
"Maybe. What is it?"
"Would you help me get enrolled in another school before we go to DT, so I can tell the judge I did that, and I can start going to school as soon as I get out of DT?" she asked.
"Yeah. I'll do that," I told her.
"Would you do it tomorrow?" she asked.
"Okay, we'll do it tomorrow. I'll pick you up at 9:00, first thing in the morning. We'll go to your school, and then we'll go to DT and you can turn yourself in."
"Okay."
After I got off the phone, I went to the Lieutenant and cleared my plan. It sounded crazy to him, but if a gang member was going to peacefully respond to a warrant, well, that was okay with him.
"Just be careful," he told me.
The next morning, at 9 a.m. exactly, I pulled up in front of Cecelia's weathered green house. She was standing outside, waiting for me, but she wasn't alone. At her side was Flaca, dressed identically to Cecelia in a white t-shirt, oversized dickies, and g-nikes. Both girls had their hair slicked back into ponytails.
Cecelia climbed into the front of the car, and Flaca slid into the back seat.
"Flaca wants to go to Skyline, too, Miss A," Cecelia told me. "We both want to go to the same school."
"Doesn't Flaca already have a school she goes to?" I asked.
The girls informed me, in unison, that Flaca wasn't in school yet, and wasn't registered to attend anywhere.
"Well, okay. Is Flaca okay with going to DT, too?"
Flaca's eyes got very wide, and she sat up towards the front seat. "What? Why are we going to DT? I don't wanna go to DT!" she screeched.
I looked at Cecelia, who was suddenly slouching in her seat.
"C, didn't you tell her what the plan was?" I asked.
"No, MIss A. I didn't tell her that part."
"What part," Flaca said, belligerently. "What part didn't you tell me?"
"Cecelia has a warrrant for her arrest for probation violation, and she's going to DT after she registers for school."
"Sheeettt, Cee Cee, what are you thinking?" Flaca asked.
"I just have to get right with Judge V, and take care of my shit."
Flaca sat back, closed her eyes, and ignored us the rest of the way to Sunrise Alternative School. She was clearly pissed.
When I pulled into the school parking lot, Flaca refused to leave the car. She was so annoyed with Cecelia that she clearly didn't even want to register for school now. She sat, arms folded across her chest, and stated that she'd wait for us in the car.
I looked at my purse on the floor of the car. For a second, I thought, "Maybe I should take it inside." Then, I asked myself, "Will Flaca think that I don't trust her, or maybe that I think she'd steal from me?" I made a decision and left my purse lying there.
Cecelia and I went into the school, met the school secretary, and were ushered into the principal's office to discuss her enrollment at Sunrise. The principal's office was wide and bright, with a large plate glass window that faced the street, behind his back.
As the Principal explained the rules and policies at Sunrise to Cecelia, I listened, and looked out the window.
I watched as a light blue Chevy Lumina turned onto the street in front of the school. It looked familiar.
Cecelia recognized it right away. "Shit, Miss A...Flaca is stealing your car!"
Before I could even react, she jumped up, and ran out of the principal's office, and then the front doors of the school. I followed her, and as I exited the swinging exit doors, I watched as Cecelia jumped into my car with Flaca, and they drove away.
I'd left my keys in my purse.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Back to School 4:39 PM
Cecelia - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
Cecelia started school in August at Westside High School.
On her second day at school, she called me.
"Hey, Miss A, I got kicked out of school."
What. The. Hell.
I picked her up at her house, and took her to eat pie.
She picked at her piece of apple with her fork, and told me the story across the dark green table.
"Those fucking Levas, they started saying shit to me from the beginning," she told me. "I'd walk down the hall, and they'd call me names, call out at me, tell me I was a bitch and a puta."
"What did you do?" I asked.
"What could I do, Miss A?" she asked. "I can't let those Levas call me out and talk shit about my set."
"So, what happened?"
"This dude, Ben, from Aves. He called me a puta this morning, and I just threw down. I started hitting him, Miss A, until he fell down, and then I kicked him until they pulled me off him."
"Damn..."
"You know Ben, right? His whole family is in Aves, some judge from Califas told them to leave the state, and they moved here. He killed Pee Wee last year, but nothing happened. No one would testify against him because they were all scared. So, we said we'd handle it on the street."
Cecelia got violated by probation for failing to attend school, and a warrant was issued for her arrest.
Part 6
Cecelia started school in August at Westside High School.
On her second day at school, she called me.
"Hey, Miss A, I got kicked out of school."
What. The. Hell.
I picked her up at her house, and took her to eat pie.
She picked at her piece of apple with her fork, and told me the story across the dark green table.
"Those fucking Levas, they started saying shit to me from the beginning," she told me. "I'd walk down the hall, and they'd call me names, call out at me, tell me I was a bitch and a puta."
"What did you do?" I asked.
"What could I do, Miss A?" she asked. "I can't let those Levas call me out and talk shit about my set."
"So, what happened?"
"This dude, Ben, from Aves. He called me a puta this morning, and I just threw down. I started hitting him, Miss A, until he fell down, and then I kicked him until they pulled me off him."
"Damn..."
"You know Ben, right? His whole family is in Aves, some judge from Califas told them to leave the state, and they moved here. He killed Pee Wee last year, but nothing happened. No one would testify against him because they were all scared. So, we said we'd handle it on the street."
Cecelia got violated by probation for failing to attend school, and a warrant was issued for her arrest.
Part 6
Thursday, May 21, 2009
School Days (Cecelia & Ghost, part 4) 5:25 AM
Cecelia - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Ghost - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Both Ghost and Cecelia weren't attending school when I met them. Ghost was expelled during the previous school year, and I met Cecelia at the beginning of the summer.
When fall came, of course neither were registered, but they lived in nearby neighborhoods and were zoned to attend Westside High School. Ghost, in particular, felt a strong connection to that particular school school.
I floated the idea of an alternative school:
"So, how did you do at Westside when you went there?"
"I got expelled at the end of the school year, and never went back."
"How did you manage to do that?"
"I was always getting into fights, and the principal got sick of it and expelled me."
"Have you considered the idea that maybe Westside isn't a good school for you, given that there are so many different rival gangs there, and you got into so many fights?"
"Nah. That's the only school I could go to. That's my school, that's where my boys go."
"Will your dad take you to register?"
"Nah, after I got kicked out last year, he told me I was on my own."
Cecelia had similar issues. It had taken her 4 months in the previous year to get registered for school due to her mom's work schedule. Her judge wanted her in school from day 1 of this school year. I tried to meet with her mom, to talk about it, but her mom was never home on the days and evenings I stopped by.
Finally, I formed a brilliant plan in my little pea brain. I'd take the two rival gang members at the same time, and register them myself. I probably should have run this plan past a more experienced person in my department, but being me, of course I didn't.
Instead, I laid the ground work.
"Dude, Cecelia, I'll take you and register you. But, you know Ghost from Diamond Street, he needs to register, too, so I think I'll take both of you at the same time."
Silence.
"C'mon, man. You're talking about something that is going to kill half a day for me. You two can put up with each other for half a day. I'll take you to lunch after."
Finally, she agreed. After a similar conversation with Ghost, and a similar level of reluctance, he also agreed. One thing they both had in common: They wanted to get into school and were powerless to do so on their own without the help of a parent or adult. They needed me, so they were willing to put up with a hated rival in the same car for a couple of hours.
The ground rules:
1) No smack talking.
2) No hard looks at each other.
3) No attempting to start nonsense and act like knuckleheads.
4) No throwing up handsigns.
5) No wearing gang colors while they were with me.
6) No disrespecting other sets by using insults or slurs.
Those were the standard rules I used when they were with me normally, so they were used to them. But, separately, I also I spelled it out to them further...I had no loyalty to either of their gangs. My loyalty was to them as individuals. And, I'd done a lot to earn their respect. Any attacks, verbal or otherwise, on the other person, I'd view that as disrespect to me, personally. I expected them to control themselves, at least for a short period of time. This was also a test to see how serious they were about attending school, and whether they were likely to have the self-control to succeed in doing so, at the same school.
They agreed.
I picked up Cecelia first. She immediately staked her claim to the front seat, tilting it back into the "gangster lean," and co-opting the radio to listen to the local rap station. She treated my car like she owned it. And, I let her, until I got sick of rap. Then I forced her to listen to alternative rock, which she hated. Occasionally, we compromised on oldies.
We drove to Ghost's house.
That sounds stupid, right? What was I thinking, driving her to the home of a rival gang member in rival gang territory. Looking back on those days, I'm fucking amazed at my level of naivete and idealism. I'm surprised it didn't get me or someone else killed.
Except, they both already knew where the other gang member lived. In fact, I would not be surprised if they'd already shot up each other's houses before they ever met. Both were major players in their own gangs, both had participated in drive-bys, and both had also had their houses shot up. That's who they were.
Beyond that, I trusted them to behave when they were with me. I trusted them to value our relationship enough to be respectable, for short periods of time. I felt like I knew their boundaries, and that they knew mine.
Ghost, as usual, was waiting for us on the front step.
Ghost and Cecelia looked at each other long and hard as he walked up to the car. I'm pretty sure that they'd never had a conversation, unless Cecelia yelling "Dick Street Putos" at him (or vice versa) could be considered conversation. I'm sure neither had ever been in the same car with a member of the other gang.
Ghost climbed into the backseat, behind me, and stared out the window. We drove to Westside High School in a loud silence punctuated by the thumps of gangsta rap.
When we got to the school, my kids and I went inside. The secretary stared at us nervously. Both kids had obvious gang tattoos on their hands, and were, to some extent, dressed down in dickies, white t-shirts, and g-nikes, though in keeping with my instructions, neither had on any colors. They looked like scary twins from different mothers.
I was given the paperwork and sat down in the office to fill it out with each of them. In between answering questions, they stared each other down.
"Cecelia, Ghost...knock it off."
They looked down at the floor. I was a mom with the two most dysfunctional kids, ever. The secretaries never took their eyes off us.
We finally completed the ordeal of filling out a stack of forms, in triplicate, and I handed them over to the registrar.
In front of both kids, she told me: "Cecelia is welcome to come to Westside. He, on the other hand," she pointed at Ghost, "can't come here. He was expelled last year and never fulfilled the conditions of his expulsion."
Ghost's face lost all expression. He cared, but he sure as hell wasn't showing it to this woman. He looked at the floor and never looked up again.
I protested. "Is there someone I can talk to about this decision?"
"Sure, you can talk to the vice principle in charge of administrative affairs, but he's out this week, on vacation. Do you want to schedule an appointment?"
I scheduled the appointment. Then, I wrote a check for Cecelia's school fees (the other apparent hangup that had kept her out of school for half of the previous year), and we left.
We drowned Ghost's sorrows with the promised Crown Burgers and chocolate milkshakes. Cecelia watched him from across the table. His face showed no emotion, but she knew what he was feeling.
"Yo, Ghost, I'm really sorry, those people suck," she told him, "fucking puta at the counter didn't have to act like that."
He lifted his head and really looked at her, for the first time. "Thanks, man," he said.
We left, and I dropped her off at her house. On the ride back to Ghost's house, I told him that we would meet with the Principal and I'd use my clout from the police department to try and get him into school. But, if he couldn't get in, he'd have to attend the alternative school, and I hoped he'd do so.
"You know, I'm not your mom, though, so I can't make you do anything."
He looked over at me, face completely serious, and said, "You are my mom, Miss A."
Cecelia, Part 5
Ghost - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Both Ghost and Cecelia weren't attending school when I met them. Ghost was expelled during the previous school year, and I met Cecelia at the beginning of the summer.
When fall came, of course neither were registered, but they lived in nearby neighborhoods and were zoned to attend Westside High School. Ghost, in particular, felt a strong connection to that particular school school.
I floated the idea of an alternative school:
"So, how did you do at Westside when you went there?"
"I got expelled at the end of the school year, and never went back."
"How did you manage to do that?"
"I was always getting into fights, and the principal got sick of it and expelled me."
"Have you considered the idea that maybe Westside isn't a good school for you, given that there are so many different rival gangs there, and you got into so many fights?"
"Nah. That's the only school I could go to. That's my school, that's where my boys go."
"Will your dad take you to register?"
"Nah, after I got kicked out last year, he told me I was on my own."
Cecelia had similar issues. It had taken her 4 months in the previous year to get registered for school due to her mom's work schedule. Her judge wanted her in school from day 1 of this school year. I tried to meet with her mom, to talk about it, but her mom was never home on the days and evenings I stopped by.
Finally, I formed a brilliant plan in my little pea brain. I'd take the two rival gang members at the same time, and register them myself. I probably should have run this plan past a more experienced person in my department, but being me, of course I didn't.
Instead, I laid the ground work.
"Dude, Cecelia, I'll take you and register you. But, you know Ghost from Diamond Street, he needs to register, too, so I think I'll take both of you at the same time."
Silence.
"C'mon, man. You're talking about something that is going to kill half a day for me. You two can put up with each other for half a day. I'll take you to lunch after."
Finally, she agreed. After a similar conversation with Ghost, and a similar level of reluctance, he also agreed. One thing they both had in common: They wanted to get into school and were powerless to do so on their own without the help of a parent or adult. They needed me, so they were willing to put up with a hated rival in the same car for a couple of hours.
The ground rules:
1) No smack talking.
2) No hard looks at each other.
3) No attempting to start nonsense and act like knuckleheads.
4) No throwing up handsigns.
5) No wearing gang colors while they were with me.
6) No disrespecting other sets by using insults or slurs.
Those were the standard rules I used when they were with me normally, so they were used to them. But, separately, I also I spelled it out to them further...I had no loyalty to either of their gangs. My loyalty was to them as individuals. And, I'd done a lot to earn their respect. Any attacks, verbal or otherwise, on the other person, I'd view that as disrespect to me, personally. I expected them to control themselves, at least for a short period of time. This was also a test to see how serious they were about attending school, and whether they were likely to have the self-control to succeed in doing so, at the same school.
They agreed.
I picked up Cecelia first. She immediately staked her claim to the front seat, tilting it back into the "gangster lean," and co-opting the radio to listen to the local rap station. She treated my car like she owned it. And, I let her, until I got sick of rap. Then I forced her to listen to alternative rock, which she hated. Occasionally, we compromised on oldies.
We drove to Ghost's house.
That sounds stupid, right? What was I thinking, driving her to the home of a rival gang member in rival gang territory. Looking back on those days, I'm fucking amazed at my level of naivete and idealism. I'm surprised it didn't get me or someone else killed.
Except, they both already knew where the other gang member lived. In fact, I would not be surprised if they'd already shot up each other's houses before they ever met. Both were major players in their own gangs, both had participated in drive-bys, and both had also had their houses shot up. That's who they were.
Beyond that, I trusted them to behave when they were with me. I trusted them to value our relationship enough to be respectable, for short periods of time. I felt like I knew their boundaries, and that they knew mine.
Ghost, as usual, was waiting for us on the front step.
Ghost and Cecelia looked at each other long and hard as he walked up to the car. I'm pretty sure that they'd never had a conversation, unless Cecelia yelling "Dick Street Putos" at him (or vice versa) could be considered conversation. I'm sure neither had ever been in the same car with a member of the other gang.
Ghost climbed into the backseat, behind me, and stared out the window. We drove to Westside High School in a loud silence punctuated by the thumps of gangsta rap.
When we got to the school, my kids and I went inside. The secretary stared at us nervously. Both kids had obvious gang tattoos on their hands, and were, to some extent, dressed down in dickies, white t-shirts, and g-nikes, though in keeping with my instructions, neither had on any colors. They looked like scary twins from different mothers.
I was given the paperwork and sat down in the office to fill it out with each of them. In between answering questions, they stared each other down.
"Cecelia, Ghost...knock it off."
They looked down at the floor. I was a mom with the two most dysfunctional kids, ever. The secretaries never took their eyes off us.
We finally completed the ordeal of filling out a stack of forms, in triplicate, and I handed them over to the registrar.
In front of both kids, she told me: "Cecelia is welcome to come to Westside. He, on the other hand," she pointed at Ghost, "can't come here. He was expelled last year and never fulfilled the conditions of his expulsion."
Ghost's face lost all expression. He cared, but he sure as hell wasn't showing it to this woman. He looked at the floor and never looked up again.
I protested. "Is there someone I can talk to about this decision?"
"Sure, you can talk to the vice principle in charge of administrative affairs, but he's out this week, on vacation. Do you want to schedule an appointment?"
I scheduled the appointment. Then, I wrote a check for Cecelia's school fees (the other apparent hangup that had kept her out of school for half of the previous year), and we left.
We drowned Ghost's sorrows with the promised Crown Burgers and chocolate milkshakes. Cecelia watched him from across the table. His face showed no emotion, but she knew what he was feeling.
"Yo, Ghost, I'm really sorry, those people suck," she told him, "fucking puta at the counter didn't have to act like that."
He lifted his head and really looked at her, for the first time. "Thanks, man," he said.
We left, and I dropped her off at her house. On the ride back to Ghost's house, I told him that we would meet with the Principal and I'd use my clout from the police department to try and get him into school. But, if he couldn't get in, he'd have to attend the alternative school, and I hoped he'd do so.
"You know, I'm not your mom, though, so I can't make you do anything."
He looked over at me, face completely serious, and said, "You are my mom, Miss A."
Cecelia, Part 5
Friday, May 15, 2009
Cecelia, You're Shaking My Confidence Daily (Part 3) 4:55 PM
Part 1
Part 2
Cecelia saw herself as one of the guys.
There were only three roles for girls in her gang. There were the girls who were the sex toys of the gang, who got passed from guy to guy, and used sexually. There were the girlfriends of the gang members, who stood on a rung only slightly higher on the ladder of machismo. And, there were the girls who turned themselves into guys. Girls who fought like guys, dressed like guys, acted like guys.
Cecelia was in that last category. It was the only possible category that she'd have allowed. She didn't like men in the first two ways.
After we'd known each other a few weeks, Cecelia and I had plans to meet, but she told me that she'd be at her friend Flaca's house. I swung by to pick her up there.
Flaca's house was significantly nicer, it was one of the newer subsidized housing properties in the city. Still in the middle of a high-crime neighborhood, but it had not yet succumbed to years of neglect.
It was a hot summer day. The yard was dead, the flowers in their pots were dead, and it felt like it was about a hundred degrees with no humidity. The high desert heat was miserable.
It looked marginally cooler inside through the screen door. It was dark inside. There was no air conditioning, but Flaca's mom had a living room with actual furniture that looked less than ten years old. The girls from La Raza were draped over a couple of couches, watching cable. It's a tired stereotype, but while these kids could do without a new bike or nutritious food, they could never do without their cable, their Showtime and HBO and MTV with the latest gangster rap videos to watch.
I knocked on the screen door.
I could hear the girls whispering inside.
"Who's the wedda?"
"She's MY wedda, she hangs out with me every week because of Judge V."
"Well, tell her to come in and kick it wid us."
"Wedda, come in."
I opened the screen door, and came inside, finding a spot on one of the chairs.
If you've never seen homegirls, can you visualize them in your head? The high, darkened, plucked to death eyebrows. The long dark hair, brown skin. The brown lipliner on full lips, with dark brown lipstick. Heavy brown eye shadow all the way up to the eyebrow - never leave home without it.
Cecelia looked and dressed like a boy in her dickies and oversized t-shirts, and no makeup.
Flaca and her sisters though, these were the glamorous gang girls. Flaca wore a revealing tank top with her stiffly pressed dickies and g-nikes*. Cecelia was androgynous, Flaca was all girl.
At lunch, Flaca and Cecelia lounged against the booth, together, and told me about the day that Flaca was jumped into the gang.
Cecelia was jumped into the gang by the boys. She was the first girl they'd allowed into the gang as a peer. Other girls had hung out, but Cecelia was an equal.
Cecelia told me that she'd fought 2 boys for a minute and 30 seconds.
"They were both hitting me with their fists in my head, shoulders and chest. It hurt, but they weren't trying to hurt me badly. They just needed to see if I was tough enough. My brother told me to stay on my feet and try to keep them from knocking me down, no matter what I did, so I couldn't get kicked. That's how you really get hurt. He told me to protect my head, too."
"After the fight, everyone came around and hugged me. I had blood on my face, but I was so proud. And they were proud of me. I showed I belonged."
Flaca didn't get jumped in until later. The boys from La Raza told her to recruit some girls, and put her in charge of them. Flaca was her best friend, and the first person that Cecelia jumped into the gang.
"Flaca and I fought for a minute and 30 seconds. I told her to hit back. I hit her hard, but she did good. She kept her fists up, and was tough."
Flaca laughed. "I had bruises everywhere...on my cheek, all over my shoulders. I had to tell my mom that I hit my face on the door frame. " Her parents had no idea that she was a gang member.
I realized two things during this visit. First, Cecelia was showing me off to her girlfriends. She had this woman who came to see her, wanted to spend time with her, and took her places. She wanted to impress her peers with this fact.
Secondly, she was introducing me to her family. Flaca and the homegirls were Cecelia's most important relationships. They were her friends, but they were far more than that. Cecelia was the leader of the girls. They were her siblings and family members. They gave her status, because she was the boss and they answered to her. The homegirls gave Cecelia a place to belong, and they gave her the respect and status she so desperately craved.
*Nike Cortez running shoes
Part 2
Cecelia saw herself as one of the guys.
There were only three roles for girls in her gang. There were the girls who were the sex toys of the gang, who got passed from guy to guy, and used sexually. There were the girlfriends of the gang members, who stood on a rung only slightly higher on the ladder of machismo. And, there were the girls who turned themselves into guys. Girls who fought like guys, dressed like guys, acted like guys.
Cecelia was in that last category. It was the only possible category that she'd have allowed. She didn't like men in the first two ways.
After we'd known each other a few weeks, Cecelia and I had plans to meet, but she told me that she'd be at her friend Flaca's house. I swung by to pick her up there.
Flaca's house was significantly nicer, it was one of the newer subsidized housing properties in the city. Still in the middle of a high-crime neighborhood, but it had not yet succumbed to years of neglect.
It was a hot summer day. The yard was dead, the flowers in their pots were dead, and it felt like it was about a hundred degrees with no humidity. The high desert heat was miserable.
It looked marginally cooler inside through the screen door. It was dark inside. There was no air conditioning, but Flaca's mom had a living room with actual furniture that looked less than ten years old. The girls from La Raza were draped over a couple of couches, watching cable. It's a tired stereotype, but while these kids could do without a new bike or nutritious food, they could never do without their cable, their Showtime and HBO and MTV with the latest gangster rap videos to watch.
I knocked on the screen door.
I could hear the girls whispering inside.
"Who's the wedda?"
"She's MY wedda, she hangs out with me every week because of Judge V."
"Well, tell her to come in and kick it wid us."
"Wedda, come in."
I opened the screen door, and came inside, finding a spot on one of the chairs.
If you've never seen homegirls, can you visualize them in your head? The high, darkened, plucked to death eyebrows. The long dark hair, brown skin. The brown lipliner on full lips, with dark brown lipstick. Heavy brown eye shadow all the way up to the eyebrow - never leave home without it.
Cecelia looked and dressed like a boy in her dickies and oversized t-shirts, and no makeup.
Flaca and her sisters though, these were the glamorous gang girls. Flaca wore a revealing tank top with her stiffly pressed dickies and g-nikes*. Cecelia was androgynous, Flaca was all girl.
At lunch, Flaca and Cecelia lounged against the booth, together, and told me about the day that Flaca was jumped into the gang.
Cecelia was jumped into the gang by the boys. She was the first girl they'd allowed into the gang as a peer. Other girls had hung out, but Cecelia was an equal.
Cecelia told me that she'd fought 2 boys for a minute and 30 seconds.
"They were both hitting me with their fists in my head, shoulders and chest. It hurt, but they weren't trying to hurt me badly. They just needed to see if I was tough enough. My brother told me to stay on my feet and try to keep them from knocking me down, no matter what I did, so I couldn't get kicked. That's how you really get hurt. He told me to protect my head, too."
"After the fight, everyone came around and hugged me. I had blood on my face, but I was so proud. And they were proud of me. I showed I belonged."
Flaca didn't get jumped in until later. The boys from La Raza told her to recruit some girls, and put her in charge of them. Flaca was her best friend, and the first person that Cecelia jumped into the gang.
"Flaca and I fought for a minute and 30 seconds. I told her to hit back. I hit her hard, but she did good. She kept her fists up, and was tough."
Flaca laughed. "I had bruises everywhere...on my cheek, all over my shoulders. I had to tell my mom that I hit my face on the door frame. " Her parents had no idea that she was a gang member.
I realized two things during this visit. First, Cecelia was showing me off to her girlfriends. She had this woman who came to see her, wanted to spend time with her, and took her places. She wanted to impress her peers with this fact.
Secondly, she was introducing me to her family. Flaca and the homegirls were Cecelia's most important relationships. They were her friends, but they were far more than that. Cecelia was the leader of the girls. They were her siblings and family members. They gave her status, because she was the boss and they answered to her. The homegirls gave Cecelia a place to belong, and they gave her the respect and status she so desperately craved.
*Nike Cortez running shoes
Cecelia, You're Breaking My Heart (Part 2) 4:54 PM
Part 1
After that first lunch, Cecelia and I established a routine.
About once a week, sometimes twice a week, I'd swing by her house, pick her up, and we'd go eat somewhere. At first, the conversations were mainly me conducting an inquisition to drag the words out of her, because she was not a talkative girl.
Eventually, though, she started to tell me about her life. Cecelia was the leader of the girls in La Raza, a local street gang (hence the LR on her belt buckles). She'd first joined a gang called QVO, but then transitioned over into La Raza when it split off the larger gang.
QVO was the largest gang in our city, a predominantly latino gang whose color was brown. It boasted about 200 members, and was a homegrown set whose name was taken from a magazine once printed in Los Angeles, literally "what's up." In 1995, one of the three most dangerous gangs in the city was called "What's Up." This was pretty much par for the course for a city that also boasted a gang called BDG: Big Dick Gang.
QVO, BDG, and La Raza were separate groups, but also mostly allies in those days. They were the "brown pride" sets, gangs who claimed the color brown (or in La Raza's case, green), and aligned themselves against the local Surenos, gangs who had either been transplanted from Los Angeles, or modeled themselves after LA's Hispanic gangs. The Surenos gangs claimed the traditional black or blue, and included Avenues (a Los Angeles transplant), Diamond Street, Chiques, 18th Street (also an LA transplant), and a few others.
The QVO sets didn't consider themselves Bloods, the traditional rivals of the Crips, but they did ally with local Blood sets at times.
Westside, where Cecelia lived, was a smallish neighborhood that the detectives in my unit referred to as "drive-by alley." And, it was. In 1998, the year before I moved to Florida, we had over 300 drive-by shootings, almost one per day and most of them were on the west side. We had over 30 gang-related homicides that year, almost 3 a month. For comparison's sake, Dallas had slightly less that year, and was twice as large in population size.
Most of the gangs didn't claim specific territories, although Diamond Street claimed sections of the Northside, and most of the La Raza and BDG kids lived in Westside. But their enemies did, too. Most of the Avenues (AVES) lived right in amongst their feuding rivals, a few blocks from where Cecelia lived.
For the most part, the Surenos warred with the "brown pride" groups, Latinos fighting with and killing other Latinos. Sometimes, the Brown Pride gangs would also fight with another large group in the city, Tongan Crip Gang (TCG) whose membership rivaled their own, since there were many TCG members in Westside.
You could see from the graffiti down alleys and along the sides of the street where members of rival gangs were living, fighting, and shooting one another. It definitely made retaliation and revenge a much easier game.
And, Cecelia lived right in the middle of it, one of the spoons that kept the pot of gang-related violence constantly stirred.
Part 3
After that first lunch, Cecelia and I established a routine.
About once a week, sometimes twice a week, I'd swing by her house, pick her up, and we'd go eat somewhere. At first, the conversations were mainly me conducting an inquisition to drag the words out of her, because she was not a talkative girl.
Eventually, though, she started to tell me about her life. Cecelia was the leader of the girls in La Raza, a local street gang (hence the LR on her belt buckles). She'd first joined a gang called QVO, but then transitioned over into La Raza when it split off the larger gang.
QVO was the largest gang in our city, a predominantly latino gang whose color was brown. It boasted about 200 members, and was a homegrown set whose name was taken from a magazine once printed in Los Angeles, literally "what's up." In 1995, one of the three most dangerous gangs in the city was called "What's Up." This was pretty much par for the course for a city that also boasted a gang called BDG: Big Dick Gang.
QVO, BDG, and La Raza were separate groups, but also mostly allies in those days. They were the "brown pride" sets, gangs who claimed the color brown (or in La Raza's case, green), and aligned themselves against the local Surenos, gangs who had either been transplanted from Los Angeles, or modeled themselves after LA's Hispanic gangs. The Surenos gangs claimed the traditional black or blue, and included Avenues (a Los Angeles transplant), Diamond Street, Chiques, 18th Street (also an LA transplant), and a few others.
The QVO sets didn't consider themselves Bloods, the traditional rivals of the Crips, but they did ally with local Blood sets at times.
Westside, where Cecelia lived, was a smallish neighborhood that the detectives in my unit referred to as "drive-by alley." And, it was. In 1998, the year before I moved to Florida, we had over 300 drive-by shootings, almost one per day and most of them were on the west side. We had over 30 gang-related homicides that year, almost 3 a month. For comparison's sake, Dallas had slightly less that year, and was twice as large in population size.
Most of the gangs didn't claim specific territories, although Diamond Street claimed sections of the Northside, and most of the La Raza and BDG kids lived in Westside. But their enemies did, too. Most of the Avenues (AVES) lived right in amongst their feuding rivals, a few blocks from where Cecelia lived.
For the most part, the Surenos warred with the "brown pride" groups, Latinos fighting with and killing other Latinos. Sometimes, the Brown Pride gangs would also fight with another large group in the city, Tongan Crip Gang (TCG) whose membership rivaled their own, since there were many TCG members in Westside.
You could see from the graffiti down alleys and along the sides of the street where members of rival gangs were living, fighting, and shooting one another. It definitely made retaliation and revenge a much easier game.
And, Cecelia lived right in the middle of it, one of the spoons that kept the pot of gang-related violence constantly stirred.
Part 3
Cecelia 4:42 PM
One of my lifelong heroes is a judge I worked with from the juvenile court. In around 1995, right after he was appointed to the bench, and I had started working for metro gangs, we had lunch. He told me that he was starting a sort of informal mentoring program for the kids on his caseload. He asked if I would be willing to work as a mentor for him, essentially donating 2 or 3 hours a week of my time to one of his kids.
I was already spending 40 or more hours a week in the company of gang members, so mentoring a female gang member seemed to fall pretty neatly in line with my work responsibilities. "Sure," I said. "Sign me up."
In those days, a lot of mentoring programs weren't very structured. There wasn't a rigorous background check, and there were very few rules. He gave me the name, phone number, and address of the girl he wanted me to mentor: Cecelia.
I called her the next day, introduced myself as a mentor that her judge had assigned to work with her, and asked if she'd like to go to lunch. She said she would. She wasn't in school, and wasn't doing much. Going to lunch with a gringa would be a novelty.
I asked her what she wanted to eat, and she named a restaurant a few blocks from her house in the west side of town...La Frontera.
I picked her up around noon at her house: 1383 West ___________. When I went to the front porch, I noticed that someone had graffitied over the house number (which was just spray painted onto the front of the house), crossing out both the 13 and the 38 with marker. The 13 probably represented the local Surenos sets, and the 38 was a reference to a specific Surenos gang, 38th street. I'd seen graffiti crossouts before, but never a cross out of a house number on the front of somene's house.
I didn't know who'd crossed those numbers out, but gang members had definitely been in and around this house.
Cecelia came to the door, and with her came the standard scent of the neighborhood: Old musty house, dirty carpet, unchanged diapers, and the smell of old cigarette smoke ground into all of it.
Cecelia, like most gang members, smelled of soap and tres flores. She was Chicano. Tall, dumpy and overweight, she was dressed just like a homeboy in a a baggy black t-shirt and oversized dickies, creased sharp and held up with a black cloth belt with two metal buckles with punched out initials: LR. The dickies fell low on her hips, and her hair was pulled back tight and hard away from her face. If you didn't know she was a girl, you'd have passed her on the street thinking she was a 16-year-old boy. No makeup, nothing soft about her, aside from her belly.
Her voice was low and rough, and just as masculine as her appearance. I'd worked with homegirls before, but she was the most masculine girl I'd ever spent any time with.
We slid into the brown naugahyde booths, facing one another, and I started trying to make small talk with her:
"Do you go to school?" No. She'd been expelled at least 6 months earlier and had not re-enrolled. The school had made no effort to re-engage her, either.
"Do you have any brothers and sisters?" Yes, she had two little half-sisters and a younger brother from the same father who was 14, and already a member of QVO.
"Who do you live with?" She lived with her mom and siblings, but her mom worked several jobs as a cleaning lady, mostly motels, and was almost never home until 8 or later. Cecelia was the main person responsible for her siblings.
Getting answers from her was like trying to pull pennies out of a coke can with your fingers...a consistent effort marked by grunting responses, silence, and sharp edges.
Finally, she asked, suspiciously: "Why are you doing this, why are you here talking to me?"
I told her: "I'm here for you. Your judge thought you might need someone just for you, someone to talk to, someone to help you, someone who mainly cares just about you."
She stared down at the table, sullenly, and then looked up, and I was shocked to see tears in her eyes.
And, that was the beginning of my relationship with Cecelia.
Part 2
I was already spending 40 or more hours a week in the company of gang members, so mentoring a female gang member seemed to fall pretty neatly in line with my work responsibilities. "Sure," I said. "Sign me up."
In those days, a lot of mentoring programs weren't very structured. There wasn't a rigorous background check, and there were very few rules. He gave me the name, phone number, and address of the girl he wanted me to mentor: Cecelia.
I called her the next day, introduced myself as a mentor that her judge had assigned to work with her, and asked if she'd like to go to lunch. She said she would. She wasn't in school, and wasn't doing much. Going to lunch with a gringa would be a novelty.
I asked her what she wanted to eat, and she named a restaurant a few blocks from her house in the west side of town...La Frontera.
I picked her up around noon at her house: 1383 West ___________. When I went to the front porch, I noticed that someone had graffitied over the house number (which was just spray painted onto the front of the house), crossing out both the 13 and the 38 with marker. The 13 probably represented the local Surenos sets, and the 38 was a reference to a specific Surenos gang, 38th street. I'd seen graffiti crossouts before, but never a cross out of a house number on the front of somene's house.
I didn't know who'd crossed those numbers out, but gang members had definitely been in and around this house.
Cecelia came to the door, and with her came the standard scent of the neighborhood: Old musty house, dirty carpet, unchanged diapers, and the smell of old cigarette smoke ground into all of it.
Cecelia, like most gang members, smelled of soap and tres flores. She was Chicano. Tall, dumpy and overweight, she was dressed just like a homeboy in a a baggy black t-shirt and oversized dickies, creased sharp and held up with a black cloth belt with two metal buckles with punched out initials: LR. The dickies fell low on her hips, and her hair was pulled back tight and hard away from her face. If you didn't know she was a girl, you'd have passed her on the street thinking she was a 16-year-old boy. No makeup, nothing soft about her, aside from her belly.
Her voice was low and rough, and just as masculine as her appearance. I'd worked with homegirls before, but she was the most masculine girl I'd ever spent any time with.
We slid into the brown naugahyde booths, facing one another, and I started trying to make small talk with her:
"Do you go to school?" No. She'd been expelled at least 6 months earlier and had not re-enrolled. The school had made no effort to re-engage her, either.
"Do you have any brothers and sisters?" Yes, she had two little half-sisters and a younger brother from the same father who was 14, and already a member of QVO.
"Who do you live with?" She lived with her mom and siblings, but her mom worked several jobs as a cleaning lady, mostly motels, and was almost never home until 8 or later. Cecelia was the main person responsible for her siblings.
Getting answers from her was like trying to pull pennies out of a coke can with your fingers...a consistent effort marked by grunting responses, silence, and sharp edges.
Finally, she asked, suspiciously: "Why are you doing this, why are you here talking to me?"
I told her: "I'm here for you. Your judge thought you might need someone just for you, someone to talk to, someone to help you, someone who mainly cares just about you."
She stared down at the table, sullenly, and then looked up, and I was shocked to see tears in her eyes.
And, that was the beginning of my relationship with Cecelia.
Part 2
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