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 3 4:40 PM

Ghost, Part 1
Ghost, Part 2

Ghost's dad, Danny, was a small, wiry man with darkened, weathered skin from rough living and hair that looked like it had never seen a brush. He was rarely clean-shaven. I know he must have shaved at some point, because he always seemed to sport razor stubble, but apparently, I always missed that day of the week.

He'd clearly used a lot of drugs in his lifetime, and they'd unwired his brain. That's the clearest way I can explain it. He was there in body, but not in mind or soul.

His involvement with Ghost was minimal. Danny provided a place to live (in a minimalist sense), some clothes, and occasional fast food. That was the extent of his parenting. Ghost started washing his own clothes in elementary school. He never went to the doctor. He bought and cooked his own food. Ghost's mom wasn't around. She'd been hospitalized for schizophrenia years before and no one really knew where she was. So, that was Ghost's home life, in a nutshell.

Home was a not very nice place to lay your head and nothing more.

I do remember sitting on his couch, with bullet holes clearly delineated in some pictures in the wall above me, and the smell of nicotine so deeply ingrained in the house that I thought the smell would cling to me the rest of the week.

The first conversation with Danny went something like this:

"I'm really worried about Ghost."

"Oh?"

(an atypically low-key response from a guy who'd just had his house shot up in a drive-by shooting the night before)

"Yeah. Clearly, he's being targeted by QVO. Do you have any idea why QVO would want to shoot up your house?"

"Not really."

"Well, y'all should be careful. At least put the bookcase in front of the window or something. And you know, maybe you could keep Denny from hanging out with Diamond Street so much in your front yard."

"I don't know if I could do that."

It's hard to imagine that there are parents out there who aren't completely wigging about having bullets fired into their living room at 2 a.m., but there are. There are parents out there who have pumped so many substances into their bodies: heroin, crack, nicotine, that they are barely functional.

That was Ghost's dad.

A few months later, his house was shot up again.

This time, our conversation was conducted through a screen door.

"I'm really worried about you and your son."

"Yeah."

"At this point, it isn't IF he's going to get shot, but when."

"Yeah."

"Do you think you could keep him home more? Or maybe keep the gang members from hanging out in your front yard?"

"I dunno."

Ghost, Part 2 4:39 PM

Ghost, Part 1

Ghost and I settled into a routine. About every week or so, I'd go by his house and check on him. I'd chat with him and the Diamond Street (DST) boys while they played basketball or lounged on the front steps. I'd give them well-intended advice about baby mamas, homework, and dealing with parents. I'd tell them that I could help them find a jobs. I'd occasionally chat with Danny, his dad. Those conversations gave new meaning to futility.

Ghost was not particularly receptive to these attempts at intervention. He liked being in a gang, it was exciting and fun, and it gave his life meaning and purpose. He was a loc in the truest sense of the word. Loc, short for loco, means "crazy" on the streets. In Ghost's case, this crazy translated into shooting at rivals, having your own house shot up in response, fighting whenever there was an opportunity, and provoking a response whenever he could, wherever he went.

When at school, he was a huge pain in the ass for school administrators. He could always be counted on to do the most fucking stupid thing possible. While walking down a hallway, he'd give his rivals "hard looks," staring them down, and trying to provoke them in non-verbal ways. He might tip his head at them in a demeaning way, or make arm gestures while puffing out his chest, or throw up the distinctive DST handsign (a diamond, of course). He'd mutter insults under his breath at them: "Sewer rats," (a derogatory reference to Surenos, or "Levas" (an insult directed at the Avenues gang members, that means "lame"). He was also a prolific graffiti writer in the school, throwing up his gang's initials and his nickname EVERYWHERE.

When he wasn't at school, which was a high percentage of the time, he was similarly occupied in his neighborhood. He lived to fuck with rival gang members. That was the one activity that seemed to give him nearly constant joy.

By doing so, he also built his status in the gang..."He's loco" translates to: "He's fucking stupid, and might do just about anything violent." Other gang members feared his temper and willingness to fight/shoot/confront. His peers respected him for his craziness and the fact that he was clearly so down for his set.

He liked me, though. And, I liked him. So, I kept trying, even when it seemed to be a constant exercise in futility.


Ghost, Part 3

Ghost, Part 1 4:16 PM

He was sixteen when I first met him. The guys from my unit suggested that he was an asshole that I could waste my time on.

Ghost was gangly, tall, blue-eyed, and fair with blond hair so light that it was almost white, hence the nickname. He was a member of Diamond Street, whose distinctive diamond symbol and DST initials could be found all over the northside neighborhood.

He lived in a tiny house in a neighborhood that had over time become a haven for blue collar families with young kids, immigrants, and retirees who'd lived in the area for 30 years or more. These groups shared an uneasy truce and very little understanding of one another.

Ghost loved basketball. When I drove to his house, parking underneath a shady tree in the front, he was in his driveway, shooting baskets with a cheap basketball that had been burnished with the sweat of hundreds of free-throw shots. The ball was covered with repetitive scuff marks from the cement driveway. Ghost took shot after shot, rebounding his own ball as I walked casually up the driveway.

I'd worked with hundreds of kids over the years, but those kids were facility kids, trained into structure and some degree of compliance. Ghost was my first street kid, and as I would soon learn, facility kids were different from street kids.

Facility kids had something to lose.

Street kids had already lost more than I could comprehend.

I was nervous, and he was indifferent. I was just another well-intentioned white lady, a busybody there to meddle, but not to help. I told him that the department had received many complaints from his neighbors, and that I understood that his home had recently been hit in a drive-by shooting. Did he understand how dangerous it was to be in a gang? Was there anything I could do? He was sullen, and didn't have much to say. He didn't smile, and in fact, kept his lips tightly clenched across his teeth. I'm not surprised he didn't like me. Why would he?

I was nervous, sweaty, and smiled a lot. Finally, he let loose with some information: that very day was his 16th birthday. I asked if he was excited, and what presents he'd received.

He avoided the question, but I could tell it made him uncomfortable.

I told him I hoped he had a happy day, and that I'd be around again, then drove away. He was back to shooting hoops as rhythmic as a clock as I left. On the way to the office, I passed a neighborhood bodega, and saw a basketball in the window. It was the first of many tiny hunches and gut impulses I would follow with Casper and other kids on the street. I bought the ball for less than $10, a small card to go with it, and drove the mile or so back to his house. When I handed them to him, he was clearly surprised.

He took the ball, thanked me, and started shooting with it.

I later learned it was the only present Ghost received that year.

Ghost, Part 2
Ghost, Part 3