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My Bloody Life is by no means a justification for gang involvement or Park 31 My Rosie 32 Down Brother 33 Poor Rosie We want your feedback! Click here. cover image of My Bloody Life. Read A Sample. My Bloody Life. The Making of a Latin King. by Reymundo Sanchez. ebook. Read "My Bloody Life The Making of a Latin King" by Reymundo Sanchez available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first.

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Access eBook My Bloody Life: The Making Of A Latin King (Illinois) By Latin King (Illinois) By Reymundo Sanchez free download pdf. My. Review In My Bloody Life, Reymundo Sanchez tells a chillingly sad tale downloading free ebooks pdf My Bloody Life: The Making of a Latin King. 18 year old danny comes goes into his house to be surprised that his dog has been murdered harshly! is this the end of his happiness or the beginning of a.

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I went from being the biggest kid in class to being one of the smallest. On the very first day of school the school bully confronted me. His name was Ricardo, but everyone called him Ricky.

He was a big, ugly, black-skinned Puerto Rican. He had a big afro and could easily have been mistaken for an African American until he spoke. Ricky proclaimed himself the toughest guy in school and pointed out a certain girl as his girlfriend. He warned me to stay away from her.

You better stop saying that. The next person I met was a guy named Jorge. He was short with big feet and curly hair and was an easy person to get along with. Jorge introduced me to his buddies Noel and Julio. Noel looked more like a white boy than he did a Puerto Rican.

He had dirty blond hair, blue eyes, and rosy skin. Then there was Julio. He looked more like a stereotypical Puerto Rican. He was brown skinned with pushed-back black hair and a very deep Latin accent. Jorge and Noel were born and raised in Chicago.

Their families had been some of the first Puerto Ricans to inhabit the Humboldt Park area. They told me a lot of horror stories about white violence toward Puerto Ricans. As new additions to the neighborhood, Julio and I could only take their word for it. The stories the guys told about the white people in the area were never pleasant. Jorge showed me scars he claimed were caused by a group of white boys who jumped him because he was Puerto Rican. All the white people I had encountered since coming to Chicago were friendly and nice.

I told the guys about some white boys I had passed on the way to school. They seemed friendly enough. They kept pointing at the sky with their middle fingers. I thought they were showing me how beautiful it was. They also yelled words that I understood to be friendly gestures. I had never heard these words before.

They yelled punk, spic, pussy, son of a bitch, and I think they even offered me a pork chop. Julio, Jorge, and Noel laughed uncontrollably as I told them about these white boys. After the laughter they explained to me what I was being called and what the middle finger pointed at the sky meant. I felt like an idiot. All day long I kept thinking about what the white boys were saying to me. Now I was scared. I had never experienced such hatred. I became wary and cautious of the company I kept.

Noel, Jorge, and Julio wanted to confront the white boys but hesitated because of the presence of a police officer. The officer was standing near his patrol car about four or five feet from the white boys by the edge of the sidewalk.

He looked at the boys with this half smile, half smirk on his face, but did nothing. It seemed like he was enjoying what was going on. The Puerto Rican kid, apparently pushed to the limit, suddenly lunged at the white boy nearest him and tackled him to the ground.

The white boy covered his face with his arms as his friends backed off, yelling, Leave him alone, leave him alone! The police officer walked up to the two boys and grabbed the Puerto Rican kid by the hair. He lifted the kid up and pulled him toward the patrol car. The officer opened the back door of the car and tossed the kid in as he kicked him in the rear end. He then turned around and yelled, Get in school, all of you. I hurried inside and went to my classroom. There were only a few kids there.

About ten minutes later Noel, Jorge, and Julio walked into the classroom along with the rest of the class. I told you. The white boys get away with everything, Noel said as he walked past me toward his desk.

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From that point forward I was always leery of white people. I never saw him again—not in school, around the neighborhood, or anywhere. Maybe his parents had been scared right back to Puerto Rico. That episode certainly put the fear of whites in me. I immediately recognized that when a Puerto Rican complained about abuse from a white person they were classified as weak, cowardly, not able to conform to American ways.

However, when a Puerto Rican became the aggressor, he was classified as an animal, not fit to live within American society. At school I hung out with Puerto Ricans, mainly the guys, and avoided whites.

This became easier as time went on. It seemed like they were moving out to get away from the Puerto Ricans. Jorge, Noel, Julio, and I became inseparable. We soon started meeting each other on the corner of Rockwell and Potomac Streets. There was a candy store located there that we routinely shoplifted from. The most popular item in the store came in a little folded brown paper envelope that cost five dollars, called a nickel bag. I always wondered what kind of candy could be so expensive.

Anyway, it was because of the popularity of the nickel bag that we were able to steal candy so easily. The boys and I played around on that corner until it was time to go to school. The best thing that came from hanging out with Julio, Jorge, and Noel was how quickly I learned English.

They spoke in a mix of Spanish and English that made it easy for me to follow and understand what they were saying. After, they had a good laugh—at my expense, that is. In no time at all I was using the most popular words in the English language in complete, proper sentences. Fuck you, you stupid mother fucking asshole, was my first English sentence.

We called it the escape hole. Kids our size could jump right through it but a grown-up, like, say, a truant officer, would have a hard time. By the time they did get through we would be gone. On the other side of that fence was an alley that led to Washtenaw Street. When we came out of the alley there was a game room right across the street. It had two pool tables, an air hockey table, a foosball machine, and various kinds of pinball machines.

The most popular item there was also the nickel bag. One sold them inside and the other worked outside on the street. Back in school I was in heaven. Being able to read, write, and understand the English language better made school even more fascinating. I was a model student, always on time, my homework neatly completed, and always attentive and eager to learn.

My three amigos and I were all pretty good students. On several occasions Noel took us to his house. It was the first time I had seen an adult female body in the nude.

I was kind of embarrassed at first, but I was also definitely excited. Noel seemed a bit more experienced in sexual matters than the rest of us. After school we would rush home to watch our favorite cartoon, Speed Racer , get a bite to eat, and then meet at the school playground for a couple of games of baseball.

While we were having a good time with our ball game, the neighborhood teenagers would group up by the mobile classrooms. They would play loud music, drink Old Style beer and Richards wine, and, to my surprise, make the contents of the infamous nickel bags into cigarettes. I finally found out what the nickel bag was used for. The best-looking girls always hung out with that group. The girls also drank and smoked the expensive cigarettes. They were always tongue kissing the guys and would let themselves be touched and grabbed in places that I had thought were sacred to the opposite sex.

They would do these things right out in the open with no shame. My friends and I were so envious. Most of the guys playing baseball with us had their minds made up—they wanted to be part of this cool group when they got older. His name was Oscar. It was obvious that he and Noel were not the offspring of the same father.

My Bloody Life: The Making of a Latin King

Oscar looked more like Julio, only his skin was just a little lighter. His name was spray painted or written in marker all over the place.

Wherever his name appeared, so did the letters L D. They stood for Latin Disciples. That was what they called themselves. That afternoon after we finished playing baseball, I bombarded Noel with questions about his brother and the Latin Disciples. Noel told me that people in that group were considered the coolest guys in the neighborhood. They protected and helped each other in times of need. They were all known by nicknames—everybody who joined them was given one. He also told us about how sometimes he would see the Disciples chasing white boys and blacks out of the neighborhood, and sometimes even all the way out of Humboldt Park.

This trail of murder lasted over thirty years and took Kuklinski all over America and to the far corners of the earth, Brazil, Africa, and Europe. Along the way, he married, had three children, and put them through Catholic school.

His daughter's medical condition meant regular stays in children's hospitals, where Kuklinski was remembered, not as a gangster, but as an affectionate father, extremely kind to children. Each Christmas found the Kuklinski home festooned in colorful lights; each summer was a succession of block parties. Account Options Sign in. Top Charts. New Arrivals. My Bloody Life: The Making of a Latin King. Reymundo Sanchez April 1, Switch to the audiobook.

Looking for an escape from childhood abuse, Reymundo Sanchez turned away from school and baseball to drugs, alcohol, and then sex, and was left to fend for himself before age The Latin Kings, one of the largest and most notorious street gangs in America, became his refuge and his world, but its violence cost him friends, freedom, self-respect, and nearly his life. More by Reymundo Sanchez See more.

My Bloody Life by Reymundo Sanchez - Read Online

Lady Q: The Rise and Fall of a Latin Queen. Reymundo Sanchez. This is a raw and powerful memoir not only of one woman's struggle to survive the streets but also of her ascent to the top ranks of the new mafia, where the only people more dangerous than rival gangs were members of her own. At age five Sonia Rodriguez's stepfather began to abuse her; at 10 she was molested by her uncle and beaten by her mother when she told on him; and by 13 her home had become a hangout for the Latin Kings and Queens who were friends with her older sister.

Threatened by rival gang members at school, Sonia turned away from her education and extracurricular activities in favor of a world of drugs and violence.

The Latin Kings, one of the largest and most notorious street gangs in America, became her refuge, but its violence cost her friends, freedom, self-respect, and nearly her life. As a Latin Queen, she experienced the exhilarating highs and unbelievable lows of gang life.

From being shot at by her own gang and kicked out at age 18 with an infant daughter to rejoining the gang and distinguishing herself as a leader, her legacy as Lady Q was cemented both for her willingness to commit violence and for her role as a drug mule. For the first time, a woman's perspective on gang life is presented. Once a King, Always a King: I thought about how fat and ugly Sexpot was and how attractive the girl was who cursed her out.

I wondered who she was. Too bad she left before I could meet her. My mind was racing at a thousand miles per minute, leaving me behind. My thoughts made me panic, smile, then panic again. It was an awesome experience. I was falling asleep when my sister knocked on my door and told me to come and eat. I told her I would eat later. She advised me to unlock the door before Pedro noticed that I had it locked and started trouble.

I thought about it and knew she was right. I got up and unlocked the door, then went to sleep. I woke in the middle of the night hungry as hell.

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I had a bad case of the munchies. I got up, went in the bathroom and washed my mouth, then went into the kitchen. The hunger, however, overpowered the fear I had of Pedro. In the darkness I could see what looked like a dinner plate sitting on the table covered by another plate.

I figured my mother must have left it there for me.

I reached for the plate to take it back to my room. Before I touched it someone grabbed me by the hair and threw me to the floor. I felt a crippling pain in my stomach where I had just been kicked.

I heard Pedro screaming and then the light went on. What have I done to him? By this time everybody was awake. After Pedro got over the shock that I was fighting back, he ran into his bedroom and came out with a gun. He pointed it at me and pulled back the hammer. My mom and sisters jumped in front of me. Pedro put down the gun and went into his bedroom. I was surprised that my mom had come to my defense. Had she changed? Was she going to hold me and tell me everything was going to be all right?

She slapped my face three times. As she hit me she yelled obscenities. She paused, then swung at me again. This time she left an ugly scratch on my neck. Once again I ran into my room and hid under the bed, only this time she came after me with a broom and continued to hit me. A few minutes later everything was dark and quiet, as if nothing had happened. My mind was fucked up. I lay under that bed weeping and begging for mercy but my cries went unheard. I thought about suicide, murder, or running away from home.

I was afraid of everything around me. I withdrew into my own little world where everything was somehow connected to terror and violence. I woke up the next morning and realized that I had slept under the bed again. I was scared to come out of my room, but I also knew that if I was late for school I would be whipped again. My older sister told me that my mother and Pedro were not home.

They had gone to our schools to let them know that we would no longer be attending because we were moving back to Puerto Rico. I was petrified. My body literally trembled.

I immediately started thinking of ways to stay in Chicago. I could become a Lord and sleep at their clubhouse or I could sleep on the streets—anything would be better than going to the hell that Pedro was preparing for me in Puerto Rico.

When they returned we found out that their plans had changed again. Pedro and Hector had won a big sum of money through the illegal lottery.

They had decided to buy an abandoned building located two houses away from where we presently lived and have it remodeled. That was to be our new home. By the time the scratches were even close to being healed, it was time for Christmas vacation. When I did finally go back I felt free. I actually felt as if I had been locked up somewhere and had been set free. At school my grades continued to drop and I became more unruly. I threatened a teacher because she insisted I write a paper on what I did during Christmas vacation.

I told her I was going to get the Spanish Lords after her. I disrupted classes with my clownish behavior and started a food fight in the cafeteria.

My mother was called to the school on several occasions, but she never went. All she did was beat me when I got home. All she knew was that she got a call from school, so therefore I must have been bad. The more violence I experienced at home the more I acted up at school. Still, I could master any subject when I exerted myself. However, I purposely worked only just enough to pass. Getting attention was much more important to me than making good grades. The violent behavior shown toward me at home directly translated into negative behavior at school.

No longer did I love school because of what I could learn or for its challenges. School became nothing more than my escape from my home life. My aggressive acts toward authority figures were my way of getting back at my mother. Her answer to the problem was, of course, to knock the stupidity out of me. During that time I spent a lot of time in my room talking to myself. My fear of getting whipped just for being there made me turn to imaginary friends.

I played imaginary games and visited imaginary places. I began talking to myself at school also. Only the embarrassment of realizing that other kids were looking at me stopped this from becoming a habit.

I did continue to have imaginary conversations with myself, but in silence. As the number of trips to the principal increased, so did the beatings at home. According to my mother and Pedro, I was an idiot who would never amount to anything.

Well, that 30 My Bloody Life was actually the nicest thing they said. I learned to ignore them and everybody around me. I explored masturbation for the first time. Sex had been on my mind for a while but I had never actually done anything.

I finally experienced an orgasm and found it to be a great feeling. Only the shame I felt about what I was doing kept me from masturbating on a regular basis. From that moment on my desire to experience sex became an obsession. Sex involved touching, kissing, passion.

It involved love. I began to think that I could find all the feelings I was missing in my life in sex. Even though I kept to myself, Pedro still found reasons to start fights with me. He would threaten me with his gun instead. It was silver and shiny. I had to get rid of it before it could get rid of me. He told me that if I did he could get someone to buy it off me. I began looking for the opportunity to make my move. I noticed that Pedro would get up early to go see how the remodeling of the new house was coming along.

My mom would go with him. One morning when they left I went into their room and found the gun in the closet inside a coat pocket. I took the gun and gave it to Papo.

I suggested that we cut class that day and sell the gun. Papo suggested that we should hide the gun and go to school just in case Pedro came looking for me or called the police.

Sure enough, the police showed up at school and questioned me. For the rest of the day all I could think about was the beating waiting for me at home. Papo advised me to leave the gun where it was until the heat was off.

I went home that day and came in through the back door. Pedro was waiting for me in the living room. I heard him talking about the beating he was going to give me. By the time he had noticed I was in the house, I had grabbed hold of a baseball bat. The Spanish Lords 31 The coward froze in his steps. Pedro stood away from me but my mom took over.

I had always thought that if Pedro stopped hitting me for no reason my mother would too. Again I was wrong. I guess she became addicted to beating me. It seemed that every time she got upset about something she would take it out on me. Once again I had to hide under the bed. The Spanish Lords and the Insane Unknowns were united. They partied together and backed each other up on the street. Any gang that had problems with the Lords usually had problems with the Unknowns as well—it was as if they were one gang with different names.

I was glad to finally get rid of the gun. I had been a nervous wreck during the time the gun was hidden. On the other hand, so was Pedro. He had it in his mind that I was just waiting for an opportunity to kill him. We sold the gun for one hundred dollars and used the money to buy marijuana, beer, and wine.

The Spanish Lords consumed the majority of it. I also knew better than to show up at home totally wasted. I did, however, take about ten joints from this stash with me. At night I would open my bedroom window and smoke a joint. I enjoyed the way I felt when I smoked marijuana. When I was high I could think about doing evil things and feel good about it.

I would imagine killing Pedro and my mother over and over again, and be forgiven. My fantasies and imaginary friends became lifelike.

Marijuana became my way out of the horrible reality that was my life. I spent that summer like all my other summers—playing baseball. Only now instead of having a soda or water after the game I was smoking a joint and drinking beer.

They were not a gang; they were a team that participated in all kinds of sports together. They would challenge guys from other neighborhoods to games of baseball, football, basketball, and more. Papo and I started hanging out more with the Western Boys than with the Spanish Lords; however, Papo was still one of their members. The apartment we vacated was quickly occupied.

I recognized the boy in the family who moved into our old apartment. He was from Von Humboldt. His name was Victor. We had played baseball together many times. I invited him to join the Western Boys. He was a welcome addition to our team.

He could hit the ball and it would fly for a mile. He was also the only one who volunteered to play catcher when we played league ball. We gave Victor the nickname Flaco because he was tall and thin.

We became very close and so did our sisters and mothers. My problem was, of course, Pedro. Millie was seven years older than he was.

She went beyond being promiscuous—she was a nymphomaniac. Millie was also bisexual. What bothered him the most was that she was so open about her ways. He told me that he would rather be in my place than to have a bitch for a sister. Our problems did one thing—they kept us talking and made us good friends.

I felt that my problems were the only ones that truly mattered. That was my attitude. I was learning to think about myself and myself only. All the problems of the world were unimportant compared to mine. Feeling sorry for myself also became an excuse for accepting failure. Like my mother, I blamed everything and anything.

Nobody felt the pain I felt. Nobody else suffered but me. That way of thinking became imbedded in my mind and became my way of life for a long time. On Artesian Street, which is located one block west of Western Avenue, another gang was being formed.

They called themselves the Spanish Cobras. Their graffiti began appearing all over the place. My old friend Julio from Von Humboldt School was one of their members. I tried to talk to him on several occasions but he ignored me. I was still ignorant about gang life. I still thought of gangs as a sure way to get girls and party, but nothing more. School was about two weeks away and the Spanish Lords and the Spanish Cobras were having some kind of dispute. That weekend while we were playing baseball we watched the Spanish Lords group up and walk toward Artesian.

They carried cans of paint and paint rollers. They painted over the name Spanish Cobras everywhere they saw it. That night I could hear gunshots coming from the direction of Artesian and Hirsch Streets, about a block away. I heard police sirens, ambulances, and fire trucks zoom by the 34 My Bloody Life house, traveling up Western. The next day there was talk about what had happened the night before all over the neighborhood.

Even the older people were talking about the incident between the Lords and the Cobras. Apparently the Lords had demanded that members of the Cobras become Lords or move out the neighborhood, or else they would go to war.

The Cobras chose war. A shoot-out broke out between the Lords and the Cobras. The Cobras stayed in a building on the northwest corner of Artesian and Hirsch. The Lords shot the building up from outside while the Cobras returned fire from inside.

My Bloody Life

Ultimately, the Lords threw cocktail firebombs through the windows of the building and shot at people as they came running out to escape the fire. Only the arrival of the police and fire departments kept the incident from becoming a massacre. The Cobras disappeared after that night; they would not be heard of again until the following summer. However, bad blood remained between the youths that lived west of Western and those who lived east of it.

It was the first sign I witnessed of divisions within the Puerto Rican community. This incident with the Spanish Lords and the Spanish Cobras was my first experience with gang violence. I still had the desire to join a gang because of the females.

However, my experiences with the Spanish Lords gave me a strong feeling of belonging, respect, and love. I began to see that gang membership had its advantages. I was prepared to accept whatever gang life had to offer. On Artesian there was a sports team called La Familia; we all knew each other. Since we lived so close to one another and played against each other so often, they were our archrivals; but it was all in fun. That year on Halloween we kept the tradition of having an egg fight with La Familia.

There were some Lords helping us out and La Familia members were getting help from the Disciples. The Lords and Disciples were not fighting each other.

They were not allies in any way, but they did have a peace treaty between them. The Vicelords were a black gang; the Latino gangs all fought them too. At least a hundred of us gathered at the Clemente School field. We broke up into two groups— one headed toward the Gaylords, the other toward the Vicelords. I went with the group that was going toward the Gaylords. Flaco, Papo, and I walked together. We had no idea where we were going; we just followed the older guys ahead of us.

The bombing party was over quickly; only the first ones to arrive at Moffatt and Campbell actually got to throw eggs at the Gaylords. By the time the rest of us got there, the Gaylords were gone. Papo, Flaco, and I began getting some money together to get a bag of weed. We were walking toward Tuley down Potomac Street when we heard about seven gunshots and a lot of screaming.

The Spanish Lords had shot one of the guys from La Familia. They mistook him for a Cobra. The guy was not in a gang. He was a friend of our family. That included all the members of La Familia. They all knew him. They knew that he and his friends were not gang members. Papo knew the guy who had been shot and felt really bad about the whole incident. He told me that he was planning to quit the Lords. Most of the guys in La Familia accused the Western Boys of knowing what was going to happen that night.

After 36 My Bloody Life that incident, everything in the neighborhood changed. The sports competitions between the Western Boys and La Familia ceased. The members of La Familia were rarely seen on Western anymore, and then only on their way to or from visiting someone. There was tension between the Spanish Lords and the Latin Disciples. The Lords usually hung out by Tuley School, but they were making themselves more visible on Western and Potomac. That was the last year that the Halloween egg fight took place.

Puerto Rican youths were dividing into rival factions. I was in eighth grade and ready to graduate. Three of the Western Boys and Papo were in my graduating class. We were looking forward to attending Clemente High School. Most of all we were ready to party on graduation night. On graduation eve Papo, Flaco, and I went party hopping.

We must have gone to about six or seven different parties. I got so drunk that I somehow got separated from the guys without realizing it. I wobbled back to the neighborhood and was told by the Lords that my mom had come around looking for me. I wobbled home. That night my mom beat the shit out of me, or so my sister told me. Supposedly my mother slapped me about twenty times and broke a broomstick over my back. I only wish I had some memory of that night.

On the other hand, there were rumors that I made a fool out of myself at several parties. With eighth grade graduation out of the way and high school in the near future, I was ready for the summer. The summer started out with a bang. Every year in June, Puerto Ricans celebrated their independence from Spain with a parade. The parade began in downtown Chicago and ended in Humboldt Park.

However, that year tragedy struck the celebration. Somehow a couple of Puerto Rican men got into a confrontation with the police. The real reason the confrontation started remains unclear, but it ended with police officers shooting and killing the two Puerto Ricans.

As the news of the incident spread, the independence celebrators became hostile. The result was a riot that lasted a week. They overturned and burned police cars. They destroyed and looted businesses all down Division. Only the mobilization of the Illinois National Guard put an end to the rioting. From then on there was this fear of the police in the community coupled with a desire to create confrontations with them.

The police were the enemy. I was very ignorant and indifferent about the whole situation. I watched on television as people went on a path of destruction in the name of all Puerto Ricans. Maybe I was too young to acknowledge or receive whatever message the riot was supposed to be sending. What did destroying our own neighborhood prove?

Pedro and my mom put the idea of moving back to Puerto Rico into action once again. My mom had two kids with him now, a boy and a girl. All four of them went to Puerto Rico for a week so my mom could check out the house Pedro had built over there. He occupied the third-floor apartment above us with his girlfriend Missy.

All of his junkie friends were at his place all the time. He had total control over these people, and he knew it. Hector would order a pizza and have a couple of junkies steal the other food from the car while the delivery person came up to the apartment. He once called the police and reported a robbery in a rear third-floor apartment of the building across the street 38 My Bloody Life from us.

He then had a junkie slash their tires while they were gone. The junkies did just about anything to keep Hector happy.

During the time my mom and Pedro were in Puerto Rico, it seemed like we lived alone. I found a way to stay out by climbing out the window at night. Between the building where we lived and the one next to it there was a two- or three-foot gap on the side where my bedroom was. I would put one foot on one building and one on the other, then ease my way down. The grip of the rubber on my gym shoes kept me from slipping and my hands kept me balanced.

I got back up the same way. It was quite an acrobatic feat to get in and out, but I mastered it. There was conversation about the Spanish Cobras being back. The Cobras had not forgotten their little disagreement with the Lords and they wanted revenge.

They began vandalizing up and down Western and at Clemente. They had added the word insane to their name; they were now called the Insane Spanish Cobras. They wrote Spanish Lord killers next to their name. They were definitely making their presence and their hostility toward the Spanish Lords known. The Spanish Lords began vandalizing in retaliation, writing anti-Cobra graffiti, and began mobilizing against them.

Papo told me that the Lords had gone into Cobra territory on several occasions and shot at their members. Little did he know that the worst was yet to come. On a hot Saturday night, I sneaked out at about We tried to get Flaco to do the same but he could only get out through his third-floor bedroom window, so he stayed behind.

Papo and I met up with one of the Lords who I had never met before. He introduced himself as Afro. He was tall and stocky with a giant afro. He had just gotten out of juvenile detention. He was the same age as Papo but much bigger. He already had a mustache and beard—facial hair we only dreamed of having. Afro knew the owner and could buy liquor there even though he was underage. We walked to the back porch of a house located on the east side of Western. They had snuck out of their house so that Lisa could see Afro.

It was being remodeled so it was empty and they had keys to get in. We pitched in money to get some Old Style beer and Richards wine so we could go up on the roof and get high. Snake had already announced that he had an ounce of weed. We gathered about sixteen dollars and gave it to Afro. Afro walked out the back door that led to the alley and headed for the liquor store.

We freaked out. Snake told us that Afro was probably shooting off the pistol he was carrying. Shit, no! It was Afro. He was shot three or four times in the head and face from point-blank range. He gave it to Papo and told him to get rid of it. I was in shock. Lisa and Jenny were crying and screaming hysterically and now so was Snake.

Tears were rolling down my face but it was caused more by fear than anything else. Papo pulled me with him as he took off with the gun. He told me to go home before the police came. We ran down the alley and into a gangway. I told Papo that there was no way I could go home at that moment.

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When I went in I found Lisa and Jenny there. I sat there quietly for about five or ten minutes until I saw the flashing lights of police cars. I went up on the roof to take a look at what was happening. The police had taken their sweet time, but now it seemed like every cop in the city had arrived on the scene. They were asking questions and looking around the surrounding area. A couple of detectives had Rican against a car and kept asking him who did it.

The detectives handcuffed him, put him in their car, and drove away. Afro was pronounced dead on the spot. They covered the body, picked him up, and threw him in the back of a paddy wagon like a sack of potatoes. And why did they take Rican away instead of letting him be with his dead brother? The reasons for the hate and fear that Puerto Rican youth had for the police were becoming more apparent to me. Jenny came up on the roof to join me. Lisa was too hysterical to come up. She just sat on the stairs crying and asking us to please leave her alone.

Jenny told me she would be attending Clemente High School that year. I expressed the hope of seeing her there. The cops cooled off their search and I decided to try to get home before the sun came up. I climbed up into my room and got into bed. After all that had happened that night, the only thing I could think of was seeing Jenny again.