FAILURE OF THE VICTIM SELECTION PROCESS
Four individuals tried to carjack a vehicle early Friday morning (Sept. 31) but got a big surprise. According to the LA Times, the attempt carjacking happened on the corner of Corbin and Vanowen, a quiet neighborhood way out there in the West SF Valley. Just FYI, this is CPA territory, a neighborhood that has a long, long history in the area but likes to lay low and stay out of politics.
When one of the carjackers pulled a gun on the guys inside the vehicle, one or more of the occupants fired back with their own straps. Turns out the men in the car were FBI agents doing a surveillance detail. The result was one dead carjacker and three in custody. Ooops! It's unknown at this time if the four car boosters are associated with the neighborhood or just some freelancers.
Here's a question for you LEOs out there to help fill in my trivia database. When something like this happens, does it automatically become a Federal beef or does local law enforcement take over? Both agencies obviously have jurisdiction so what's the procedure here? Just curious.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
246 comments:
«Oldest ‹Older 201 – 246 of 246Hey Wally!!! can you give us some new Shit??
Or how about you let me help you by posting new News, because i think you are a bit busy with your pipe or quien sabe con que.
Orale pues Wally
or quien sabe con que
possibly your ruca? we may have to rename wally el Sancho Claus for the holidays
By Michael Wayne Hunter
Each spring, I pack up my 1957 two-door Chevy and leave my home of Los Mochis on the sea of Cortez and drive seven hundred miles north to the United States border and then three hundred miles more to California's agricultural central valley. For the next eight months, I follow the harvest from farm to farm. Phone calls are too expensive, so I exchange letters with my wife, Rosario, and she sends me photos of my children so I can see how they're growing. It's a hard life, but a man, a family man, does whatever needs to be done to provide for his loved ones.
In late autumn, my work's finished for the year. Slamming the trunk, I pause before sliding behind the wheel to look one more time at the latest family photos and linger over Sandoval Flores, my baby son playing on the beach. Sandy was only the smallest bulge in Rosa's waist when I left her so many months ago.
Harshly grinding the starter, the forty-year old engine reluctantly comes to life in a cloud of blue smoke, and I turn south towards home blessed home.
I'm not one of those vatos locos who works hard and drinks harder. For sure I work hard, but I save my money for my family. But when I'm finally released from the fields for the year and start the hundreds of miles to my sweet Rosa, I'll break out a bottle and take some sips to while away the time. I do not get drunk--just get a nice buzz on--as I countdown the highway markers, each one taking me closer and closer to my family.
A few hundred miles down the road, I stopped to fill the gas tank with in Bakersfield. Pulling back into traffic, I hit head on with a mini van. Never caught a glimpse of anything coming at me; perhaps the crucifix hanging from my rearview mirror blocked my sight. It couldn't have been my drinking; I was not drunk, had a little buzz on is all.
Thrown clear from my Chevy onto the soft shoulder of the road, I tried to rescue the people trapped in the van, but the door jammed and the flames jumped so high.
People seemed to come out of nowhere to look at the accident and didn't try to help me free the door. All they did was pull out those mobile phones all the Anglos seem to carry, punch buttons, and talk while the woman and her two young daughters were consumed by fire.
My English isn't too good, but it seemed to me that the man standing close to me, talking on his phone was saying he'd need therapy to overcome the trauma of the ordeal. Not sure what he meant, the people in the van were dead, and I was the only other one involved in the accident. North Americans must know something because they're all so rich, but they certainly say the craziest things.
I was bruised and battered a bit but not really too hurt until the police arrived. They arrested me, took me to the station and used what they called flashlight therapy to enlighten me regarding staying out of the way of Bakersfield citizens. My head bonded with metal. I wasn't too surprised that the man swinging the flashlight the most, had "Fernandez" on his nametag. I've met too many Hispanics who believe if you're born north of the border, you're human. If not, you're what comes out of the south-end of a burro.
After the cops were weary of beating me, I was locked inside a holding tank. The sign stenciled on the wall clearly stated thirty-five maximum occupancy, but I stopped counting at ninety men. Crouching down in the corner next to the toilet, I didn't talk, didn't move, barely breathed, and hoped no one noticed me.
A trio of tattooed gangsters pulled a young Mexican, no more than a boy, really, to the back of the holding tank. They tossed him to the floor and held him down, accepting cigarettes from men craving but sex.
Trustees pushed a cart loaded with meat sandwiches, cartons of milk, and smuggled homemade wine to the bars. The gangsters took charge of the cart and sold everything for more cigarettes.
After the wine was sold and swigged, the line for sex grew longer and longer. Buttocks speckled with blood and semen, the boy's face was a mask of vomit; he simply looked like he was going to die or perhaps just wanted to die. I've seen sights in migrant worker camps but nothing like that boy!
Still weak from the accident and beating, I just stayed crouched in the corner all night long. When my name was called the next morning, I was famished and could barely straighten, my legs cramping from crouching . Stumbling out of Hell, I was chained and taken to court.
A court-appointed attorney used tourist Spanish to explain I'd killed nine year old Tiffany, eleven year old Ashley, and their mother, Mrs. Jensen of the Junior League and the Cottonwood Country Club.
After lunch at the country club, Mrs. Jensen had picked up her daughters at ballet class before colliding with my Chevy in a body-breaking impact, the kind that only happens when neither driver sees or attempts to avoid the other.
My attorney had already phoned the bartender at the country club, and he admitted to a pitcher of martinis served with Mrs. Jensen's lunch but added that she certainly wasn't drunk when she left. Drunk is common, vulgar, and Mrs. Jensen was certainly neither, but perhaps she just had a little buzz on.
The lawyer said I could roll the dice and go to trial with twelve citizens of Bakersfield and risk eleven years in prison multiplied by three for each dead body, or he could check with the District of Attorney's office and see if the prosecution was willing to Let's Make A Deal and show me something behind door-number-one. Slowly, I nodded agreement with my swollen and bruised head.
My lawyer was a kind man. He went to the judge and asked for a court order transferring me to the jail-ward of the county hospital for treatment.
Feeling a whole lot better, bandaged and after a night's sleep chained to a hospital bed, I was eating lunch when my attorney arrived and said the prosecutor didn't want to go into Mrs. Jensen's drinking and driving habits. I was offered four years in state prison; I'd be out in two years with good behavior.
My lawyer warned that my blood/alcohol level was twice legally drunk, that I'd be a Mexican migrant worker on trial for the deaths of a rich white woman and her two daughters, and I'd have to go back inside the jail and survive in that hellhole for months awaiting trial.
Reluctantly, I placed my signature on the plea bargain paperwork. Transported to court the next day, I appeared before a judge who barely looked at me and was sentenced to four years.
My attorney arranged for me to stay in the hospital until I boarded the gray goose a few days later. Chained to a seat in the California Department of Corrections bus, I was ticketed for Folsom State Prison near Sacramento, a hard, barred place where I could start marking off days 'til freedom.
Staring out the window for a while going north on Highway 99, the same road I'd driven south a few days before heading home to Rosa, I pulled paper from my county-issue jumpsuit and wrote my wife.
"...I'll stay out of trouble and the time will pass quickly. In two-years when I receive parole, I'll come to you and never leave you or return to this country ever again. My father will help you as much as he can. You need to write him in the Yucatan..."
Surviving for the next two years without money from me was going to be difficult, and I did my best to give Rosa guidance, but still I had much worry for my precious family.
Processed through the Reception Center, I walked the Folsom main line for five whole minutes before Antonio came at me.
"Como se llamo?"
"Miguel. Miguel Flores."
"What you claiming, Miguel?"
"Claiming?"
"Which clique? Surenos or Nortenos?"
"I'm a Mexican. Mayan Indian."
"Can't walk alone, Miguel. Surenos run Folsom, you should ride with us."
"Don't want no problems." Raising my hands, palms out, I fended him off. "Just want to do my time, get out, and go home to my family."
"On you. Don't say I didn't try to help my country cousin."
Antonio reported back to his Surenos lieutenant, and it took awhile, maybe thirty seconds or so, for the word to get out that I didn't have backup.
Spider pushed people out of the road as he came at me. The black man had at least eight inches on my five foot six inches and told me I needed a real weight driving hog of a man to look after me.
Trying/falling to squirm out of Spider's grasp on my shoulder, I lied and said that many men had approached me already with the same offer. I had to make up my mind which one I wanted and get back at all of them.
Spider said that was fine, take my time all the way 'til breakfast was cool, but if I hadn't hooked up with anyone by then, he was moving my ass inside his cell.
I went directly to Antonio for help. Antonio shrugged, said I'd been given a chance to clique, and now it was time for me to suck dick.
I sweated the night away. I thought about going to a guard, but like I said, my English is not good, and the Spanish speaking guards were from north of the border, and a free-swinging Fernandez was still fresh in my memory.
At the chow hall door the next morning, Antonio met me and thrust a Bible in my hands without saying a word and walked quickly away.
The Bible was puzzling. It was in English, so I couldn't read it and seemed oddly stiff like a block of wood. Opening the cover and curiously peeking inside, pages were razored, replaced by a four-inch shank. The steel was old, rusty except for the recently sharpened point and cutting edge. Antonio had spent the night repeatedly running the blade over his cell's cement floor.
Tucking the Bible in my belt, I took a tray and sat down to eat. After only a spoonful or two of eggs, I felt a hand on my shoulder as Spider slid into the next seat.
"All alone, honey," he breathed into my ear. "I's git at the Sarge, kick 'im a carton of Camels to move you right on into my house." Rotating my lips to Spider's ear, I sweetly told him, "Fuck you, maricon." Punching his midsection with the shank, I left the steel inside. Dropping the Bible, I picked up my tray and moved over a table to finish eating. As I was moving, Spider's head crashed down, clanging his tray away.
Attracted by the noise, a guard came running, blew his whistle over Spider fetal-curling on the floor.
"Hang in there, Spider." The guard knelt down. "Help's on the way."
Fingers closing on the blade buried in his stomach, Spider blindly turned towards the guard's voice and drove the steel into the guard's throat. By the time the med-techs made the scene, the badge was dead. When the guards were done with Spider, he was dead too.
With a whole chow hall full of witnesses, the Goon Squad's Problem wasn't finding someone to rat; it was choosing the most credible stories.
Ferandez's flashlights therapy was a light caress compared to what the California Department of Corrections introduced to my body. I was real grateful when they handed me over to the county for prosecution.
"You're through!" my latest court appointed counsel told me in more pigeon Spanish. "The prosecution's asking death penalty for the murder of the guard."
"Never touched the guard, never even saw the guard," I protested. "When the whistle blew, I got up and left the chow hall."
"Doesn't matter," my counsel assured. "It's transferred intent. Once you stabbed Spider, every single thing flowing from that illegal act is your responsibility."
"No."
"Yes, it's true. If Spider had lived, the District Attorney would be content to send only him to Death Row, but you're the only one left to charge; someone has to go to the execution chamber to satisfy the Folsom guards and their families in the community. They're all taxpayers; they'll all vote for the District Attorney in the next election."
"Stabbed Spider because he wanted to rape me."
"It's a defense, a good defense, for Spider's death but doesn't do much for you when it comes to Officer Bailey."
"This is loco!"
"Probably. But it's the law."
The jury gave me manslaughter for Spider, but for Officer Bailey, they found me guilty of first degree murder with premeditation and malice aforethought with the special circumstance of killing a peace officer in the performance of his official duties. A capital offense, I was sentenced to die.
On the gray goose again, this time on the bus all alone slowly motoring to San Quentin's Death Row, I started another letter to Rosa. After writing and rewriting the first paragraph a dozen times, finally I gave up and tore the paper into tiny squares and let them drift across the bus floor.
My first day on the East Block condemned men exercise yard, Sapo approached and asked what I claimed.
"SureÒos."
Sapo's my fifth-tier lieutenant, he got at Antonio in Folsom who co-signed my hit on Spider, a member of the blood clique, and clued the Death Row Surenos that I didn't rat the origin of the shank during my beating by the gooners.
After giving me the teardrop tattoo of a hitter, Sapo offered one hundred dollars for my prison account to set up my cell with a radio or whatever else.
THATS A A GOOD FICTIONS STORY,THE VATO THAT WROTE THIS ONE SHOULD BE A WRITER ITS BETTER THAN AMERICAN ME.
To Make them look Eme"?
EME IS NOT A LOOK,JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE PELON DOESNT MEANS YOU ARE A SURENO I THINK ITS STUPID,TRYIN TO DRESS LIKE A CHOLO SO PEOPLE CAN THINK YOU ARE HARD,YOU ARE A SUENO WHEN YOU PUT IN WORK IN JAIL,YOU ARE EME WHEN THEY TELL YOU ARE,ORANGE COUNTY HAS LOTS OF THOSE WANABES IN GARDEN GROVE,SANTA ANA STANTON ETC
YOU ARE NOT A SURENO AND SHOULD HAVE SUR OR 13 TATTOES TILL YOU GO DO WORK IN JAIL JUVENIAL HALL DOESNT COUNT I KNOW YOU ARE READING THIS WANABE SURENO AND ITS WORSE WHEN YOU ARE 27 AND VERY JOING A GANG.
DISPENSA THE LAST WORDS SHOULD BE BEARLY JOING A GANG AT 27 I AM SO FUCKING HIGH WITH WEED FUCK MY PAROLEE OFFICER
SIMON HOMIE THE CITIES OF SANTA ANA,GARDEN GROVE AND STANTON HAVE LOTS OF PAISA WANABES SURENOS THAT MAKE US LOOK BAD THEY SHOULD BE STOP AT ONCE THEY DRESS ALL PELON DOWN,BUT I DONT KNOW ABOUT A HOMIE THAT WANTS TO JOIN A GANG AT 27 HE MUST HAVE A FUCK UP LIFE TO DO THAT HE SHOULD BE SETTLE DOWN,I KNOW FOR ONE THING THAT IF HE HAS A 13 AND DOESNT HAVE PAPER WORK HE IS GOING TO DO MORE THAT SENDING WILAS TO GET HIS STRIPES THAT EVEN IF THEY GIVE HIM A CHANCE THATS TAXABLE I DONT KNOW WHO HE IS OR IF HE IS READING THIS BUT HE IS GOING TO BE PUT IN THE HAT FOR THAT MY ADVICE KICK BACK AND GET A LIFE.
That was one well-fuckin-written story ese...trust me. I know writing.
whats the morale of that story dont drink and drive or get an education or stay in mexico oh i claim surenos from the start because they CONTROL
whats the morale of that story dont drink and drive or get an education or stay in mexico oh i claim surenos from the start because they CONTROL
suburbanite,thanks for the info...i just used to visit mi abuela at oddfellows before we moved her.
Great fiction by Michael Wayne Hunter (Or, was it fiction???)
You have Wally giving the compassionate conservative angle on the street politics, Don Quixote giving the true tales from growing up in Los Angeles, Tijuana Jailer giving the viewpoint from a seasoned corrections officer, and now we have a hulluva fiction writer to round it off.
Lots of trolls have found their way here; But with people like the ones I mentioned above, the trolls just get shook off like fleas.
This blog's getting pretty good. The only thing missing is it's HOST!
you're welcome, Sancha
Yea where the hell is wally?
I don't know what the moral is, I posted it because I enjoyed reading it and thought I'd share that joy with you vatos. To vatos writing in caps, the word is spelled "barely." Im not trying clown, I just want to share some knowledge like you did. I agree with everything you said, buying some blue clothes don't make you a sureno, putting in work does.
I was talking to my homeboy who just got out of chad c.y.a. he was telling me about the jr eme they have in he was there til he turned 21 then caught some beef in there went back til he was 25 and got shipped off to new folsom this shit he was telling me was a trip he rode in the west LA car santa monica
I was talking to my homeboy who just got out of chad c.y.a. he was telling me about the jr eme they have in he was there til he turned 21 then caught some beef in there went back til he was 25 and got shipped off to new folsom this shit he was telling me was a trip he rode in the west LA car santa monica
tell me more
nothing much more just that the older vatos in there call themselfs the jr eme and some have primos and brothers and shit in the big joint and when they hit the mainline in the real joint they put in their work in their for their stripes, they do alot of superstitious stuff like at the table salt the salt 3 times no rap music only oldies and old school and country pressed clothes shined issued patos you kind of like a pinche boot camp for the penn
Hey Lonewolf, yes loco, I've been to your sito and see all the stoires you have. I've read them online and just want to let you know that you need to give credit where credit is due. You posts these stories and sign, "lonewolf" and vato, that shit is plaegerism. You need to write the credits. I've read all you stories and you pulled them off the net. Good stories but come on loco, post the author. Alrato
Some Traditions will remain always.
Youngsters catch on holmes;
"the salt 3 times no rap music, only oldies and old school and country pressed clothes shined issued patos"
Always "Look Good", respect the elders
and above all, respect your carnalgas.
SIMON RESPECT THE VETERANOS ALWAYS NO MATTHER WHO THEY ARE THEY OLD THAY HAVE SOME CONNECTIONS.
Some Traditions will remain always.
Youngsters catch on holmes;
"the salt 3 times no rap music, only oldies and old school and country pressed clothes shined issued patos"
these aren't traditions, they're mind games used to keep the troops in line, the list goes on and on: eat with your left hand for north, south use right, don't eat anything thats been touched by another race, north wear pants below the ombligo, south above, throw a spread every 14th or 13th dpending on teams etc etc.
bunch of bullshit, only the weaker homies in the clickas follow these rules all the time, the stronger vatos let their actions dictate who they are, not following silly rules for behavior.
anyways, does the M sponsor the Jr. EME at Chad? Will a vato get checked by the M for claiming to be such a thing? Inquiring minds want to know.
(these aren't traditions, they're mind games used to keep the troops in line, the list goes on and on)
We have our manner of calling a spade a spade, Inquiring Mind, but the life of a Chicano cholo wannabe gangster has it's own rules as they climb their way up the "criminal corporate ladder".
It begins with the free will of every individual. We can blame it on dysfunctional families but I have to ask: How many police officers and doctors from the barrio will tell you that they too came from a "dysfunctional" household? Answer: Too many!
So I don't think it's good to "blame" the family unit alone although it does in fact contribute.
Whatever the case, these "wayward children" then decide to seek an "extended family" in their 'hood. Joining a street gang - in the beginning - isn't all bad.
But when you start doing time in Juvenile Hall, county camp facilities and the CYA, then your "career" is launched!
The process of being "state raised" indeed requires conforming to the "movidas" (the rules) of, first the street; then, upon entering the incarcerated world, the rules of the jail house.
To you and I, Inquiring Mind, it is recognized as a mind game in which the conwise manipulate the more gullible and the strong prevail over the weaker. Better put, their will prevails over the weaker members.
This is how prison gangs work. They "use" the weaker members and the weaker ones call it: "putting in work". Many later do in fact climb this corporate ladder (very few) and make it to the "Big Time" and are made carnales. This only can take place after "many notches" are acquired (as "Boxer" Enriquez says).
Why does the EME actual membership only number in the hundreds? Because their real made dudes are recruited as sparingly as possible.
As a recent writer puts it: "it is the special forces" of the Chicano gang underworld.
But the rules have been there (in varying combinations) for decades and occasionally a strong willed gangster would deviate from this course without repercussions.
Today, I believe there is more internal scrutiny as the gangs demand obedience from their "underlings". Everybody seems to take this "bullshit" a lot more seriously than before.
I too would appreciate an answer from someone to Inquiring Mind's question:
"does the M sponsor the Jr. EME at Chad? Will a vato get checked by the M for claiming to be such a thing? Inquiring minds want to know."
Peace ........
Tijuana Jailer
^^^Movidas = Rules?
Reglas = Rules...
Movidas = Moves =o)...
Not saying you're wrong in the text you put it in, just clarifying!
(^^^Movidas = Rules?
Reglas = Rules...
Movidas = Moves =o)...
Not saying you're wrong in the text you put it in, just clarifying!)
Let me take you for a cruise; no, let me take you to any of the 'hoods in L.A. and we can be a "fly on the wall".
Literal Spanish is rarely practiced in the barrios (I'm sure you've noticed that). Anglicized Spanish or Hispanicized English also known as SPANGLISH is the norm. Some call it Calo.
When a vato in Preston tells a new arrival: "The movidas at Prestone are such and such ..... ", he's talking about the "rules" of the Chicano cliqua at Prestone. He ain't talking about no dance "moves" (smile).
But I getcha, guy. You are on the literal translation kick and I'm with you. But, for the purpose of what I'm conveying, bear with me as my Spanglish kicks in.
I asked a few older vatos why reglas isn't used and one answered, "movidas" sounds better; the other said "reglas" was too proper! Whatever!!
I think the definition of Calo should be: "the correct use of Spanish is too proper"!!
Ay te Watcho !
Calo = See you later,
(alligator).
Literal = There I see you?
(DUH)
from what the homeboy outta chad said was he had to have contact with or through a third person so they know he is gonna hit the big joint sort of like a sponsor but he would have to put in work to show his loyalty and seriousness of course but you know these guys stay soldgers for years you know no one gets promoted that much seldom do you see guys with high ranks
^^^LOL, homie, no disrespect... I just thought your run on sentence was funny. Your sentence/paragraph is like a street with no road signs or traffic lights! Try incorporating some punctuation. I like using these dots... I know it's not proper, but I think it's a good little marker to show folks when to stop... sabes?
"Your sentence/paragraph is like a street with no road signs or traffic lights!"
That's the beauty of the Internet. No traffic lights, no stop signs .... let your thoughts flowwwwwww and we'll see where we goooooo!
We must be bored when we are "compelled" to correct one's grammar/spelling/punctuation on the pinchi intra-net. We'll just blame this one on pinchi Wally for his pinchi gap between pinchi posts.
Peter Piper picked a pack of pinchi posts !!!!!
Now, say this fassssst!! I think it's easier than Peter Piper picked a pack of pickled peppers.
Wally, post something!
This blog has deteoriated into a proper grammar blog!
First spanglish definitions and now punctuations.
This don't seem to be too good.
Ay dios mio... ;o)
sorry homie i didnt know there was gonna be a pop quiz
run on sentence? what the fuck? what an idot, this is not school
who the f___ are these people!?
TCB ese's, pick up a pinche broom and do something...im outta here
You guys think this homie has problems writing? (no disrespect to you ese) Let me give you an example of what the new pee wees are writing now days:
"Popey toked a lilo bit n called Takos up just hung out n chill. Den gubewt @ his krib & toked sum mo. I won 50 bucks frum SAeWay by scratchin dem 1 dolla thangz. Went to werk n BABYgurl scooped meh with Hector ina wite Honda"
This excerpt is taken from a 16 1/2 year old who is writing about a day in his life.
Now I ask you? what the fuck is our little raza learning now days?
(How many police officers and doctors from the barrio will tell you that they too came from a "dysfunctional" household? Answer: Too many!)
No disrespect to T.J. maybe I took this sentence wrong but, I get tired of hearing teachers, cops and other people doing well for themselves talk about how they grew up "living"in a bad neighborhood and they were able to make it. I just had a conversation about that today. It is one thing to live in a bad neighborhood but, to be actually being in the mix in your neighborhhod, "representing and doing your thing" is totally different. I know people who grew up all their life in my city and never would hang out in the streets, They just saw things from the outside looking in. Alot of them had strong family influences and went out of town for school. They don't know about getting shotguns put to your face at 14 or watching guys OD. They probably never been photographed by the cops every year since they were 12, or even being hassled by the cops for that matter. I bet none of their righteous friends were even killed(and not by accident)or any of their road dawgs getting life. All that shit distorts someones outlook on life. You start justifying bad things and think it is just part of growing up, that that's what everyone goes through. So Fuck all them because most of them were sheltered while they lived in the varrio. They will never know what time it is espescially by reading this blog.
"Youngster with Game"
You are both right, and the examples that both of you gave are correct. There are way too many variables for there to be an exact answer. There are always exceptions on both sides. The truth is that if you grow up in a fucked up area, with a family that doesn't care, then you have a higher probability of ending up fucked up. On the other hand, if you grow up in a nice area, with strict parents, then you will have a lower probability of ending up dead or in prison. So TJ, if the area that a person grows up in has nothing to do with whether or not they become a righteous, tax paying citizen, then why is there a disproportionate amount of people from poor neighborhoods in prison? Were they born bad?
(I get tired of hearing teachers, cops and other people doing well for themselves talk about how they grew up "living"in a bad neighborhood)
(So TJ, if the area that a person grows up in has nothing to do with whether or not they become a righteous, tax paying citizen, then why is there a disproportionate amount of people from poor neighborhoods in prison? Were they born bad?)
Choices. Almost to a man, the old timers I've met with admit they made poor choices as they grew up.
Playing the "victim" card does not seem to be popular in the Chicano community.
Let's just say that "others" are better at crying victim than La Raza. The real men own up to their mistakes, correct themselves and dedicate the rest of their lives to teaching the little ones to NOT do the same as they.
Do we begrudge those who "made it" out of the barrio and write them off as "cowards who never tasted battle" or do we congratulate them for "surviving" the negative forces that could have brought them down? Do we applaud them for not making the choices that others made?
I'm not necessarily looking to condemn those who went the wrong way because, as "Mundo" says in his book, "no one is born a criminal". But, in understanding right from wrong, we can't condone the evil that men do in the name of victimization.
Having empathy for the plight of a "wayward child gone astray" is one thing; understanding the conditions that contributed to their plight is another; but justifying criminal behavior by suggesting that society did this to them isn't right either.
I can't see myself (or any bad guy turned good) setting my grandchild on my knee and explaining to them that "we" are to blame for all the idiots on the evening news doing drive-by's.
I think I am more proud of an ex-cholo who tells it like it is with NO excuses.
Peace ........
Tijuana Jailer
Yea!, it's good to hear some rational intelligent discussion, and if I may put in my two cents I would like to say that I feel "Tijuas" and "Youngster With Game" both have valid points. Tijuas is correct in stating that the Chicano culture I grew up in never made excuses for the situation they found themselves in. You might hear something like"I really fucked up my life!, or as I've heard on more than one occasion "I"ll do my time,and next week one of my homeboys will probably be living with my ruca and wearing my underwear,but that's the life I chose, shit the first time I was torcido I lost a really beautiful wife and a son or daughter that has really done well without me!" A fucking sad commentary but the truth. But "Youngster with Game" also has a good point when stating that only if your in the life can one really get a good understanding, and able to comment effectively on what "Mundo" correctly refers to as "a completely abnormal social value system was established".
And if I may, "Tijuanero" and another blogger were discussing the difference between "reglas", and "movidas", and an example was given, A Torcido telling a newly arrived camarada in Prestone or any other institution the "Movidas'. The sad truth is that by the time a vato hits an institution after 14 or 15 years old he already knows the movidas, or at least he better know."Reglas" are simply rules,"movidas" are a guide for living, a mind set, or as Mundo describes above. An ananolgy I might use as a former "Altar Boy" myself would be violation of "reglas" = venial sin, Violation of "movidas" = mortal sin.
DOMINOS VOBISCUM
Victims of Circumstances;
Angels with horns;
Abused and Confused;
Creatures of Choice;
Gansters from Birth;
Children of Neglect;
Licensed to Kill;
Sons of Perdition;
Good Boys turned Bad;
Deprived and Denied;
or, simply put .....
Hijos de la Chingada!
Once they reach the age of accountability, all the adjectives
are mere words to play with.
Traditions, held for generations do not yield to fools. Sur has no love for disrespect. Last friday, Riverside sheriffs transporting us to Medrec RIVERSIDE to drop off some homies that suffered injuries in Moreno Valley, and one SUR was bloated, in pain and I asked him holmes what happened?
He replied: "A little of everything"
and he was fucked up hardkore. Only that some disrespected sur/NLR
So, you have it. wanted it. u got.
WAR.
Woobidy woobidy woa. You stupid moron mo. You are whining just like black bitches. Stop pointing fingers like bitch ass snitches and own up to the fact that in this country you have the right to be a wealthy business owner, a life saving firefighter/law enforcer, a life changing missionary or you may be a dirt bag, leach of filth who preys upon the real heroes of society; the guy who works his ass off to provide a better life for his family while still promoting values that if you help a stranger in need, you are as important to this country as the president himself. If you have ever stolen from a hard working person, or physically injured a person you did not even know for your personal gain/rep, don't blame the MAN for any problem in this world. Just look into the mirror for if you want to see the real reason for the decedance.
Youngster and Tj are both right because they see if from opposite sides of the fence.
I grew up in the varrio, was in the mix for a while, grew up got a job and start living the life of a normal tax paying citizen. Yes, I had been on the gang file since 7th grade. I used to get pulled over walking down the street get my picture taken, inspected for tattoos, check for warrants then sent on my merry way if I was clean. Hell, that was normal life to me, white people in the burbs would be shocked by this when I told them this happened to me througout my teenage years.
I don't agree with people blaming the outcome of thier lives on what happended to them as youths or their surroundings.
I agree, its all about the decisions you make. Every juvenile arrest I had (4) was for some stupid ass shit. I was put in situations I never should been put in to begin with.
Now if a doctor or teacher says I made it out of the Varrio and became successful, I don't necessarily think they meant to say the were putting in dirty work then decided to stop and go to college. It safe to say, they avoided all the trappings of the varrio or inner city, and made the decisions not too get high, not too join a gang but to go to school and get a job.
So does that make them any less since they didn't put in work? Sometimes just surviving in the varrio as a "Civilian" is a tough job in itself because of all the bullshit that goes on around you. Its tough not to get caugh up in the mix as some many kids nowadays do. Peer Presure is a bitch and now there is so much more it than when we were growing up.
((((((Violation of "movidas" = mortal sin))))))
mortal sin = levas = Green Lighter
((((((Violation of "movidas" = mortal sin))))))
mortal sin = levas = Green Lighter
what are you? 14 years old?
Hey Homies Q-voles!I wanted to say shit is crazy out here in ELA and that whatever happens with whoever! us MEXICANOS SURIANOS SHOULD STICK TOGETHER!!!Stop putting each other down and help one another like the fukn jews those cagados own Hollywood why?those vatos are not killing there own kind ESE....we should set the example!and behave the way we do in the county out here on the calles!!just a bit of advice if this comes to happen we will be unstopable!!!!!porque fuimos,somos, y seremos #1 this is GALLO,EastL.A
Alright homies, I’ve been tappin lil homies around my neighborhood upside the head a lot lately for this MySpace shit all the kids are hittin up these days, so these lil vatos thought they would be slick ese. They came at me with this site talking about how us 15/7 do it to. So you know I got to chech it out before I tell them just how stuoid they really are homies. I got to tell all of you, I am kind of trippin. It’s like that phone line shit the lil homegirls used to love doing back in the early ninties. Its that cycle thing
again.
But now I want to tuch on some really important history. I just came back down from a nice little vacation at OCJ main. That really is a joke for a homie who has spent his entire life bouncing with his homies from ELOS SELOS and Harbor Area. Out of respect I will not name anyone here but listen to what I am saying and realize some of you young homies need to know the reasons behind the shit or just get out of the way. Someone brought up Chavez (you all better know who he is or go back to kindergarden) and the point in history (60’s – 70’s) when racial identy first started hitting the minority minds of America. Before this it really was either white or not. Its true that at that time all minorities where standing on the same side of the fence and fighting the same basic battle, but what you all forget is that it was the Islanders that where side by side with the Chicanos in the fields, on the yard, en la calles, and in the protests. Think back and realize many of these island nations share the same history as Mexico. They where Spanish colonies, there people raped by the Spanish and the industrial America, Their immigration in America started as field labor, and they’re all about familia and God. Does this shit sound familiar vatos? Back in the day you where from your neighborhood. These territories where not nearly as racially divided as they are today and Chicano gangs clicked with or beefed with the next neighborhood over even if that means that 18th
Was down with Hoover. The crips where the first to have city wide affiliations based on race. The bloods formed shortly after. It wasent until a few years later that the homies started talking about Raza. Eme didn’t start this shit but they did a lot to remind everyone how serious the need was for us to unite on some level. Want I am trying to figure out is why lil homies on both sides of the fence between Sur and Islanders are trippin on each other these days? I’ve got lots of homis from Marca de Demonio, Sarzana, Santanas, TOS, and TBS. These are good Vatos. And then I’ve got some lil vato in my ear talking about how its wrong for me to sit with these homies when I was up at the north pole. Lil isle homies and lil chicano homies need to realize we have had each others back for 100 years now. Both sides of the coin got lil vatos runnin around actin like mayates. What makes the mayates so bad is they have no sense of honor. For them its always about the quick fix or come up. For us its supposed to be family, neighborhood, and honor for life homes, not that chump change you got last night and spent today. Tonight I am going to crack some heads. My lil homies haven’t been learing the lessons a lot of homies need a reminder ese.
Post a Comment