Once a King, Always a King
Once a King, Always a King
The Unmaking of a Latin King
Reymundo Sanchez
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sanchez, Reymundo
Once a King, always a King: the unmaking of a Latin King /
Reymundo Sanchez.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Sequel to: My bloody life.
ISBN 1-55652-505-2
1. Sanchez, Reymundo, 1963- 2. Puerto Ricans—Illinois—Chicago—Biography. 3. Gang members—Illinois—Chicago—Biography. 4. Violence—Illinois—Chicago. 5. Chicago (Ill.)—Social conditions. 6. Chicago (Ill.)—Biography.
I. Title.
F548.9.P85O53 2003
977.3′11004687295′0092—dc21
2003004921
The author will respond to questions e-mailed to him at
[email protected].
Cover art: Frances Jetter
Cover design: Joan Sommers Design
Interior design: Rattray Design
©2003 Reymundo Sanchez
All rights reserved
First edition
Published by Chicago Review Press, Incorporated
814 North Franklin Street
Chicago, Illinois 60610
ISBN 1-55652-505-2
eBook ISBN: 1-55652-740-3
Printed in the United States of America
5 4 3 2 1
To M.G.
You saved my life, girl. I’m so sorry it had to be you.
Contents
Introduction
1
Once a King, Always a King
2
Career Change
3
Josie’s Way
4
Fear
5
Cocaine Again
6
The First Blessing
7
Doing Time
8
Almost Free
9
Work Release
10
New Beginning
11
A Different Kind of Girl
12
There Is Such a Thing as Friendship
13
Lovers
14
A New Plan
15
Welcome to Dallas
16
Is This Love?
17
Maybe We Can Try Again
18
Release of Pain
19
Changes
20
Here and Now
For Those at Risk
Introduction
IN MY BLOODY LIFE: The Making of a Latin King, I wrote about the street gang lifestyle and the circumstances that lead many young people to choose this lifestyle as a way to feel they have a family to belong to. In Once a King, Always a King, I go into how hard it is to escape gang life, and I describe the lasting damage of physical, mental, and sexual abuse. In My Bloody Life, I took my experiences and added parts of the experiences of those around me to create a composite character that showed what it’s really like to be in a gang. Most of the mental, physical, and sexual abuse, however, was actually mine. In this book, I stopped using the composite character and began to write completely about myself. As in My Bloody Life, I changed the actual names and many places to protect my identity, and in this book, the order of events is accurate. I altered the situations only enough to protect my identity.
Many years of hanging out in the streets with others who secretly searched for the same love and attention I did bonded me in many ways to the gang lifestyle forever. That being said, I must clarify that this bond is based on knowing that many kids continue to suffer the way I did at the hands of those who say they care. My feelings do not contradict in any way my belief that being in a gang means wasting your life. I am well aware of the damage that gangs can do to those who try to escape the lifestyle. I know that it is a fact that gang leaders would be criminals even if gangs didn’t exist. This is the reason why I keep my identity concealed.
I created a Web site for My Bloody Life that attempts to educate visitors about the telltale signs of gangs in a neighborhood, and how to know if a child is a member of a gang or being recruited by a gang. Via that Web site, I have received several e-mails from Latin Kings questioning my brotherhood and in no uncertain terms laying down the law of the Kings. Although my life was not literally threatened, the message was loud and clear. Had I used my real name, the retaliation I feared would certainly have happened. On the other hand, a few Latin King brothers have written to express their support without asking for details that would compromise my identity. I also received a message from a young brother who asked me if I had known his father. I did. His father is doing time in jail for a long time, and his son, although he speaks positively about his future, is a member of the Latin Kings. I hope he gets out of the gang before it’s too late.
When I began to recognize the true evil behind the so-called brotherhood in gangs, I tried to get myself away from them. That task turned out to be harder than I could ever have imagined, and I unexpectedly ended up right back where I started, even though I knew it was wrong, because it was familiar and comfortable. Although the need to behave violently was no longer a part of me, I still felt scared to be alone. I’m certain that a great percentage of those who become gang members feel the same way. But there are also many people out there who will never grow up and understand that there are other things in life than dying for meaningless colors. There will always be bitterness where much blood has been spilled in the name of gang affiliation. Those who are stuck will always look for ways to keep others down there with them—this guarantees they will never be lonely.
The violence taught at home underlies the violence that is committed in the street. It creates an atmosphere where there is always something to prove, whether or not there is a logical reason. It may be easier for gang members to deal with the anger and hatred that lives inside by remaining in a place where there is never a lack of opportunity to express those feelings.
Mainly, I ignored those feelings because I didn’t understand them. When I began to recognize the anger and hatred within myself, I tried to deal with these feelings in a sane manner, but it actually took two years of incarceration (which I still think was a blessing from God) to open my eyes to what being a man really means.
The complete transformation into the man I am today was not easy. The turmoil inside of me ached, but I chose to escape no longer with drugs and alcohol. What I did find was the love and understanding of a young lady—another blessing from God. Marilyn Garcia is the name I use for her in this book.
Marilyn came into my life and planted seeds of respect—for myself and others—education, and communication, and she opened up my soul so that all the harbored pain could escape. Neither Marilyn nor I, unfortunately, ever imagined how much evil would come out of me. When all my anger and hatred came raging out, Marilyn bore the brunt of it.
When it was all over, Marilyn was no longer in my life. She probably regrets the moment she ever learned of my existence. I wish I could have gotten rid of my demons in a controlled environment under professional care, but that wasn’t the case. I dedicate this book to Marilyn. I hope she will read it and understand that I had no control over what happened between us. It makes me sad that I became a better person and now live a relatively happy life because I unleashed all that rage and anger upon her.
I hope and pray that other people who secretly live in pain because of sexual, mental, and physical abuse get professiona
l help before they turn around and cause the same kind of lifelong pain and suffering on someone they love, who loves them.
Once a King, Always a King
1 Once a King, Always a King
IT WAS PROPHETIC that, on the day I freed myself from being a menace to the Latino community in Chicago by leaving the Latin King nation, I would walk away drenched in the blood of an innocent person.
To leave the Latin King nation I endured a brutal three-minute beating called a violation. This alone should have made me want to get as far away as I could and not turn back, but I was unknowingly still shackled to the lifestyle and to the Latin Kings. A hatred for those who called themselves King killers still burned within me. Even knowing that the main source of danger to the Latin Kings was the Kings themselves, the only evidence I looked at to fuel that fire was the event that had occurred just moments ago.
After my violation I was walking through the park on my way toward the bus stop. I didn’t have to take this route, but I wanted to see how it felt to walk through the park in the Humboldt Park neighborhood with the knowledge that I was no longer a Latin King. I saw my old friend and ex-lover Loca, with her kids in tow, dealing cocaine. Also present was King Spanky, who, in a wheelchair after being shot by the Latin Kings, was dealing cocaine for the Nation. Spanky called out “once a King, always a King” as I walked past. Seconds later, shots rang out. I couldn’t tell which direction they were coming from or headed. The drive-by shooter hit one of Loca’s two kids. I ran to him and cradled him in my arms, but he was already dead. The cops arrived and questioned me. Then I headed for the bus.
I sat on the bus and stared out the window at Humboldt Park. The place I once thought was heaven had become a hell for many who lived in its surroundings. My clothes were drenched in blood, yet nobody seemed to notice. I cried rivers of tears, but nobody cared. Not one person on that bus looked my way, sympathetically or otherwise. No one bothered to ask about the blood on my clothes, but I did hear comments on how I should just shut up and stop crying already.
The loss of an innocent life had become too common an occurrence for anyone to react emotionally unless they were somehow tied to the victim. The death of a young Latino was seen as one less criminal to worry about instead of a horrifying reality. From my viewpoint there was nothing I could say about that careless attitude because I felt the same way.
As the bus passed by an area where Cobras and Disciples, rival gangs of the Latin Kings, hung out, I began to feel nervous and afraid. It was then that I understood what Spanky meant when he said “once a King, always a King,” as I was walking away from the park. But I was determined to make my life different, to grow outside of the ’hood.
I was leaving a life filled with violence at home and on the streets. I had endured rapes, abandonment, being shot, and beatings that left me gasping for my own life. I had witnessed and/or been a part of more criminal activities in my still-short life than most people hear or read about in a lifetime.
From the time I had moved to Chicago at the age of five, the life I knew consisted of survival in gang-infested neighborhoods. The only example of life I had seen that didn’t include drug use, violence, and extreme child abuse was from television. As far as I knew, everyone wore certain color clothing to represent one gang or another. I was certain that everyone used drugs.
These experiences and memories had made me the person I was. But as much as these experiences had scared me, they also forced me to try hard to survive in a peaceful world. I was trying to integrate myself into a world of hard workers, students, and peaches and cream. So much in my life had begun to change that I accepted the invitation of a gay coworker and friend to be his roommate. For a person who grew up in a gang-centered family, this was the ultimate sin. It was hard for me to accept this invitation, but as I’d made many decisions before, I accepted it as a matter of survival. I did wonder what others would think about me and the possibility that my friend might eventually want more than just friendship, but I decided to cross that bridge when I came to it. I took this as an opportunity to have shelter away from the ’hood.
My friend’s name was Phillip. He was a white boy slightly taller than I was, with dirty blond hair and blue eyes. Phillip had been disowned by his middle-class parents because of his sexuality, and had only recently been accepted back into their lives and home. Phillip was a college graduate who was openly gay. He kept to himself and had obvious feminine traits. He was a sharp dresser and had a tendency to be flamboyant.
Even with the mixed feelings I had, I continued to live with Phillip. I felt comfortable with him. Living there offered me a chance to stay out of trouble as those who lived nearby assumed I was gay, too. I continued to grow into a hardworking member of society, working as a data entry clerk at the University of Chicago while attending classes. Suddenly everyone in my circle of friends was a coworker or university student. I was slowly but surely making myself a distant memory to those involved in gangs. I still, however, had nightmares, which were so horrible and vivid that I became afraid to fall asleep. All the bloodshed I had witnessed or caused awaited me every night for days and sometimes weeks at a time. I began having moments of terror during the day, too. I would drift away into a daydream and see the bloody souls of my past and begin to sweat, shake, or both. At these times many people asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t answer. I didn’t think anyone in my new circle would understand if they found out that I was having flashbacks of bullets entering and exiting bodies.
Phillip became a constant comfort when I awoke screaming in the middle of the night. He’d come from his room to my bedside and shake me gently until I awoke if I hadn’t already. Often Phillip would bring me a glass of water. He was always compassionate about my ordeal and never seemed bothered that I woke him in the middle of the night. I’d share the details of my nightmares and he’d listen, which would allow me to fall asleep peacefully, at least momentarily.
I knew he was gay and I also knew that he was very aware of my heterosexuality. The respect that we had for each other’s way of life allowed us to function well in spite of social taboos. Eventually, however, he started to interpret the emotions created by my nightmares as weakness, as an indication of desire for him. He crossed the line. One night as Phillip held me to comfort me and assure me that everything would be OK, he attempted to kiss me. When I rejected him, he left the room angrily. The next day he told me that we would no longer be able to be roommates. I could have tried to talk it out—a move that could have saved our friendship—but my manhood seemed more important to me at that moment. Instead of trying to talk about the misunderstanding, I told him that I would kill him if I ever saw him again. I was on my way to being homeless yet again. With nowhere else to go, I returned to Humboldt Park.
There’s something about that park, that neighborhood, that tugged on me and never completely let me get away—something there that made those I tried to get away from, those I needed to get away from, the only ones I felt I could could really count on. I showed up at Humboldt Park on a Wednesday afternoon five months after Loca’s son was killed. There I found Spanky, still selling cocaine as if the tragedy had never taken place.
Spanky had become one of the main dealers in the area. He no longer made the exchanges of drugs for money with customers himself; many others did that for him. He couldn’t, however, get over his desire to be present in the middle of Humboldt Park’s gang society. It was by all accounts one of the hardest habits to break. Thirteen- and fourteen-year-old kids who lived on the streets were among Spanky’s dealers. I looked at them and saw another lost generation of kids just like me. I didn’t agree with him using the kids in this way, but I learned to live with it. Spanky offered me a new place to live. Speaking up against his juvenile workforce would certainly ruin that.
I moved into the basement apartment of Spanky’s house that weekend. The house was located on the corner of Cortez Street and Kedzie Avenue, across from the westernmost edge of Humboldt Park. In essenc
e, I was back home.
I CONTINUED TO work at the university, but I started to shy away from the friends I had made there. I lived in constant fear of anyone I met at the university finding out about my past and, even worse, about my present. Eventually, I thought, someone would offer me a ride home or want to come by and visit. I didn’t want to risk my new friends being robbed or shot because of their friendship with me. I don’t know what they thought about me once I began to distance myself, but it was obvious that they got the message.
LIVING AT SPANKY’S made old problems resurface. Every so often, rival gangs of the Latin Kings would chase me as I got off the bus at North Avenue and Kedzie. I hadn’t been away from the ’hood very long, and I was still recognized. Of course, the Kings would come out of the park and out of the side street along Kedzie Avenue and retaliate by throwing bricks, bottles, and any other objects they could get their hands on. And there would always be someone with a gun.
Although I was no longer officially a Latin King, and I was no longer called Lil Loco (my old nickname), I was still targeted by the Cobras, Disciples, and Gangsters. Once a King, always a King.
The feeling of sanctuary that going to work had once offered me started to disappear. On several occasions, carloads of Cobras would wait at the exit of the Damen and North Avenue station, knowing I would be getting off the train there. I again began to fear leaving the area where the Latin Kings protected me. I felt safest when secluded in the eight or so square blocks that made up the Humboldt Park section of the Latin Kings’ territory. Four months after I moved into Spanky’s basement, I quit my job at the University of Chicago and once again became a regular in Humboldt Park gang society. Becoming an elite member, however, was not so easy the second time around.
My integration back into the ’hood happened practically overnight. I hated it there, but at least I felt equal to everyone around me. My past was known, my intentions—good or bad—expected and accepted. It was the one place in the world where I didn’t feel inferior due to my limited vocabulary and education. Gang society required absolute ignorance, a violent nature, and ruthlessness. I was known to have all of these qualities.
Once a King, Always a King: The Unmaking of a Latin King Page 1
