by Ice-T
I never thought I’d live to see us chill
Crips and Bloods holdin’ hands—the shit is ill
But I love it, I can’t help it
Too much death on the streets, and we dealt it
Van Ness Boys, The Hoovers, The 60s
Bounty Hunters, Eight-Treys, all coolin’ out, G
I pray the shit’ll never stop
You used to see the wrong colors, and the gats went pop-pop
But now the kids got a chance to live
And the O.G.s got something to give
That’s love, black-on-black, that’s how they made it
And if any busters flip, they get faded
L.A. is where I’m speakin’ of
Peace to all the gangsters, cause I gotta lotta love
A lot of other rappers were uncomfortable having their faces so closely associated with the gangs. But everyone knows my get-down; I honestly have no fear. Of course, I’m afraid of disease and shit like that, but I’m not afraid of confrontations with people. My attitude going into neighborhoods that were foreign to me—the Imperial Courts and Bounty Hunters turf—was: Okay, I know you’re legit tough guys. But what are you gonna do? You gonna rob me? Here’s my watch. You gonna kill me? For what? Did I do something to you? You gonna kill me just because you’re jealous? See, if I didn’t give you any reason to kill me, then why should I have fear?
It only takes six ounces of pressure. Any thirteen-year-old can kill you.
If I’m out there doing dirt, if I’m committing crimes, if I’m crossing other individuals, then maybe I have reason to live in fear. But I’m not doing that anymore. And I haven’t lived like that in years.
So I told my man Malik: “Fuck it, let’s do this. Let’s go to the ’hood.”
I was at as many meetings as I could be. Snoop Dogg got down with us, too, and as the peace treaty started to grow, me and Snoop became an integral part of—at least the public face of—the truce in L.A.
The high-water mark was this one massive gang summit at the Best Western on Century Boulevard. That meet was unprecedented: Gang representatives from all ’hoods were there. All the biggest shot callers, all the baddest Bloods and Crips—the ones not behind bars—who controlled the projects and streets. When it came my time to speak, I got up in front and told them that the answers were economic—we could police our own neighborhoods, but we needed help to create jobs and opportunities for the kids before they were already initiated into the gang life.
“Dig, ain’t no way you gonna win a gang war,” I said. “Y’all are gonna end up dead or in the penitentiary for life. Why we doing it then if there ain’t never gonna be a winner?”
FAST-FORWARD. The truce is dead. Seventeen long years have passed. Gang warfare rules the streets again. Murder and retaliation every-fucking-day. The gang violence in L.A. is more entrenched than ever before.
If you’re an outsider, you have to look at L.A. like it’s a checkerboard. Take the aerial view: Every single one of those squares has its own different gang war going on within it. Not Crips–Bloods. These wars are way more specific: It’s the 40s against the 40 Avalons. It’s the Mans-fields vs. the Playboy Gangsters. These are all Crips sets. The bloodshed happens within about eight square blocks.
Bloods fight each other, too. It’s just whoever your closest neighbor is and who the fuck you’ve got a problem with. Then you got thousands and thousands of Mexican gangsters and they go to war with each other constantly.
I had done some work with the TV series Gangland, which airs on the History Channel and tries to give insight into America’s gangs—black, white, Asian, and Latino. In fact, I’m the voiceover that comes on right at the start. No disrespect to Gangland but I feel like it tends to glamorize the violence. It gives the ’bangers the chance to yell and posture. At the end the gangster is usually saying, “Don’t do what I did” or “Damn, I threw the best years of my life away for nothing.” But for me, it doesn’t really humanize the gang member.
Sitting around the crib, I had one of my brainstorms: “Let’s do a show where we go in and try to catch the warring gang factions and get them to sit down together. I’ve even got the perfect title. We’ll call it The Peacemaker.”
Everyone thought I was nuts.
“Ice, how could you do this? They’re at war!”
“Dig,” I said, “My man Malik, this is what he does. This is his specialty. He’s a ‘gang interventionist.’ ”
We pitched the concept to Asylum Entertainment and they liked it. Gave us a little budget. Before you knew it we were out in the streets filming the first episodes of The Peacemaker, which we developed and sold to the A&E network.
The first gangs we shot were the 40s and 40 Avalons. That’s a war that’s been going on for twenty years. Malik was able to reach out to O.G.s and get them to sit down for a meeting.
We don’t set any terms or any agenda. When they have the meeting, it doesn’t have to come off positive, but at least it’s a conversation. This is often the first time these enemies have seen one another and not drawn weapons.
After getting the 40s to sit down with the 40 Avalons we did an episode with P. J. Watts and Mona Park. Then we did Mansfield Crips and Playboy Gangster Crips. The Peacemaker is unlike any documentary television that’s come before: It’s dramatic, dynamic, hardcore. The most difficult part of the show is the sheer volatility; there’s a very good chance somebody might get shot on camera.
A&E was a bit freaked when I told them that.
“Somebody might get shot?” one of the producers asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “We in the ’hood, man! Niggas is bangin’. Hell yeah, somebody might get shot.”
To A&E’s credit, they didn’t get cold feet. They picked us up, bought the first five episodes. Said if the first five do well, they’ll greenlight us to make another twenty.
I’m executive producer, and it’s a labor of love for me. There’s no real money being made on the show. But I’m passionate about it.
For me, this puts the real in reality TV. This ain’t no Survivor, Amazing Race, or Jersey Shore. This is real to the point where the guys we are interviewing are armed. At any minute, they could pull out and kill the cameramen. During our show, people are getting shot on each side of the borderline.
It’s war correspondence. It’s just war correspondence in the heart of the City of Angels.
What the show illustrates is that these gangbangers are not monsters. It humanizes the gangster rather than showing kids getting all rah-rah-rah, showing their guns, throwing up their set and mean-mugging for the camera. You see their children, you see their parents; you get a sense of the depth of their anger and why they’re so angry.
In the Mansfield Crips episode, we came in right after this guy’s wife and baby had been shot. Imagine that: Wife and the baby are fresh homicide victims. We’re coming in and telling the dude, “Do not retaliate.”
And every show starts like that, with a murder. It’s intense. Fuck Jersey Shore—this is the realest shit that’s ever been on television.
PART EIGHT
TOO FAMOUS TO STEAL
“MY LIFE IS VIOLENT
BUT VIOLENT IS LIFE
PEACE IS A DREAM
REALITY IS A KNIFE.”
—“COLORS”
16.
ONCE YOU’VE TESTED the fire, you become very comfortable with the calm. These days, I’m in a quiet zone. I prefer staying in the crib, eating at my own table, chilling with my wife. The only blood and mayhem comes when I’m playing Xbox. Call of Duty. Red Dead Redemption. I can play that shit all day long. I love gaming so much. Last year I was even asked to voice the character Griffin in this dope-ass third-person shooter game called Gears of War 3.
Some actors can’t take a day out of the limelight. I can hole up in the crib with Coco for two weeks. Like we say: Low-profile is better than no profile. And slow motion is better than no motion.
At the end of the day, we’re all trying to find s
ome peace. It’s easier to find it if you’ve seen the world, explored every avenue that’s open to you. “Okay, I’ve seen it, I found it, now I can relax.” It’s harder when you haven’t. A lot of folks, as U2 says it, still haven’t found what they’re looking for. They never achieved what they wanted in life, so they remain on edge, always searching.
In my view, that’s why a lot of successful people commit suicide. Because when they finally make it big, get to this supposed finish line of fame and fortune, they look around and think: This is it? This is what I’ve been working for all these years? Fuck.
Then they slip into depression.
And that depression takes them out.
I’ve never made it to Michael Jackson or Bill Gates levels, but I’ve seen a certain degree of success. I know what it’s like in the fame-and-fortune lane. Me and Coco were in Las Vegas recently and we got to reflecting about our lives. Okay, we’re eating at the best restaurants. We’re staying in a beautiful suite at the finest hotel. We’re driving a hell of a nice car. How much more can you do? Once you’re on a yacht, you’re on the same damn ocean as everybody else. Is there anything that we ought to do that we’re unable to do? Outside of wasting money on jewelry you really don’t need or designer clothes you’re never going to wear but once? Is there something more? Is there another level?
And we came to the conclusion that there really is no other level. The only other level is to do it like we’re doing it, but take as many people as possible with you for that ride. You can’t count the number of dudes—Mike Tyson’s just one—who damn near went broke trying to take an entourage of fifty motherfuckers along for the ride.
In the music business, and especially in the hip-hop game, everybody’s competing on a materialistic level. Everybody’s trying to do it. But that’s pretty straightforward. Once you get into the world of the superwealthy, it’s not about how much money you make or how many mansions you have; it’s about how much money you’re giving away—how many tens of millions you’re allocating to charities, museums, hospitals.
Sure, you can decide you want to play that debutante game, you want to play the De Beers and Van Cleef & Arpels game, and your wife has to have estate jewels and wear next season’s clothes off the runways of Milan and Paris every day. That’s like an infinite spiral staircase to me. You’ll keep ascending but never reach the fucking top.
And there’s a point where you’re living large and you say, “Damn. Am I having a good time or am I not?” My view is: If you’re caked-out and still asking yourself if you’re having a good time—homey, you ain’t.
And the fame side? Of course, you get to a level of notoriety—like Michael Jackson at the end—where it’s too much. It’s a noxious bubble. He was one of the most famous and gifted entertainers in the history of the world, but who the fuck would want to be trapped living in that sad world M.J. was in at the end of his life?
If I could press cruise control on my career right now, I’d be happy for the rest of my life. I make enough money. I’ve got fame. I’ve got respect. Nobody’s life is perfect. You have to accept that. Once you come to terms with the fact that there is no perfection of life, then you can be happy. I feel that true wisdom is accepting that the trauma, disruption, uneasiness—that’s just part of life. Everybody’s going to have that till they die. And if you’re lucky enough to get your life feeling almost perfect, one of your friends’ lives is going to be so fucked-up, or one of your relative’s lives is going to be so fucked-up, that their drama is going to invade your space. The trick is how to deal with that unhappiness, to compartmentalize the anxiety, and still find happiness at the same time.
I’ve got news for you: If you feel that you can’t find happiness unless you’re 100 percent absolutely carefree and blissful, then I’m sorry, man, but you’re going to be a miserable, depressed person forever.
And I know the feeling. Sure, I’ve been down, been depressed before. I believe depression is all a matter of perspective. As Americans, I think that’s the main thing we lack: a global outlook. I tell people all the time: “Yo, if you think you’re really depressed, I need to take you to some places in Africa or the Middle East. I think I need to take you to Somalia or Sudan or Soweto. So you can get an understanding of human suffering. So you can get some perspective, partner.”
I know—there’s true clinical depression, a chemical imbalance in the brain that often needs medication and therapy to straighten out. But there’s an aspect of depression, too, that I believe is simply a form of isolation. When you really get deep into depression, your mind is so warped that you honestly feel you’re the only person on earth going through this pain. I’ve read that, statistically, the most unhappy place is the Upper East Side in Manhattan; the country’s richest zip code has the highest percentage of people on antidepressants and antianxiety meds. Think about that. That’s proof that money does not buy happiness.
If you’re a guy who’s done all right in life, you’ve hit the age of forty or fifty and looked around you: You’re living the American dream, you’ve got a good wife and kids, a good home, a good job—shit, you should be feeling great about yourself, because you done did it, man! But too many of us get to that point and actually feel like shit. Feel hopeless and empty.
Sometimes I use what I call a “gym” philosophy. Everybody knows that feeling of hitting the gym to work out, you look over to the right, see somebody in way better shape—that makes you feel like shit. But then you look to your left, you see somebody who would die to be in your shape. Again—it’s a matter of perspective.
You notice that the most balanced and secure folks stop comparing themselves to other people, try to contain that envy, and find happiness in smaller things. Like the old-timers used to say: best to count your blessings.
People tell me all the time, “Oh Ice, you show up to work. You’re so easygoing. You’re so calm.”
I have real reference points. My friends call me from Pelican Bay, the supermax state prison in Crescent City, California. I got friends doing the kind of time that only ends with them leaving the pen in a wheelchair or a wooden box. Man, I know what my options are! I can’t go back to the streets. I can’t go back to them old days.
As an adult—if you’ve got any sense—you don’t want to go to the pen. I’ve spent a few nights in jail. Everybody in there acting hard. Everybody lying about what they did. I just felt like, “Yo, we in here because we stupid. Everybody trying to act like they ain’t stupid. But stupidity is the only reason we got caught.”
Don’t get me wrong, I got friends that can do time standing on their heads. Dudes will call me straight after sentencing. “They gave me five, Ice. I’ll be right back.” What? Five years? I can’t do five minutes, homey.
About seven or eight years ago, I was out in L.A., sitting around with a bunch of my friends. This is what I call my crime group—a bunch of the old guys I used to get down with. This was the start of the dialogue: Yo, there would be no sense going on a lick unless it’s a retirement lick. It’s different from when you’re a kid and your train of thought is, Man, all I need is ten thousand dollars and I could buy this car. The problem for our crew—it was five of us sitting around—in order to go on a retirement lick, the score would have to be in the ballpark of $10 million.
Because there’s no way you can retire with $1 million these days. Every one of us would want at least $2 million apiece and in order to do a $10 million lick, people are going to die. And if something like that happens, you’re on the run for the rest of your life.
That’s just no longer an option. We’ve all got kids. We’ve all got families. We can’t live on the run. Back in the day, going on the lam was okay by me. It was almost fun. If shit got hot in L.A., cool, I was a one-man operation. I could hide. I could disappear. Lay low in Oregon. Or jet back to Hawaii. I could get out of town for three months if I needed to. I can’t do that shit now.
Actually, sometimes I still feel I’m living on the run. I’m still ducking a
nd dodging. Bouncing all over the country. I tell people that the only difference is, these days, I’m staying in the best hotels.
I’LL NEVER FORGET THE DAY—the exact moment—when I knew that I was out of the game. I had an experience in Los Angles that told me I was finished—done with breaking the law. It’s ironic, because it wasn’t even a big lick. It was some little bullshit. I wanted a part for my Porsche. This was just early in my recording career, I had a few records out, the name Ice-T was starting to ring a few bells. I wasn’t doing the acting thing yet.
We had a Porsche shop that we normally gave our business to, but for some fucking reason, when I woke up that morning, I did not want to pay for the part I needed to fix my convertible roof mechanism. The part was only worth about five hundred bucks, but I wanted to steal it. Some of my friends had stolen a Porsche—not the same make or model as mine, but I knew the part would fit.
They were supposed to bring me the convertible part, and I kept bugging them about it. Finally, I was frustrated. So once again Mr. Ice went gung ho on their asses: “Where’s that muthafuckin’ car? You muthafuckas can’t steal. Where’s that fuckin’ stolen car?”
They told me the address and I went on this solo mission to go get this part for my Porsche. The stolen car was parked in the structure of an apartment building. It was well hidden; had a canvas car cover over it. I got the ratchet in my waistband and I was focused. I had a point to prove to my partners: Yo, I’m’a show you muthafuckas—you peons—this is how a real fuckin’ criminal steals!
