by Miles Harvey
He would be like, “Hey, I’m looking for my nephew.” People would pull out guns on him.
They’d be like, “Man, what you looking for him for?”
He wouldn’t be afraid of the guns. He’d push them out of the way and go knock on my door: “Man, we got a game! Get your shorts. Let’s go, man.”
I’d be like, “Man, I don’t wanna go play right now.”
“Bro, we got a damn game, man. You got a commitment to me. You’re gonna stick to it. Now get your ass up.”
And I always had this tremendous talent to put the ball in the basket. It was a God-given gift, you know. I mean, people that know me can tell you I’m just one of those guys that just picked up the ball and it seemed like it was second nature to me. So my uncle seen all that, he seen all the potential. He never really pushed me to get out of the gang, but he just told me, “You’re gonna see that eventually all this stuff is not gonna get you anywhere, but basketball is gonna get you somewhere.”
And, I mean, it did. There was a Latino tournament that was strictly for the Midwest and it was like a 20-city tournament, so every month there was another tournament to go to. So I started getting exposed to all this other stuff that I just didn’t know was out there. Here I am living in Little Village and closing my mind off to all these options, ‘cause I thought just the gang life was all there was for me. And getting out there and seeing Latinos doing all kinds of other stuff just blew me away.
My son, to this day, has about 50 to 60 trophies that he just has put in his room, ‘cause now he’s starting to like basketball and he thinks his dad is like this big-time star. And I tell him, “I never made it to the NBA, and I didn’t go to college to play basketball, but I did make a name for myself.”
I even got offered to go play in Mexico on a professional team. There was a scout that had came to watch somebody play, and I ended up dropping like 50 points on the guy, and the scout just forgot about the dude and came to ask me. But I thought, “I don’t wanna go live anywhere else, especially not for no three months. I’m making money doing my side stuff in the neighborhood.” It just didn’t seem like it was an option to me. I closed myself off to it.
I was in high school for four years. I had credits, enough credits to be maybe a sophomore at most. It wasn’t a big deal to me. The gang culture and the gang life just took a real hold of me for a lot of years of my life. A lot of years, man, I lost a tremendous amount of friends, and, as I lost my friends, my hate for other gangs just grew and grew and grew.
I was on probation for possessing the cannabis. I spent about two months in the county jail. I was sentenced to two years’ probation, but I was off of probation after a year and five months. Being on probation, you know, it started to change my attitude a little bit about not wanting to get into so much trouble. But what helped me decide that this road I was on was a destructive one and it was gonna end my life, is when I had my daughter.
At the time, me and the woman who is my wife now had broken up, and she had left the city, and I was just on this destructive path. I was just like, “I lost my girl and I loved her.” So it made me drink even more, party even more, go out there and even be more of a … Then her mother called me.
She’s like, “Come to the house. I need to show you something.”
I’m like, “Show me something?” ‘Cause I always had a good relationship with her mother, and her mother always kept in contact with me.
And she says, “Just be ready to see something that’s gonna change your life.” And I figured, like, she had money or something. And she opens the bedroom door, and there’s the—there’s the little baby, my daughter Leslie.
And I’m like, “Who’s that?”
She’s like, “That’s your daughter.”
“That’s my daughter?”
It blew me away. By looking at that baby, I could already tell that she was my daughter. She had the same birthmark as me, everything. But I had so much anger in me that I was like, “No, man. I want a DNA test.”
She’s like, “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna slap you, ‘cause that’s your daughter.” And it hit me like a ton of bricks, man: “I’m willing to die for what I believe in, but am I really going to do that now that I have this little girl in my life?”
I went and I signed up for GED. And it took a while to get my GED, I can’t lie. Because I had so much stuff going on in terms of just being in the neighborhood and dealing with stuff. I got my GED, and I got hired by a display company and, like, within a year that job just took off for me. I went from just being the driver for the company to getting the manager’s job. That was my really first job-job, you know, and it took off from right there.
I started working on the railroad. I got the call from CeaseFire,71 and I still don’t know how they got that number. They wanted somebody that could get in there, get in touch with individuals in Little Village, and let them know that they’re trying to promote a culture of nonviolence. And I started doing a lot of detachments for them, which was kids that wanted to get out of gangs. I knew everybody in the neighborhood, and I would say, “Look man, the kid’s not going to pose a threat to you. Let him get out, man.” Kind of negotiate some things. And I started pulling kids out. Not a lot of kids out, but four or five kids out of a gang a year to us is a huge number. Ultimately, God has his hand over who stays and who goes, but the threat of being killed by gang violence shoots down once you’re not in it.
And it just sparked something in me. It just did. It always felt like there was a burden in my heart, ‘cause I would be in the community and I would try to volunteer and do things, but I also knew that in this line of work you cannot, you cannot, have one foot in and one foot out. Kids see through that. The kids that you work with are gonna see that.
I’ve been on board with the YMCA’s Street Intervention Program for I’m gonna say about four to five years. My days here, they can just be overwhelming. During my mornings, I could be at court or I could be at the high school or I could be checking up on one of my kids and making sure he went to school or talking to one of the school counselors. At night, I do recreational activities and run peace circles with the kids. I put in at least 65 hours this week. For people like me, it’s important that we make time for our own kids, ‘cause we don’t want to lose our kids while we’re trying to save somebody else’s. I try my best to call my kids at least three times a day and talk to all of them, see what’s going on, tell them, “Daddy will be home late so just make sure you take a shower, get ready for bed, and I’ll kiss you when I get home.”
My weekends I try my best to just dedicate it to my kids. Even during the week, if I can sneak away, I’ll tell my boss, “I gotta go home for a little while and help my son with his homework or I gotta see my daughter, who is in the choir.” She sings like a bird. I don’t know where she got it from ‘cause I don’t have that voice and neither does my wife. But I like being there to support her. So those are our days, man. We just do all this and that. All of it.
—Interviewed by Mollie Diedrich
Endnotes
69 Estrada left the YMCA shortly before this book went to press. He and Jorge Roque both now work for CeaseFire and for New Life Community Church in Little Village, where they mentor young people who are on probation.
70 The Pittsburgh Pirates’ uniforms are black and gold—the same basic colors as the Latin Kings.
71 CeaseFire was founded by Dr. Gary Slutkin, an epidemiologist who maintains that violence should be treated like an epidemic and can be prevented by
stopping the behavior at its source. The group—recently renamed Cure
Violence—was the subject of The Interrupters, an award-winning 2011 film by Steve James and Alex Kotlowitz.
How Dare I Still Be Happy?
Tu-TU
Tu-Tu, who asked that we only use her nickname, was born in Kingsville, Texas. At a very young age, she and her older brother were taken to Chicago to be raised by relatives. Her brother went to live with their p
aternal grandparents, while Tu-Tu moved in with their maternal grandparents, who lived in Englewood, a South Side neighborhood characterized by violence and a rapidly declining population.
When Tu-Tu was 12, her mother came back into her life to raise her and her brother. She and her mother did not get along, however, so after two years, Tu-Tu returned to Englewood. The Conservative Vice Lords, one of Chicago’s most powerful gangs, became her de facto guardians, providing her with a studio apartment and financial support, as well as with protection in the area.
Tu-Tu has two daughters. She credits them with motivating her to return to school as she encouraged them to pursue their educations. She is currently working toward a bachelor’s degree at DePaul University. Tu-Tu speaks in a soft tone with a touch of a Southern twang that hints at her Texan roots. She is witty and quick to let you know if she thinks you’re pretending to be something you’re not. She keeps her hair in a short, natural style, and often wears large hoop earrings. Although she has endured many hardships, she looks much younger than her
40 years.
My mother went into labor early with me because of a flying cockroach. I like to tell that story. A hissing cockroach came in the house and scared her so bad they could not stop it. I think it was almost like two months early. This was in Kingsville, a military town, where my dad was in the Navy. I don’t really remember how long I lived in Texas. As a child, we went back and forth, so I’m not sure. I’m always in between.
I don’t even know the date my parents sent me back here to live with my grandparents. My folks were married and everything, so how could they not be ready to be parents? There’s a lot of stories that I’m not told. So as far as my childhood, like, “Why did we go here?” I still don’t know that. I don’t know why my grandparents took us and separated my brother and me, either. It’s the biggest secret in the family and, now that everybody’s pretty much passed that could tell me, I don’t think I’ll ever know.
I called my grandparents “Mom” and “Dad.” I helped my grandmother cook. We cooked everything. Everything you can think of. Soul food. Everything under the sun. And we always had to watch Lawrence Welk blow the bubbles on TV. Why? I don’t know.
I didn’t see my father, but I used to call my mother “that white lady.” She’s very pale and fair-skinned, but she’s black! She’d drop off stuff for me every once in a while, but nobody would ever tell me who she was. She’d just drop by. I kinda think I was just like, “Who are you? Thanks,” and would move on. She’s not very affectionate, so I wouldn’t have really talked to her anyway. She’s not my mother, you know? My grandmother is my mother. So I’m like “Who are you? Thanks for the Big Wheel.”
I stayed with my grandparents until around 12 years old. My grandfather passed, so my grandmother moved to senior housing. After that, I went with my mother. By then, I knew she was my mother, but I didn’t have a good relationship with her. We stayed in Chicago, and my brother came, too.
My mom sucks. Yeah, we just didn’t get along. Never really had a fight. I never argued or yelled at my mother. It was constant nagging, browbeating, demeaning, little stuff like that. Just stuff that, as a child, you have no stand. You just have to take it. She would come home from work and maybe she would cook or I would have to cook, and the dishes better have been clean and rooms better have been clean. Don’t let her come into the house and your work isn’t done kinda thing. Complete opposite of my grandmother.
I dislike my dad even more than my mom, because he probably could’ve been the other parent that was responsible. Somebody should’ve been responsible. So for both of you to not be responsible? Y’all have issues. I don’t wanna say my mom didn’t try. At least, I think she tried, because she did come get us. He did nothing. I know him, but he has another family now—another little precious daughter and everything.
I wasn’t with my mom very long—about two years. My reason for leaving depends who you ask. If you’re asking me, she put me out. I just know we didn’t like each other. If you asked her, she’d say that I was a unruly, spoiled brat that she couldn’t control and blah, blah, blah…
I’m the only gang affiliation in my family. My mother and my brother are saditty72 black people, so they would never affiliate. I’m called “the ghetto child”; I’m the black sheep of the family. I’ve actually been affiliated, like, 90 percent of my life with the Vice Lords. Not even on purpose, either. I just happened to be around those types of people.
So when I left my mother’s house, I took all my stuff, as much as I could get, and I went to the streets. I never went home. I went back to my grandparents’ neighborhood. A few guys in the neighborhood—Vice Lords, pretty much—got me a studio apartment in Hyde Park. So I was pretty much living on my own at 15. But the guys took care of me. I was like a little sister, I guess. They gave me financial stability and security. If I got hurt, they took care of it. I think I’m super spoiled. For me to have had such a rough life and the things I’ve been through, I’ve always been financially stable. You have to have some sort of association to survive.
The guys weren’t old. They was just older than me. But to me, back then, they would’ve been old, because I was so young. Somehow, I’ve always dated the big-time guys in the neighborhood, and I didn’t look for them. I mean, like, the biggest guys, like, newspaper-bound guys, but I never would’ve dated the original guys who took care of me. That would’ve been perverted; I do not like older men at all. Skin hanging and stuff. I have a phobia. Nope, no older guys. That was strictly big brother, little sister.
But I was still a little bad. I had my moments. I had to show I was worthy of the support. You have to do stuff. Nothing like initiation; just show that you are down. I’ve never had to, like, shoot anybody or anything. I remember, there was a new girl that moved into the neighborhood and they said that she was coming over there and telling our business to her old neighbors, something like that. So I had to go in her house, like, I walked past her mom and everything, snatched her out of the house, and, like, we all jumped her and beat her up. But I had to be the one to go get her. I know, I even feel stupid saying it, but that’s childhood.
The Vice Lords, they watched you growing. They know their neighborhood, they know their kids, the families. Back then, it was about protecting your area. It wasn’t about fighting each other. So anybody that was in the area was protected, pretty much. It was more structured in those days. You don’t bring heat to your area because it brings police. So you keep it quiet. I hate saying this out loud but there was order in their gangbanging. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s how mobsters made it or still make it: structure. You can’t move without getting approval. You can’t go just shoot up somebody without having a reason behind it. I’m not saying there’s ever a reason to shoot somebody—it’s hard to say what I’m saying without sounding like I’m condoning it. It was more of a protection-and-retaliation kind of thing.
Even though I was living on my own, I never went to the guys’ places. I think they stayed on their own, but I saw them a lot on the block. You know, you hang out, talk junk, play basketball, hang out on the monkey bars, neighborhood stuff. I was just lucky. My life could’ve been worse. Because I don’t do drugs and I don’t drink. Never done it. No! Ain’t I lucky?
The guys was like, “That’s not ladylike. You don’t do that.” There was the hos and there was the ladies. Don’t go over there. Stay here. They knew what my background was, they respected that. The “not ladies,” I’m gonna call them that, they, you know, drank and smoked, and had sex, and partied, and didn’t care. They thought they were being cool, but the guys don’t respect that. It’s still like that today. I try to tell these little girls, “Don’t think, because they drink and smoke with you, they like you. That’s just the category that you in now.” The guys determine the categories, but the girls put their selves in it.
I ended up leaving high school my senior year. It was too much at the time. I didn’t even really care anymore. I just wanted to go to
work, make money. I got a work permit at Andy Frain.73 I will never forget that job. It was ushering. So I worked all the Bulls games, all the concerts, the auto show. That’s the best teenage job you could ever have.
Once I made money, I started paying for the apartment. I’m definitely independent; I’m definitely go-getting. I have to because that’s the only way I made it. You can’t slow down; you can’t get weak, because you don’t know what’ll happen. You share something with someone and they throw it back at you, in your face, in a very inappropriate time. Yeah, I can’t handle that so I just stopped talking. I kinda lost contact with a lot of people. They thought I was too good, a couple of my friends or whatever you wanna call them. So-called friends wanna bring up my childhood and, you know, who picks that? Nobody picks to be outside at that age. I was just trying to eat.
When I was 19, I became a mother and an adult. And then I moved in with the dad, and I was stuck with him forever. No, I’m just joking. We didn’t get married, but we had two kids, two girls. We had a family and I was stable for the first time since my grandparents. We were all living together 10 years—maybe 15 if you count the back and forth. Yeah, we were together for a long time. We moved twice: Englewood and Calumet City.
My daughters were born in ’91 and ’95. Their nicknames are Skinny Thick Girl and Thick Skinny Girl. One is curvier than the other. Skinny Thick Girl is my oldest. She’s skinny and just thinks she has a body out this world. And then my youngest one, she’s thicker and thinks she’s a size zero.
It’s an extreme blessing to be a mother. You gotta do everything that your mom didn’t do. Actually, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life to not mimic her ways. I’m still working on it, but their dad was good, so I had a good support system.
