Gang Encounters Always Leave Scars

You know a problem exists, sympathize with friends in their experience, convince yourself that you know exactly how it feels, but sometimes you really don’t understand--until it happens to you. That’s how I felt on a recent Saturday when my 10-year-old son told us of his encounter with gang members.

He had trailed his sister to McDonald’s on his bike. As he stood at the doorway waiting for her, he had been approached by two older teenagers who asked, “Are you a Crip?” My son was wearing blue sweats and riding a blue bike.

When my son answered “no,” the two young men demanded that he give them his bike and his Gary Payton tennis shoes. He refused and tried to ride away, but one of the young men placed his foot behind the bike’s tire. Again, the teenagers demanded that my son turn over his bike and shoes. Again, he refused.

Fortuitously, a man, holding his daughter’s hand, saw what was going on. “Leave the boy alone,” he ordered to the teenagers. “You’re too old to mess with a kid.” My son used the opportunity to scurry away.

“Mom and Dad,” he told us, “I stood at the corner praying to God that the light would hurry up and change. When it did, I zipped up the hill. I didn’t feel safe until I was inside the house.”

The irony for me was that this particular Saturday, The Times published my interview with V. G. Guinses, a gang expert. Not once during the interview or writing of the piece did I ever think, “Take heed; you’ll need this information soon.” I called him immediately.

He told me that my View Park neighborhood is neutral turf, not claimed by the Bloods or the Crips. He said that my son’s experience is an example why parents mustn’t let their children, regardless of age, wear blue or red attire--gang colors for Crips and Bloods. There are instances, he said, when on the anniversary of a homie’s death, gang members have shot innocent victims who wore the opposing gang’s colors. He said that it’s better to let my sons go out before noon (while gang members are generally asleep) rather than in the early evening. And while there is no guarantee of safety, when asked by a gang member “Where are you from?,” my sons should answer, “I am from Christ.” Gang members are ever-calculating, he said, and they know that even if they are first-time offenders, they will get more time for maiming or killing a nongang member than they would for a gang member.

I told him jokingly that I am considering painting my son’s bike black. His reply chilled me: “That’s a good idea.”

He said that a child is never quite the same after an experience like this. He offered to talk to my son and I took him up on his offer.

I know that for many mothers, the challenges of urban life are constant, and they deal with them without having the home telephone and pager numbers of a gang expert or for that matter, even without a husband to hold them in the middle of the night when they awake with, “My God, what if?”

But there is no doubt about it: This experience has forced me to look at my world differently.

For example, I always get upset with my husband when he corrects the behavior of young boys whom we don’t know. I feel it’s too risky. Little did I know how grateful I would feel to the stranger who demonstrated that same take-charge behavior on my son’s behalf.

I pride myself for living in the ‘hood, for philosophical reasons--my kids will know, firsthand, black success stories--and practical ones--I can buy pantyhose in my own dark shade at the local grocery store. But I had experienced the Crenshaw district on my terms, the cocoon of my quiet part of the district, without much worry about the greater challenges that my neighbors in Baldwin Village face daily.

And it’s amazing how an encounter colors your perspective from that point on. When we first moved here three years ago, my boys swaggered down the hill to McDonald’s, their first solo flight signifying, for them, that they were now big boys. Last weekend, when my husband was unable to accompany them, my older boy said he would just skip going. Not even their favorite hot apple pies were sufficient enticement to kids who are coming to terms with the dangers of their emerging manhood.