Lucky By Glenn (#253421) All I can remember is hearing an explosion that sounded like a bomb going off in my bedroom. Before I knew it, I was ripped out of my bed and thrown to the floor, flipped over on my back, and handcuffed. It all happened so fast. There was so much smoke in the house that I could not see what was happening, and I was coughing from the foul smell of sulphur. I first thought it may have been the Bloods coming back for revenge, but when I heard the yelling, I knew it wasn't the Bloods. It could have only been the police; they are the only ones around here who yell when they storm into your house. Had it been a rival gang member, I would have heard nothing. My heart felt as though it was expounding from my chest like an alien being that lived inside of me. I was the first one led out of the house by two LAPD SWAT team members. One of them said to me, "You’re fucked, Chino!" Chino was my street name. I could not see the SWAT officer’s face, as he wore a mask to conceal his identity, but I recognized that far too familiar voice. It was Narcotics Sergeant Rivetti. Once outside, the embarrassment set in. My mother and grandmother were taken out of our home in handcuffs and sat against the curb in front of our home at 167 22nd street in South Central Los Angeles. I could hear my mother crying "No!" My grandmother was sobbing and screaming at me in Spanish, "usted es no bueno hombre." In Spanish that means I am a no-good grandson. The police were searching my home. I knew the drill, and all the neighbors had come out of their homes in their pajamas to see what was going on. As I looked around I saw Miss Johnson, a church lady whom we played childhood pranks on for years. She looked at me and shook her fist and said to the police, "It's about time you caught that little dealer." I watched as the officers had found my stash of Rock. When I say “rock,” I mean crack cocaine. This is what I sold to my “patients” when they came to my window in the middle of the night for a fix. I called them my patients because I was like their twisted under-aged doctor providing them temporary relief from their sorry lives. It was how I earned my living; it was the only way to make a living in my family. I don't mean my household family; I mean my street family, the Crips, or as the Bloods called us "The Crabs." I am a member of one of the most notorious street gangs in South Central Los Angeles, The Rolling 20's. We held the blocks from 20th street to 29th street all the way to Central Avenue. It was our turf, we protected it, sometimes with our lives. It all started when I was 14 years old. I had seen this big fat guy driving a Lexus in my neighborhood. He always had a wad of cash in his pocket and wore expensive clothes, but he always had on a blue hat or Jersey to signify his colors. Looking up to his prestige, I wondered who he was and how he got to be so rich. One day while standing in front of my house, he said to me, "Hey, lil’ man. Yo ...

1. Lucky
By
Glenn (#253421)
All I can remember is hearing an explosion that sounded like a
bomb going off in my bedroom. Before I knew it, I was ripped
out of my bed and thrown to the floor, flipped over on my back,
and handcuffed. It all happened so fast. There was so much
smoke in the house that I could not see what was happening,
and I was coughing from the foul smell of sulphur. I first
thought it may have been the Bloods coming back for revenge,
but when I heard the yelling, I knew it wasn't the Bloods. It
could have only been the police; they are the only ones around
here who yell when they storm into your house. Had it been a
rival gang member, I would have heard nothing. My heart felt as
though it was expounding from my chest like an alien being that
lived inside of me. I was the first one led out of the house by
two LAPD SWAT team members. One of them said to me,
"You’re fucked, Chino!" Chino was my street name. I could not
see the SWAT officer’s face, as he wore a mask to conceal his
identity, but I recognized that far too familiar voice. It was
Narcotics Sergeant Rivetti. Once outside, the embarrassment set
in. My mother and grandmother were taken out of our home in
handcuffs and sat against the curb in front of our home at 167
22nd street in South Central Los Angeles. I could hear my
mother crying "No!" My grandmother was sobbing and
screaming at me in Spanish, "usted es no bueno hombre." In
Spanish that means I am a no-good grandson.
The police were searching my home. I knew the drill, and all

2. the neighbors had come out of their homes in their pajamas to
see what was going on. As I looked around I saw Miss Johnson,
a church lady whom we played childhood pranks on for years.
She looked at me and shook her fist and said to the police, "It's
about time you caught that little dealer." I watched as the
officers had found my stash of Rock. When I say “rock,” I mean
crack cocaine. This is what I sold to my “patients” when they
came to my window in the middle of the night for a fix. I called
them my patients because I was like their twisted under-aged
doctor providing them temporary relief from their sorry lives. It
was how I earned my living; it was the only way to make a
living in my family. I don't mean my household family; I mean
my street family, the Crips, or as the Bloods called us "The
Crabs."
I am a member of one of the most notorious street gangs in
South Central Los Angeles, The Rolling 20's. We held the
blocks from 20th street to 29th street all the way to Central
Avenue. It was our turf, we protected it, sometimes with our
lives.
It all started when I was 14 years old. I had seen this big fat guy
driving a Lexus in my neighborhood. He always had a wad of
cash in his pocket and wore expensive clothes, but he always
had on a blue hat or Jersey to signify his colors. Looking up to
his prestige, I wondered who he was and how he got to be so
rich. One day while standing in front of my house, he said to
me, "Hey, lil’ man. You wanna earn?" "Earn what?" I replied.
He smiled really wide, pulled out a handful of cash, and said,
"Bling." His name was J-Rock, or at least that was how I had
known him. His headstone now reads “Michael Simmons.” J-
Rock took me in to do a simple errand of delivering a package
to a five-story housing block up on 23rd street. The way he
grabbed me by the neck, I didn’t think I was allowed to say no.
I didn’t really know what to do, so I did what he said. I had
carried the backpack with the unknown contents to the block

3. and waited for the apartment door on the second floor to open. I
dropped the backpack and ran, not even seeing a face in the
apartment. When I made it back to J-Rock, he was smoking a
blunt. He started referring to me as "Chino," for some unknown
reason.
"Chino, come here and get some." I walked over to J-Rock, and
he threw me five twenty dollar bills. He was leaning against a
five story brick building that was a housing project for poor
people on welfare. There were empty plastic bags and needles
scattered on the ground and the area smelled like rotten meat,
like dead things. Looking around at the windows with all the
bars on them, I realized this had been my first real drug deal. J-
Rock had me join his “family” on my 15th birthday. I was
immediately “jumped in.” That meant that 5 other gang
members would give me love, basically beat me down to show
me their love and acceptance into the family. With a few earned
broken bones and bruises, I became one of them. It was the first
time anybody told me I belonged. Out here, it’s every man for
himself, whether you’re five or fifty. J-Rock stood in back
blowing smoke rings through his mouth while they beat me.
After I had picked myself up off the ground J-Rock tossed me a
beaded necklace that was yellow and blue, our colors.
"Chino, you kiss those beads every night and wear them proud,
your one of us now"
I hugged J-Rock and the rest of my new family and shared a 40
ounce of beer with them and a blunt. I didn’t even know at the
time that I needed to go to the doctor. I didn’t get a cast on my
arm until three dyas later. J-Rock shared with me the secrets of
our family and told me never to repeat them to anyone. They
entailed the inner works of our drug ring as well as our hit
squad. We were organized like the mob, or so we thought. Over
the next few years we engaged in countless deals and made
some big scores and had some big losses. We lost some of our

4. family due to gunfire or drive by shootings over bad deals or
turf wars, but we always retaliated and took some of the Bloods
out ourselves. We were tough, we had pride, and no one was
going to fuck with our block.
I had been arrested at least a dozen times. The most important
thing in my neighborhood was honor to your family. Never rat
on a fellow gang member and don't say anything to the cops.
Silence was our way to never divulge our actions or the inner
working of our organization. It was the glue that held our
family together. Actually, it was the glue that held my real
family together also. My brother had gone to college, to Cal
State, and he had slipped by all the gang activity. I was the
disappointment. No words were exchanged. My mother silently
gave me meals and stared at me with eyes swollen from years of
worry and pain. She would jump every time a car pulled up. But
she never spoke about it, not even in Spanish. I was like a
stranger in the house I grew up in, and every day, they
recognized me a little less. We didn’t speak the same language
anymore.
Sitting on the ground handcuffed, I could only imagine what
was going to happen to me. My life was flashing before me so
fast but also in slow motion. My first bicycle, my father singing
to me before he was gunned down in accidental gang fire, and
my mother’s tamales on Christmas Day. How she used to beg
me to eat so I’d get strong. Growing up was rare around here.
Sergeant Rivetti frisked me and pushed me into the back of his
police car. I hit my head on the door frame as he exclaimed,
"Get in, you little maggot." The whole ride to the police station,
Rivetti was taunting me. "You're going away, Chino, and this
time for 20 years."
All I could do was yell. "Fuck you, pig. You ain’t got nothing
on me. I'm gonna sue your white ass." Stuck to the backseat
handcuffed and seat belted, I was already an animal.

5. "Guess what, Chino? I get paid to put scumbags like you in jail.
When I'm on vacation with my family next year I will be
thinking of you getting fucked up the ass by some big black
inmate." Rivetti pulled into police headquarters to drop me off
for processing. I just spat at the window divider between us. I
didn’t know what I felt. Maybe it was anger at him, or the cops
in general, or myself, or some fatal combination. I was led
inside by a booking officer and that was the last I saw of
Sergeant Rivetti, until court.
The news cameras were waiting for me at court. This was not
my first arrest, so I just looked to the reporters and smirked.
Once in the courtroom, I was wearing a County Jail Orange
jumpsuit and handcuffed, and my feet shackled together. The
courtroom was stained and smelled of mold from the dirty
carpets from all the people the judge had seen before me. I sat
down with my unprepared free court appointed public defender.
I stayed hard and true to my street family, not telling anyone
anything. It was my right, as the police had told me, to be
silent. I refused to testify or make any comment regarding my
case. The prosecutor presented his case and made me look like
the most notorious gangster since Al Capone. The judge decided
my case within 30 minutes and handed me down a 10-year
sentence without the eligibility for parole. The public defender
said, he would appeal my case and that I would get a stay of
execution to be out of jail on bail, but he never helped me. They
wanted to make an example out of me for teens.
I now wear the number #253421, my inmate number at Orange
County prison. I was led out of the transportation wagon and
brought into a cell where I was told to strip down naked and
was inspected by a male guard to see if I was carrying anything
illegal. I was handed a yellow bar of soap and instructed to
clean myself while he watched. It was embarrassing, and the
soap smelled like dead rotten fish mixed with the strong smell

6. of a skunk. Later I was told the soap was for delousing, had I
had lice?
I was then given a white towel that smelled heavily of bleach.
Another prison guard handed me two pairs of khaki scrub type
pants, two khaki shirts, 1 bar of ivory soap, an old looking torn
towel, a top and bottom white sheet, and one wool blanket that
was as thin as a piece of paper. I was led down a corridor
hearing whistling yelling and chanting as I entered the cell
block. The voices were so loud that it felt as though they were
surrounding me. I could only see their faces through a bean hole
window in their cells. I kept looking down at my issued
belongings and kept walking with the two male guards who
were making jokes at me. "Hey little papi, the boys are gonna
like you here," the taller guard with the mustache said.
"Yeah, he will be the bean in the rice and beans" the shorter
guard with the round belly exclaimed while he laughed.
I could hear voices around me yelling: "new meat", "isn't he a
cute one", cat call whistles, and anti-Hispanic slang words.
I was put into a single inmate cell that was about 8 foot by 8
foot in size and told to turn away from the door and place my
hands on the wall. I closed my eyes and heard a loud crash. I
knew what the sound was; it was the cell door slamming shut.
The door closed and it hit me, I was in prison. Not only was I a
prisoner in this prison but I was a prisoner in my own mind. I
did not have the protection from my street family here, or any
support from my real family, and any encounters with other
inmates could be dangerous. I knew there was a price on my
head. I can see J-Rock in my mind telling me before he was shot
and killed in front of the 7-11 on Webster Avenue, that I was
worth more dead than alive because I had shot Little C, two
years earlier. I turned and looked at the room that I would live
in for the next seven years, the next 2555 days, the next 61,320

7. hours, the next 3,679,200 minutes, before my first parole
meeting, and I began to cry. I cried because I partly because I
was scared, partly because I was alone, and partly because I
didn't know what else to do. I remembered my mother pointing
to a gang member down the street when I was twelve. “See him?
Before he turns 21, he’ll be either dead or in prison, and once
you’re in there, you won’t ever live a good life.” I had just
turned 19.
Standing in my cinder block cage I felt the room, cold not only
in temperature but also in appearance. There was only a
combination stainless steel toilet and sink, an old steel bunk
with the flat hard mattress, the window with a view of some
razor wire, and a rooftop compressor. A part of whom I had
been, of who I could have become had died. The room was
damp, although for some reason I was sweating.
The clothes they issued me were size extra large; I am 5 foot 9
inches 145lbs, too thin for the clothes. I looked like a circus
clown wearing a tent. I made my bed and climbed into it. My
stomach was rumbling, partly from nerves but mostly because I
hadn't eaten in two days. I could hear sounds of yelling from
other inmates from cell to cell and heard tapping on the walls.
I heard a loud click and all the lights went out in our rooms.
There was a dim light coming from the 1 foot by 1 foot window
in my cell and every so often I would hear a tap on the door and
look up to see the guard doing his head count. I couldn't see
their faces, I could only hear their footsteps and see the beam of
light from their flashlight enter my room like the sun was
rising. I couldn't sleep and was awakened by the sound of my
cell door opening. I heard someone yell "roll call!" I was not
sure what this meant, so I peaked out my cell and there were
about 50 inmates lining up outside their doors waiting in line. I
decided to join them, although not looking at any of them in
fearing they would smell my vulnerability. I heard a voice call

8. out "Chino." I turned around and to my surprise it was Victor
Carnacio, a Blood and a rival gang member. Victor was from
the Central City Bloods and had been convicted last year for
throwing an elderly woman down a staircase at a housing
project, killing her. Victor was a feared man on the streets. He
was only 20 years old but had developed a bad *** reputation.
Looking back at Victor, I had to act tough, so I looked at him
hard.
"Yeah," I replied.
Victor grabbed his balls "Your gonna be my bitch, Chino"
I turned around and clenched my fist, then gave him the finger.
A Prison guard yelled and ordered me to face forward, as I
turned I heard Victor whisper, "Usted es muerte, " which means
“you're a dead man” in Spanish.
I kept walking with the group as we were led to the mess hall. I
stayed in line and took what portions they gave me of whatever
there was. My mind was numb. I was hungry, but I didn't even
know what was on my plate. The food smelled rotten and all I
could hear was people arguing around me and the clanging of
metal trays against the cold steel tables. I couldn't let anyone
see my fear, or I would be dead for sure. I sat down by myself
and two white males with shaved heads and swastika tattoos sat
down next to me. One of the males who was about 6 foot two
and 225 lbs with a goat-tee and a build like Arnold
Schwarzenegger looked over at me.
"Drag your ass out, spic. This is our table." I stood up, didn't
say a word and walked down the mess hall to where I saw a
table in the back that was empty. If that happened on the street,
things would have been handled differently. In here I had no
other choice but to run away. I sat down and tried to eat,

9. although everything tasted so bland. I didn't look up at anyone
although I could hear people talking about me and felt their
eyes staring at me.
As a group we were all ordered to the showers and I had
grabbed my ripped bleached towel and my Ivory soap and
walked into the shower. There was a guard at the door
surrounding 15 shower heads in a concrete room. I waited in
line until it was my turn to go in. I was ordered into the shower
as another prisoner exited. The water was so cold, and the soap
was burning my eyes. The next thing I remember was hearing
Victor's raspy voice say "muerte." I thought I was dreaming. I
felt a sudden burning sensation in my back and a warm liquid
dripping from my side. Everything looked blurry. As I looked to
the ground all I could see was the red shower water. I began to
realize that I had been stabbed. I felt my body begin to fall to
the floor, and my face smashed against the shower valve,
busting out some of my teeth. I layed on the ground and looked
up to see Victor smiling and holding a home made knife made
out of a plastic comb. Victor pointed the comb at me and
mouthed, "That's for little-C." I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. I
couldn't even catch my breath. I felt dizzy. I saw my 1st grade
class, then my first girlfriend, and then my grandmother, all
flashes in slow motion before my eyes. Images of growing up. I
felt myself blacking out and reaching for my grandmother.
When I woke, I was now in an empty room looking down at a
coffin. I could see the body inside the coffin but the face was
blurry, was I dead?
I looked again at the coffin and could not believe my eyes. The
face inside started to clear as though the smoke cloud
surrounding the blur was dissipating. It was me. I was looking
up. My grandmother was weeping and holding the sides of the
casket although I couldn't hear her. My mother placed a rose
along side of my body. Suddenly I began to feel weightlessness
almost like an astronaut would fee in space. I felt myself

10. floating. I was My mind was telling me to hold on, but I
couldn't. My sight began to darken as my soul faded away
towards what was above. Nothing but bright lights that hurt my
eyes.
"Where am I?" My eyes opened, and I was realized that I was
restrained in a hospital bed.
"He's awake. Page the doctor stat," a nurse exclaimed.
"Where am I? Let me go!" My hands and legs had shackles on
them. I felt a pain in my back and side that ached.
"I am your nurse. Linda." I looked up to see a white female
nurse wearing a surgery gown. "You're going to be alright, but
you have to relax".
"What happened? Where am I? Am I dead?" I could see bright
lights and there was a sour smell in the air like vomit.
"You were stabbed while in prison and rushed here to North
Memorial Hospital for immediate surgery." Linda wiped my
head with a cool washcloth.
"I'm confused. My back hurts." I saw a large lamp, a bedside
table with many surgical instruments on it, and a large curtain
around me.
"You will be alright now. Just relax. We operated on your
wound to stabilize you. When you came to us you had lost 45
percent of your blood. You are a lucky guy."
My eyes began to clear even more, and I saw a prison guard
standing behind the curtain as the doctor entered. “Lucky” is
not a word I would use to describe it.

11. "I'm Doctor Rothstein, and I will be taking care of you."
"Where do I go when I am better?” I asked, forgetting my
future.
"Back to prison," the guard popped his head in and said. "We
have to keep you around to finish off the rest of that ten year
sentence. Don't worry, though. You’ll be in solitary, for your
own protection."
Everything was starting to rush through my mind all at once.
Was I better off dead,? Would I be able to walk? Would I need
more surgery? How would I survive the next ten years. I was
cold, and alone, and I had no one to blame but myself. Dr.
Rothstein gave me a shot of pain medication. “This will help
you calm down,” he said.
I looked over and saw my mother slowly walking toward me.
She smiled through tears and touched my face. It was like that
time I fell and cut my knee in the second grade, and she took
two buses to pick me up from school. It was like seeing God,
and him staring back at you, reminding you of something. I
thought of that word again. Lucky. Maybe I was lucky. I don’t
know. As I drifted off to sleep, I felt like a king.
1