Sanyika Shakur - Monster

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” I said. And I had heard him and never forgot nothing he said from that point on.

Also from that point on Tray Ball became my mentor, friend, confidant, and closest comrade. He allowed me acts of aggression that made my name soar with alarming effects.

The seriousness of what I had done that evening did not dawn on me until I was alone at home that night. My heart had slowed to its normal pace and the alcohol and pot had worn off. I was left then with just myself and the awesome flashes of light that lit up my mind to reveal bodies in abnormal positions and grotesque shapes, twisting and bending in arcs that defied bone structure. The actual impact was on my return back past the bodies of the first fallen, my first real look at bodies torn to shreds. It did little to me then, because it was all about survival. But as I lay wide awake in my bed, safe, alive, I felt guilty and ashamed of myself. Upon further contemplation, I felt that they were too easy to kill. Why had they been out there? I tried every conceivable alibi within the realm of reason to justify my actions. There was none. I slept very little that night.

I’ve never told anyone of these feelings before.

In the neighborhood, respect was forthcoming. In 1977, when I was thirteen, while robbing a man I turned my head and was hit in the face. The man tried to run, but was tripped by Tray Ball, who then held him for me. I stomped him for twenty minutes before leaving him unconscious in an alley. Later that night, I learned that the man had lapsed into a coma and was disfigured from my stomping. The police told bystanders that the person responsible for this was a “monster.” The name stuck, and I took that as a moniker over my birth name.

As Monster, however, I had to consistently be more vicious and live up to the name. Tray Ball was there for me at every level, but Tray Ball was at least four years older than I. Still, we could relate. In 1978, Tray Ball was captured for knocking a guy out in front of the police, who were questioning him about being robbed. I was left with Fly, Lep, Huck, and G.C, who seemed to have lost their will to “get busy” when Tray Ball was locked up. So I went in search of a “road dog,” or best friend.

I had been seeing the name Crazy De written on walls for some time and had a pretty good idea who he was. While walking up the alley one day toward G.C.’s house, I ran into Crazy De. We formally introduced ourselves and I asked him if he wanted to kick it with us. Although he was already from the set, he kicked it with other people. A jovial cat of my age with happy eyes and a Hollywood smile, De became my road dog. He clicked right away with the others, too. I took him over to the “white apartments,” where we had everybody and their parents claiming or sympathizing with our set. He loved it!

From this point on, De and I were inseparable. The set was still relatively small, and everyone knew each other. (When speaking of small here, I mean approximately seventy-five to eighty people. That’s a small set. Today it’s not unusual for sets to be a thousand deep.) Though there were various sides and sections, we all met up at meetings in our park, though this usually occurred only when someone had been killed or some serious infraction had been committed. I continued to see and associate with G.C, Lep, and the others—but it wasn’t the same with Tray Ball missing. He was the glue that bonded us.

Besides this, I had escalated from little homie to homie, and was putting in much work and dropping many bodies. In fact, some shied away from me because I took things, they said, “too serious.” But Crazy De overstood me and my thirst for a reputation—the purpose of all gang members. For I had learned early that there were three stages of reputation to go through before the title of O.G—Original Gangster—would apply righteously:

1. You must build the reputation of your name, i.e., you as an individual;

2. You must build your name in association with your particular set, so that when your name is spoken your set is also spoken of in the same breath, for it is synonymous; and

3. You must establish yourself as a promoter of Crip or Blood, depending, of course, on which side of the color bar you live.

In 1978 I was fourteen, and still working on the first stage. But I had as much ambition, vitality, and ruthlessness to succeed as any corporate executive planning a hostile takeover—a merger was out of the question. Gangbanging in the seventies was totally different than what’s going on today. The gang community on both sides was relatively small, contained in certain areas, and sustained by the few who kept the faith in their belief. Although all gang members are in the military, all gang members are not combat soldiers. Those who are stand out, and all fear and respect them. This is true up to this day.

By now, of course, I had acquired my own weapon—a blue steel .44 Bulldog. It was small and fit into my pocket. I kept it on me at all times.

One afternoon my little brother and a friend (both later would become fierce combat soldiers in their own right) were eating chili dogs at Art’s. Frank—my brother’s companion—left his chili dog wrapper on the outdoor table, and it blew to the ground. Eric, who had been hired by Art as not just a cook but a watchdog, was a hothead already and needed little provoking to act like a complete fool. He told my brother to pick up the paper. When my brother explained that it was not his paper, Eric became angry and collared my brother and ripped his shirt. Angry and confused, my little brother went home and got my mother, older brother, and sister.

I was out on a ten-speed, patrolling the ’hood with, of course, my .44. Ironically, I was sitting on the corner of Florence and Normandie Avenue, across from Art’s, when I saw my mother’s car with everyone in it pull to a stop at the light. Here I was, waiting for some action, and it pulled right up—fate, I guess. My older brother signaled for me, so I followed them across the street to Art’s. No one knew I was strapped. As I rode up my older brother was standing there arguing with Eric. Then my brother hit Eric in the face, and they began to fight. I immediately dismounted and rushed up on Eric’s flank to get a hit in, but he was swift and struck me in the ear, knocking me back. All the while my mother was frantically shouting for us to stop, stop the fighting. Mad now, and insulted, I drew my weapon, aimed, and pulled the trigger. CLICK.

Damn, I remember thinking, I only got three bullets, and I didn’t know where in the cylinder they were! The click stopped everything—and then everybody seemed to move at once. Eric ran toward the chili stand, my brother rushed to me. Before I could aim and fire, my brother and I were wrestling over the gun.

“Give me the gun, I’ll shoot him!” my brother exclaimed.

“No, let me shoot him!” I shouted back.

In our battle for control, the gun was now pointing at my mother’s chest.

CLICK.

My mother jumped, and momentarily I was paralyzed with fright. In this instant I let go of the gun and my brother turned and fired into the chili stand.

BOOM! The .44 sounded like a cannon.

CLICK: another empty chamber.

Eric had by now retrieved his shotgun and was on his way out after us. Seeing him coming, both my brother and I turned and ran. We had barely rounded the corner when the report from the shotgun echoed behind us. He chased us through several yards, firing and tearing up people’s property. He fired a total of eight times, but we escaped unscathed—except for our pride. My mother, sister, and little brother also escaped unharmed, though in great fear for us, for they knew not our fate.