- There were a bunch of people sitting on a brick wall that stood in front of a house near the corner of Eighty-third and Normandie. As we approached the crowd, I hesitated a little. These kids looked tough and like they didn't like anybody. I'd seen some tough kids during my running-away escapades. But no one nearly as tough-looking as these folks. Fly, sensing my hesitation, grabbed my arm and pulled me up to the bunch who were passing several blunts and 40s of "Old 8"-forty-ounce bottles of Olde English "800" Malt Liquor (also sometimes called "8-ball").

As we got closer, Fly threw up his three middle fingers and shouted, "G-a-n-g-s-t-a-s!" This greeting seemed to rile up the others who replied with various greetings. Some said, "What's up, cuzzz?" Others replied, "Tray that." Still others hollered back, "G-a-n-g-s-t-a-s!" Those who didn't verbally respond either threw up three fingers or a C.

As one of the Eight-Trays handed Fly a joint, he introduced me as his cuzzzin Cupcake.

"Cupcake, huh?" a tall, very thin light-skinned kid asked (whom I later learned was called "Bones").

"What's up, cuzzz?" the group replied in unison.

A young man who said his name was "Monster" hopped off the wall and handed me a 40. I'd later learn that Monster was an OG and known for his unusual taste for violence.

Another girl handed me a joint and introduced herself as China. China was Monster's girlfriend and one of the downest homegirls on the set. She was also known as Mooney.

I took a hit off the joint and a sip off the 8-Ball. Instantly I knew that I was with the right crowd.

"Nooney" and "Spooney" were other female gang members I met that night. Nooney, Mooney, and Spooney were very close-as you might've guessed.

Another girl member was called "Big Lynn." She stood six foot two and weighed at least 260 pounds. I knew she had to be one of the downest female Gangstas. She was too big not to be.

There were entire families in the gang. "Crazy D" was another OG, also known for his ability to fight and his love of violence. Crazy D's little brother, "Lil Crazy D," was also a Gangsta, as was his sister Peanut.

There were tons of other homies with odd or unique gang names like "Red," "Gangsta C," "Diamond," "Tray-Bone," "Bootsey," and "Tray-Ball." I was trying to figure out the origin of each name but folks were being introduced too fast.

All of a sudden Crazy D hopped off the wall and began walking toward me with his chest stuck out, anger in his face, a blue rag in hand, and snarled, "What set you from?"

I'd never been asked that question before. I was scared and unsure of what to say.

"She don't bang, cuzzz," Fly interjected as he stepped in between us, "but she gon' be down wit' us." ("Being down" means doing whatever the gang says: fighting, shooting, stealing-whatever is best for the gang.) "Right, right," Crazy D said. "Is she down?" he asked.

"Nigga, you sayin' my cuzzzin ain't down?" Fly snapped as he angrily stepped closer to Crazy D.

I got nervous at Fly's sudden anger. I hadn't yet realized he was using his reputation to help me get started with mine.

"Naw, cuzzz," D replied as he began to back down. "A nigga's just asking."

"Come on, y'all, stop trippin'," Mooney said, irritated by the men's testosterone display.

"What's up, cuzzz?" she asked as she took the joint from me and hit it.

I still hadn't learned the lingo. I shyly responded, "Nothing."

I wasn't shy for long. As the 8-Ball and weed began to kick in, I began to feel more and more confident. But not until Monster saw me shivering and offered me his jacket did I realize I was with a different kind of people. During my travels running away and living on the streets, nobody ever gave you anything. If someone saw you shivering, she'd grab hold of her own jacket for fear you'd try to steal it. And if you put yours down, you'd better not let it leave your sight or it'd be gone. It was dog-eat-dog out there. So Monster's display of kindness and thoughtfulness was unusual to me. I liked it.

They were so polite and caring. So it threw me off when, the next night, they kicked my ass.

16.

FOLLOWING MOONEY'S INSTRUCTIONS, I met her and the other female homies at Peanut's house. I still hadn't learned my way around the hood, so Fly walked me over there. I didn't suspect anything when he refused to go in with me. I figured it was gonna be a girls' night so he would have been out of place anyway.

Waiting for me were Mooney, Nooney, Spooney, Yokey, Pokey, Crip Karen, and Big Lynn. The fellas were out hoo-ridin' on the 60's. (To "hoo-ride" on another gang meant to drive through their set looking for people to shoot or beat up or both.) I didn't notice that they were all completely dressed in blue. We sat around for a while smoking joints and drinking 8-Ball when suddenly Peanut stepped up to me.

"So you wanna be a Gangsta, bitch?" she snarled.

Before I could respond, Spooney was at her side. "You down or what?"

While I was trying to think of an answer, I felt a stinging on the right side of my face. Crip Karen had punched me.

I was still stunned from the shock (and pain) when Yokey stepped up and punched me in the arm. Immediately, all the other homies started punching me.

They're jumping me! I realized. Shit, I thought these heifers were my friends!

As the punches started coming, Mooney shouted to me, "Fight, cuzzz, fight! Show us you down! Fight!"

Down? Was I down? Is this what being "down" meant-getting yo' ass whupped?

As they pounded me, I began to flash back on the last couple of years of my life: finding my mother dead, that asshole Mr. Burns, losing my daddy and Uncle Jr.

They kept pounding. The strength of their blows was now knocking me to the ground.

Still, I wouldn't fight.

Still, the punches kept coming.

I continued remembering: Diane, the rapes, the abuse, the cheerleading practices.

The girls now added kicks to the punches.

My past continued flashing: getting pregnant, getting jumped, losing my baby.

All of a sudden the anger began to rise up in me. The rage I had been holding in for years began to quickly swell at the possibility of finally being released.

And released it was, in a flurry of fists as I began to fight-and cry.

I struggled to get to my feet, which was difficult with the blows constantly hitting their marks: my eyes, my head, my ribs, my shoulders, my legs.

I continued to struggle until I wobbled up onto my feet. Once up, I begun wildly swinging at everything and anything. My rage made me forget the intense pain that just a moment before had been shooting through my body.

I swung with everything I had-and for everything I'd lost. I fought and cried and fought and cried.

The homegirls soon realized that I had taken getting jumped in too seriously. They were concerned that if they didn't stop me, they'd have to kill me-to keep me from killing them.

"Damn, homie! Chill!" Spooney shouted as she stepped back to get out of my line of fire.

I kept fighting. And crying.

"Okay, cuzzz!" Nooney shouted as she too tried to ease up on her blows.

One by one, they were trying to pull back while simultaneously protecting themselves from my punches.

I kept fighting. I didn't stop till Big Lynn grabbed me by my neck, her huge right hand blocking my air flow. "Chill out, lil bitch," she ordered as I began to slow my swings and weaken from the lack of air.

She effortlessly tossed me onto a beanbag chair on the floor a few feet away, as if tossing a rag doll. We were all huffing and puffing-tired and out of air.

"Lil bitch got heart," Big Lynn said as she lit up another joint.

"Yeah, that's the kind of swinging we like to see," Yokey said, taking a swig of 8-Ball.

They all sat looking at me with pride and admiration.

By fighting back, I'd proven I wasn't a mark or a wimp. I'd been jumped in. I'd earned my place in the Eight-Tray Gangstas.

Finally, I belonged to something.

- That night, we got fucked up and celebrated my initiation.

Later, when Fly, Monster, Lep, and some of the other homies came by to see how things had gone, I proudly displayed my black eye, busted lip, and bruised body parts as proof that I was down. I'd made it in.

"I hear you got heart, lil nigga!" Lep said as he gulped down some Night Train.

"What'd you think, cuzzz?" Fly responded before I could answer. "That's MY lil cuzzzin!"

"Aw, nigga!" they all chimed as they took turns bear-hugging and congratulating me. Their hugs made me wince because my body was still very sore from the fresh beating. But I didn't care. They loved me.

It was then that I knew that as long as they loved me and accepted me, I could learn to hate red. Fuck it, I told myself. I'll find a new favorite color.

17.

THERE WAS NO difference between male and female Gangstas: they hung together on the set; the girls earned their street names; they were expected to do whatever it took to earn stripes; and they were expected to give their lives for the set-just like the boys.

Gangstas shared everything. No one ever went hungry or cold. If you fucked with one of us, you fucked with all of us. I loved the camaraderie and the fact that I finally belonged somewhere, with people who truly gave a fuck about me. My "jumping in" ceremony caused the homies to dub me "Lady Lightning" because when I hit, I hit hard and fast. Except no one ever called me Lightning; everyone still called me Cupcake. I don't know if they did that because that was how I was first introduced to them and so it stuck, or if they did it because they thought that Cupcake was more original and cute. Which it was. Whatever the reason, Cupcake was the name I used and I always "tagged" (spray-painted) "Lady Cupcake."

The Gangstas added a new drug to my already sizable narcotic arsenal: PCP, also known as "sherm." It was called sherm after a brand of filterless cigarettes called Shermans, which were dipped into a concoction of several ingredients, one of which was formaldehyde-embalming fluid. The combination was called "sherm stick." But sherm is just one of PCP's street names. It is also called "angel dust" or "lovely."

Me, myself, I didn't give a fuck what it was made of-embalming fluid, lighter fluid, or balls of shit. I loved my new drug, but I was loyal; I still loved my old ones too.

Sherm, like acid, is a strong hallucinogenic. It could give you a good trip or a bad one. That never scared me because, hell, finding out what kind of trip you'd have was part of the fun. Besides, most of my trips were good ones, even though that wasn't true for a lot of other people. I had several homies who were killed or seriously hurt because of a bad sherm trip.

One night me and some of the homies were hanging out getting shermed, when my homie Thug started on a bad trip. He was just sitting there smoking when suddenly he started shouting that he was Superman. At first it was funny. He started running around jumping off cars and shit. We thought he was just clownin', until he started strippin'. All of a sudden, he was tearing off his clothes-talking about they were "on fire" and "weighing him down." He really looked funny runnin' around stark naked.

"Nigga, put yo' clothes on," Bootsey yelled after him as Thug scurried here and there, butt naked, balls dangling with each step.

We were crackin' up. Everyone started yelling at Thug while we all tripped and watched him trip.

"That nigga crazy!" someone hollered.

"Straight that, cuzzz!" someone else yelled. We thought it was all one big joke-that is, until Thug started climbing a tree next to his house.

"Cuzzz, get down from there!" Tray-Ball shouted.

We'd been having so much fun laughing at him, we didn't realize how bad his trip had turned. And, because we were also shermed, we were all pretty fucked up. Some of the homies were so high, they still didn't realize Thug was in danger. Even after he'd jumped from the tree onto the roof, they were still laughing and shouting shit. Some had started on their own trips: staring at their newly discovered skin, or tripping off the streetlights that seemed to suddenly glow green.

Thug continued ignoring our whooping and hollering and just kept climbing. It looked to me like he was moving in slow motion. When he finally reached the top of the roof, he looked down at us with a wild, dazed look in his eyes. Then he stood there for a moment with his eyes closed, as if he were relaxing in the cool evening breeze. He looked so serene. Slowly, he stretched his arms out in front of him like Superman, opening his eyes to stare at me wildly for an instant, then turned up his lips into a shit-eatin' grin, and jumped hollering, "Superman!" all the way.

It was then I was able to snap out of it and realize what was happening-just in time to see his body plummet to the ground.

Crazy mothafucka! That dive broke both of Thug's arms and legs, his hip, jaw, and a bunch of other shit. It really fucked him up. He was in the hospital for months. Thug was never the same after that. He moved very slowly, like an old man; he was also blind in one eye, almost completely confined to a wheelchair, and slurred his words. But none of that stopped his drug use. Didn't stop none of us. In fact, it made me want more sherm because to make Thug act so crazy, you know that batch was all-the-way live.

That's another name we started calling sherm-"live." Niggas sellin' it would holler, "Got that live!" to potential buyers to let them know they had the good stuff: the sherm that would take you on a trip like none other. So, without hesitation, I quickly became a "shermhead." I figured what happened to Thug wouldn't happen to me-I was too slick to let a trip take me that far.

My bad trips never caused me serious physical harm like Thug's had to him, though I did have some I'd have rather done without-like the ones in which I was unable to move. I'd be high, sitting on the couch or floor, and, try as I might, I wouldn't be able to move any part of my body. I'd be sitting there commanding my legs and arms to move. Upon realizing that that wasn't working, I'd start begging my body to obey. I'd strain and strain trying to just lift a finger. But it was useless. Then I'd try to open my mouth and scream for the homies to come help me. But the mind controls the body, and the sherm was controlling my mind-and it told my mind that my body could not move. And it didn't. So, I'd sit there for hours, wanting to get up, but unable to; wanting to ask for help, but couldn't. But that wasn't the worst part of those trips. The worst part was if I needed to go to the bathroom. If the sherm decided the piss could come out, it had to come out where I sat. The sherm was unyielding, uncompromising, and merciless. Even having to piss wasn't excuse enough to break the paralysis. I remained physically frozen till the high came down.

Although I hated those bad trips, they didn't happen often-so even with episodes when I was unable to move, and even with the periodic humiliation of pissing on myself, nothing deterred me from getting shermed.

- Learning how to be a Gangsta was a fascinating and raucous education. For instance, I had to learn how to shoot. It was important to be able to handle a gun because everyone was expected to be down for the set, to the point of shooting rival bangers if it came to that. A couple of weeks after getting jumped in, Fly, Huck, and Dob taught me how to shoot, which wasn't difficult. Because gunfire was so common in South Central, it was a constant nightmare for the children, "squares," and old folks that lived there. But its regularity also meant that no one paid much attention to it, allowing for shooting practice to happen right in the middle of the hood without fear of the cops being immediately called, which was beneficial to bangers-in-training.

The first type of gun the homies let me shoot was a .38 Special. I'd never seen a gun before, except in old western movies where they had long, thin barrels and seemed larger than life. The .38 had a barrel that was shorter, and it was a lot smaller than the the guns the movie cowboys had, though the .38 was much heavier than I'd thought it would be. Fly taught me how to aim and fire. My practice shots were aimed at a variety of targets: birds flying by, beer cans and bottles lined up along a concrete wall. After my first shot, I felt the gun's kick run all through my arm, and I didn't want to shoot anymore. At the same time, I didn't want to be labeled a "mark" (a mark is a sucker, a sellout, a wimp, a pussy-one of the worst things a supposed-to-be-down Gangsta could be called). So, I drank more Thunderbird and smoked more lovely to make the pain in my arm go away.

Next, while Crazy D practiced shooting a sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun, Fly and Huck taught me how to shoot a .410 shotgun. Fly said the shotgun was his favorite weapon, but I didn't like it. It was long, heavy, and awkward to handle. I immediately decided that I preferred handguns.

"You sure you got it, cuzzz?" Fly asked me when we'd finished practicing and were making our way to Eighty-third Street to catch up with some of the other homies.

"Tray dat," I replied, to let him know I'd gotten "the shooting thang down."

"Good," Huck said, "cuzzz you up Friday night."

I got quiet when he said that because I wasn't sure what being "up" meant. I wanted to ask, but one of the first lessons a Gangsta is taught is: "Don't ask questions." Simply imitate and obey. So I knew better than to ask. Didn't matter though. I was soon to find out.

- Gangsta meetings were periodically called, usually by one of the OGs. The next Friday night, Sidewinder called one at St. Andrew's Park, a spot in our territory we'd rechristened as "Gangsta Park."

Because we were such a large gang, day-to-day info had to travel by word of mouth. The meetings were for social and business purposes. First, they provided an opportunity for all of us to get together at the same place and time, hang out, and get fucked up on weed, booze, dust, or whatever. And second, it allowed for discussion about important issues, like welcoming new homies who'd recently been jumped in, getting the 411 on what was hap'nin' with our enemies, who'd died, who'd gotten locked up, jumped, shot, etc.

That night, all of the homies, except those locked up, of course, showed up for the meeting. Everyone was dressed "to the G" in Gangsta attire: blue or black khaki pants or jeans with tons of starch that formed creases so stiff, the pants could have stood up by themselves; blue khaki shirts with three creases ironed down the front and back; and blue "rags" (bandanas) that were either wrapped around the leg, arm, hand, neck, forehead, or hanging out of back pockets. Some of the female Gangstas even wore blue curlers in their hair or blue nail polish.

Fly and Dob guided me throughout the crowd, introducing me to homies I hadn't met before. I met Smokey, Lurch, Hunchie, and many others. Each one greeted me with a "What's up, cuzzz?," the Tray sign, Crip sign, or some other warm welcome. In the middle of all those flying hand signs, crazy slang, and sea of blue, I felt incredibly loved, extremely powerful, and totally safe.

And there was always plenty of 8-Ball, Night Train, Thunderbird, weed, and sherm being passed around.