Hood Legends: This Thing We Started

By Michael Jourdain

In Hood Legends, Michael Jourdain recounts how two men's ideology changed the world, and greatly influenced his life. He would come to know Stanley "Tookie" Williams, founder of the Crips, through his friendship with his sister, Francine, while he was a young teenager. Tookie's drive to be a powerful leader inspired Mich

• Language: English
• Publisher: Esoteric Publications
• Release date: Jul 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088034002

Book preview

Preface

As a result of the continued economic and political challenges of children growing up in South Central Los Angeles, the inspiration came to write this book, hopefully to give hope to the less fortunate, that if one from amongst them can be successful, so can they. In every metropolitan city: Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta, Houston, Oakland, as well as in every underserved community in America and across the globe, there is a hood and each and every one of them can be healed and whole.

This book will bring you face-to-face with the reality of gang and drug culture in the United States of America and around the world. It will also highlight that without proper education, the vicious cycle that has been occurring in the lives of impoverished people will only continue to repeat itself, unless we as a collective whole, no matter what race, creed, or color, change the way we think.

Everything starts at ground zero, The Hood.

Chapter One

I grew up at the intersection of Sixth Avenue and Sixtieth Street, the intersection of love and loyalty, the intersection of life and death.

During elementary school, I lived on Fifty-Ninth and Haas Avenue, and there I would get my early training in all things Hood – from the charity of the neighborhood to the ugliest violence.

I was about eight years old when LA experienced the 1965 Watts Riot. Military jeeps equipped with fifty caliber machine guns and soldiers were on the streets to stamp out the Negro outrage. Mom kept us inside for most of it so nothing would happen to us. But I knew blacks were against the police because police had did something wrong to a black.

When the police did something against one of us in those days, it was just like they did it to all of us. We stood together because we couldn’t allow police and whites to do what they were doing to blacks in the south and in other parts of the world.

The Watts Riots would leave the spirit of rebellion in all of us – rebellion that would act out in so many ways. In some cases, very strange ways. We all had come to an agreement, not even spoken in words, that no one would ever sic a dog on us or beat us with a stick or hang us.

Growing up in South Central Los Angeles was really challenging as a child with three sisters, one brother and no father in the home. I could remember getting up in the mornings around six a.m., just walking up and down the street with Champ, my little dog. Champ was a red Cocker Spaniel mixed with Fox Terrier, a handsome dog. We would often walk together in the mornings while I waited for my friends to wake up. Most of them were late risers but my mom wouldn’t allow that. I had to be out of bed by six a.m., maybe seven a.m. on the weekend.

Some of the elderly ladies on the block would see me and ask, Michael, what are you doing?

Waiting for my friends to wake up so I will have somebody to play with.

I remember one of the ladies named Ms. Kinney, once asked me, Michael, would you like some bottles? You could take them down to the corner store, turn them in, and get a refund and have some money in your pocket.

Of course, I did. In the poor state that I was in, how could I turn down anything that would earn me money.

She told me to meet her in the backyard. When I reached her backyard, Ms. Kinney stood there all smiles with a big bag of bottles in her hand.

I rushed to the corner store, turned the bottles in to the store clerk for a refund of $1.50. I bought some candy, potato chips, and a soda pop. Now, I was all smiles while I was eating my goodies. It felt good to have money in my pocket and not have to ask my mother for it – the origin of my hustle game.

When I made it back to the block on Haas Avenue, some of my friends were up now sitting on a porch at Ms. Green’s house. I shared my potato chips, candy, and soda with them.

Where did you get the money to go to the store? Clifford asked. Let me have some more potato chips. I looked at his feet, thinking as big as they were that he probably stayed hungry.

I got up real early while you guys were sleeping, and started making money.

They all laughed.

No, I’m serious. Watch, I’m gonna have money. I’m gonna have lots of money.

You’re just dreaming, Dewey said. In many ways, he was right. I was dreaming of a better future, and I determined from an early age to do everything I could to accomplish that goal.

Once all of our friends were outside, we discussed what we would do to have fun. Fun for us was racing our bikes down the street or racing on foot or whatever we invented at the spur of the moment. Other than that, there wasn’t much. My mother would take her children to the little amusement park on Western between Gage and Slauson once a year.

All the guys agreed to go to Van Ness Park to play football. We would always see older guys hanging out there, and we knew they were the Van Ness Gang (VNG). Fighting or shooting seemed to always follow them, so we were careful when they were around. None of us wanted to become a victim.

We would see these guys in lowriders or fancy cars, and wearing jewelry. Many of the girls that hung around them wore short skirts and high heels. These faces were some of our earliest role models: drug dealers, pimps, prostitutes, burglars, robbers, counterfeiters, and some murderers. Welcome to South Central Los Angeles.

There was a family that lived in our neighborhood called the Halls. Everyone was afraid of the Halls. They were the bullies on the block. Most of them have been in juvenile hall, boy’s and girl’s homes, county jail, and even state prison. I was eight years old, and my oldest sister, Adrian, was eleven years old.

The bullies redirected everyone off the public sidewalk in front of their house to the one across the street, and I always steered clear of them. But Adrian was stubborn and refused to be redirected. As we rushed by their house on the way home, one of the guys who hung out on the porch drinking beer and smoking weed all day shouted out to my sister, but we kept on walking. He left the porch, jogging behind us, and started pulling on Adrian’s pigtails.

I told him to leave my sister alone. He didn’t even pay my eight, year old growl any attention. He just told me to shut up. My sister started crying, then she started running home, and I ran behind her.

My mother met us at the door, and asked my sister what was wrong. Through her tears, said, This guy name Chester pulled my hair.

My mother told her to calm down and got us both something to drink. Then she asked us to explain what happened. We explained step-by-step. After my mother heard our story, she told us to go watch TV. I heard her pick up the phone and wondered who she was talking to.

Then I realized she was talking to my father, explaining to him what had happened. The next day, my father and uncle Jack came to our house. He said, Michael, I need to talk to you.

Okay.

My father was a handsome man when he wasn’t displaying his ugly temper – a French Creole from New Orleans, Louisiana. He had just finished serving his tour of duty as Sergeant Rene’ Jourdain, and the United States government had taught him how to be a well-trained killer. He reminded me of the gangsters that my brother Dwight and I would sometimes watch on TV – Edward G. Robinson, James Cagney, and Humphrey Bogart.

Michael, show me the guy who put his hands on your sister.

I don’t want to, I’m scared!

Don’t fear this guy, only fear God and your father. I hesitated, then looked into my father’s fearless eyes, then lead the way to their house about three doors down.

Guys and girls were sitting on the porch, smoking weed, drinking, cursing, and laughing. They glanced at us and continued their party. Which one pulled on your sister’s hair? dad asked.

I pointed out Chester. My father quickly whipped out a .45-caliber automatic pistol from his waistband, and hit Chester over the head. Chester fell to the ground screaming, a pool of bright red blood poured from his head.

Dad shouted, All these straight hair kids that you see in that house belong to me, and if you ever put your hands on anyone of them again, I will kill you!

The next day, Champ and I walked passed the bullies’ house. My confidence had grown. When I saw them sitting on the porch, Chester had a bandage on his head. I looked at them all with a smile on my face.

I was so brave now that I not only walked on the sidewalk past their house, I also walked on their grass. Now what? They all just looked at me. Chester dropped his head in shame.

After dad gave Chester that thorough ass-whipping, he moved back to New Orleans. I was sad to see him go, but he explained that the state of California told him to leave or be charged with racketeering for the illegal gambling operation that he ran. I felt this was good in some ways, because no one would know when he would appear again.

I made it to the corner and saw some of my friends playing football in the street. I sat on the curb, waiting for someone else to come out of the house to make the teams even, so I could play. I saw Jonathan and waved him over. Jonathan was as eager to play as I was. He was selected to Carrie’s team and I to Sydney’s team. Carrie and Sydney Justin were the best athletes in our neighborhood, and were usually the captains.

The game was getting really physical, so we all decided to go up to Van Ness Park to play on the grass. While we played football, the gang members would be on the sideline smoking weed, drinking and watching us play. They would encourage us to play hard and to do our best. Some of them would even try to show us how to throw a block. They all seemed to like the violent tackles because all of them would cheer for the big hit and congratulate the tackler.

Lyndaro Moore, who we called Dewey, was my best friend had moved to our neighborhood from Cleveland, Ohio. Most of our parents had arrived in LA from somewhere else to escape whatever conditions that subjugated them, mainly racism and poverty.

Dewey was well known for his Pinocchio nose, that all the guys would make fun of from time to time, especially if someone was mad at him. He didn’t play football or really even any kind of sport. But he would sit on the sideline and cheer us on.

Dewey would interact with the Van Ness Gang even though we were too young to be involved in that kind of stuff. It started getting dark and all of us knew the rule was to be home before the streetlights came on. On the way home, we discussed how people respected the gang members or how they feared them. My father taught me that it was a thin line between respect and being feared. Dewey asked me if I had ever thought about being in a gang.

No, not really. I’ll see you tomorrow, I said as I rushed into my house.

Monday morning always came around too fast, ending a perfectly good weekend. I heard my mother walking down the hallway, shouting. Michael, it’s time to go to school. Get up, brush your teeth, and wash your face. Your breakfast will be ready. My mom wouldn’t let any of her children leave her house before they were fully groomed and fed.

I laid there for a while trying to think of an excuse so I wouldn’t have to go to school, and my mother came through the door.

Michael, did you hear what I said?

Mom, I don’t feel good today.

That’s okay. You’ll feel better later.

So much for that unsuccessful maneuver. I hopped out of bed, took care of my hygiene, then went to the kitchen, ate my favorite breakfast, Captain Crunch cereal, kissed my mother goodbye, and walked three blocks from my house down to Fifty-Ninth Street School, thinking I would be so glad when I finished elementary school.

Although I still had a few years to go before I enrolled in Horace Mann Junior high school, I looked forward to that day. I walked into my classroom. Ms. Falcon, a heavy, set teacher with a mean disposition, had a special seat for me right in front of her desk where she could watch me.

I once sat in the back of the class, which gave me too much room to talk and play with my friends and not pay attention. Back then, it was called acting out. My inattentiveness stemmed from feeling somewhat neglected because my father and mother didn’t live together like some of my friend’s parents did.

I loved my father very much, and at least he came around to make sure we had the things that we needed like clothes and food. But I still felt neglected. I truly believed that a boy needed his father to help him grow up to be an upright citizen, to be a man.

My mother did the best she could, and by most expectations, she did a great job. Some of my teachers and a few other people probably felt she wasn’t doing such a good job. But raising five kids in South Central Los Angeles alone was no easy task. In my eyes, my mother was a Goddess.

Chapter Two

In 1969, my mother packed us up and we moved from Fifty-Ninth Street and Haas Avenue to Sixth Avenue and Sixtieth Street into a moderate sized, two, bedroom, eggshell white house. I slept in a bed in mom’s room, and in the other room, Adrian and Shelia had twin beds. Dwight slept on the pull-out couch in the living room. My baby sister, Charmaine, wasn’t born yet. A two, dollar clock hung on one wall and a crucified, white Jesus hung on another.

Sixth Avenue was only four blocks away from our old house, and all the houses looked the same in the entire area for hundreds of blocks – rows and rows of stucco houses aligned both sides of the street with an asphalt road down the center, concrete sidewalks and towering Palm trees that reached the Heavens.

All the houses in every hood resembled. But this was a different hood for me, which was okay because I was still able to go to the same school with all of my friends. And the kids from this area would be going to Horace Mann Junior High School together.

When we moved in that first day, a lot of my friends from Haas Avenue came by. Seemed like mom was yelling all day, Michael, your friends are at the door!

As my friends and I were getting a few years older, our focus was on different things, like money and girls and in that order. My homeboy Dewey would always meet me on the corner of Second Avenue and Sixtieth, and we would walk across the tracks to school together.

Dewey had convinced me to join VNG, and after school we were going to get initiated. I was excited and terrified, all in the same thought. The fear of the unknown almost caused me to freeze. But when the time came, I stood tall. At a time when twelve, year old Jewish boys were taking their bar mitzvah, their coming of age ritual, their passage and rites into manhood, I was getting put on a gang by my big homie Swig and other VNGs.

After I was initiated, it became basically like a rule for the boys in the hood to not cross the tracks alone, or to stay on our side of the tracks. It always seemed to be a problem when we crossed the tracks into some of our rivals neighborhood. However, I always went where I wanted to go. The mindset of a boss was quickly developing in me. I learned from my father how to deal with any adversary. You show respect, and you demand yours.

As we were walking to school one day, we ran across some hard heads, the tough guy type. We knew them from Fifty-Ninth Street School and some of us were cool and some of us were not.

One of the guys walked up to Dewey and I, and asked, What are you guys doing across the tracks?

Man, we’re not looking for trouble. We’re just on our way to Horace Mann, I said.

How much money ya’ll got? one of the guys asked.

Dewey had told me that his mother had given him fifty cents. And my mother had given me thirty-five cents to pay for my lunch in the cafeteria. Whatever I have in my pocket belongs to me, I said with conviction in my voice.

Whatever I find in your pockets, is mine.

Let’s get ‘em up, I said and hit him in his jaw before he could respond. He hit me with a couple of punches, then I caught him with a right hook and knocked him out. That was the first time I had earned my respect, and from that day I demanded it. And word about my knock-out punch got around fast. Not backing down and not punking out carried a lot of weight with people from the hood.

Things were different for me my first day at Horace Mann Junior High. I had different classes, different teachers, and I gained a few different friends. There were a lot of other students here that I had never met before. Meeting new people with new attitudes was always a challenge for me. I learned at home that everyone should always treat everyone the way they wanted to be treated. And when I saw people being bullied, I hated it and always wanted to do something about it, and many times, I did do something about it.

The bell just rang, signaling everyone it was time to go to their homeroom. I saw some students hanging out in the hallway and I asked them if they knew where room 225 was.

No.

Okay, thanks. I saw a hall monitor and I asked him and he pointed me in the right direction. When I finally found my homeroom, I walked in to see Tracy’s smiling face. Tracy was what we considered light, light, near white with long blondish brown hair and her hazel eyes were dazzling. She and I went to Fifty-Ninth Street School together and I knew she always liked me, but I was too shy to make a move.

Hi, Tracy. You’re in this homeroom?

Yes.

Do you know the teacher’s name?

You should turn around and read the blackboard. It’s right there.

Thanks. Eventually, I would have done that, smart mouth. Tracy smiled beautifully, her shoulder length hair bouncing. She was a short, but Creole like me, with a very mature looking body. Her face resembled my sister Sheila’s, and I couldn’t get over that, and that was probably why I looked at her as just being a good friend.

After the teacher had thoroughly indoctrinated us in the way she expected us to perform in her class, the bell rang for break time. I walked out to the yard to see what was going on, and saw lots of girls I didn’t know. I could tell the guys that thought they were tough. And I sensed there was going to be a problem at this school because guys with that type of mentality ran in packs like hyenas and when they were all together they acted like bullies.

This made me think, maybe I should start my own crew. I knew young men rolled crewed-up in South Central Los Angeles.

Walking around the school, I began looking for familiar faces, worthy of being part of my crew. I walked over to my homeboy Dewey.

Mike, you seem to be looking for something?

I’m about to put a crew together, man. That’s the way we got to roll at this school. I’m not taking no shit from nobody. You down?

And you know it! Dewey said. I knew he would be, in fact, he was the one that had initially put this notion in my head when he asked me had I ever thought about being in a gang.

Dewey and I walked around recruiting, and we stumbled upon a dice game. I asked Dewey to loan me the fifty cents his mom had given him for lunch, and when I won, I would share my winnings with him. I was that confident. I got into the dice game with eighty-five cents and in short order I won more than eighteen dollars. Someone spotted the school security coming, and everyone ran to class.

Later that day, I ran into three of my homeboys, Michael, Willie and Tony. We all lived on the same side of the railroad track. I told them about the crew I was putting together, and that I felt they were the type of guys I was looking for. I explained to them what I expected of my crew – loyalty, trustworthiness, being true to oneself, and no snitching.

We can talk about it at lunchtime. You guys meet me by the the bleachers.

On my way to math class, I saw the bullies again and they stared me down.

Where you from? one of them asked. And before I could, tell him another guy asked, Where do you live? Which side of the tracks do you live on?

Sixth Avenue and Sixtieth across the tracks.

Why are you going to our school?

Wasn’t my choice, that’s just the way it is.

You sure have a smart mouth. another bully said.

I’m getting ready to go to class. I’ll see you later, I said with emphasis on later, knowing this was just the first of this type of encounter with these guys.

My mind wasn’t on school work as the teacher lectured. As soon as the bell rang for lunch, I headed straight over to the bleachers. When I arrived, they all were there. What’s up? Dewey asked.

"Check this out. Have you guys seen these bullies around the school grounds?

They all nodded.

Well, we’ve had words. They asked me where I was from and where I lived. I told them. Listen guys, I’m not trying to start trouble, but I’m not gonna run from any trouble either.

I sensed that I had gained their support.

"I told the bullies that I would see them later, so we need to go over to where they hang out and