Home, Sweet Home

Looking around the bushes, a group of kids that lived near me watched the Cholos beat a prospective member repeatedly in the face. There were five men holding the one guy and the gang leader, Rick, was beating him. I watched as fists connected many time, the Rick's shoulders rippling with effort. The man was bleeding like I had never seen. He wasn't struggling at all, though he was yelling, obviously in pain. One of the guys doing the holding noticed us and Rick turned around and started yelling at us, then turned back and continued to work on the stomach. I was scared, so I started to leave.
One of the older boys must have felt some excitement over the scene, because he started trying to pick a fight with the younger kids, but my friend Kevin told him to shut the fuck up, which he would pay for later when the boy started to be favored with the Cholos. We left and later went to the park, because we would have to walk by Rick's house, again. The man they had been beating was sitting on the porch, holding his eye in his hand, just outside the socket, waiting for the ambulance. I new it before that day, but at that moment, I resolved to never mess with any mexican person ever. I can't remember how much later, but Rick's little brother was dragged behind a car for a little ways, shredding his back. The scar was incredible and, of course, he was very proud of it. When he showed it to us, I remember thinking that anyone who would willingly be drug behind a car in an effort to get the car to stop in order for the driver to get beat is not someone I could trust. We watched a cholo beat a police officer until other units arrived, beating the man nearly unconcious. I remember my mom was angry that the police were beating the cholo, but I was glad they did, but I knew it meant that the police were to be feared. I have no doubt that those men are all dead.
And, yet, I have a strange respect for them. They definately took care of their own, pretected many of the local kids in ways I didn't know about. A few years after we moved out of town, a dead body turned up in the backyard of the house I had lived in. It had been buried there. The corpse was of a Cholo and it was meant (I have no doubt) to send a message.
It seems like small towns have worse drug problems, whether people know about the problems or not. In Yakima, in my neighborhood, everyone was aware. Violence exists. Drugs exist. Gangs exist. All these things thrive on poverty, and Yakima definately had it's share.
~J