A Nation of Amor

REYNALDO MATOS

September 5, at Roberto Clemente High School

Our high school is named after a baseball player, a mother-fucking professional athlete. Not even a politician, and this is Chicago! Then again, Roberto Clemente was the greatest right fielder of all time. Sure … Anyway, other kids attend high schools named after composers or scholars. In West-town, Puerto Ricans go to a school named after a Pittsburgh Pirate. What’s next? Hector Macho Comacho Community College?

There it goes, the three o’clock bell signals an all clear for the blanco teachers. Urban pioneers rush for the Corollas in the staff parking lot as if they are catching the last helicopter off the embassy roof. In less than ten minutes, every Conostoga will be hitched, then nose from within the barbed wire security fence and beat hell outta Fort Clemente. Wagon Train Ho!

Gangster and ye shall receive. To Gangster, the verb: to achieve ends by threatening the use of force. My sole vestige of the civil rights movement is an inalienable privilege to gangster via the community demand; traditionally orchestrated by chaining compadres to the doors of public institutions and raving for the mini-cams, thereby inducing hordes of City bureaucrats to reach for their checkbooks. Those were the days. Now, a guy can’t even work up a good lather. After only cursory protestations, a guidance counselor at Clemente agreed, undoubtedly against his better judgement, to stay after school and grant me an audience this afternoon.

Over 1,000 kids begin every freshman class and the guidance and placement department of Roberto Clemente Public High School consists of four teachers working overtime for $800 a year. Same pay for coaching the sophomore wrestling team. By graduation, I figure that same freshman class must weigh in at about 200 kids; a scant few will receive anything that even remotely resembles college guidance or placement. These counselors are misnamed, should call them guidance ghouls; all they really do is formally withdraw those 800 dropouts from school.

Look at that! A glass and steel visitation on the corner of Division Street and Western Boulevard that we call school. One mile west of the other motherfucking alien spaceships that landed on this town while I was in jail. But this ice blue, reflecting behemoth went off course and touched down amidst a bunch of crazy Puerto Ricans. We promptly attacked it with spray paint cans and baseball bats.

On the planning board those blanco idiots at city hall thought they were doing Westtown some favor by bestowing us this architectural wonder. Big, bright, ideas; like the glass skywalk that passes over Division Street so kids can get from classes to the gym without obstructing traffic. The day Clemente opened, the Latin Kings staged a public V-Out for the benefit of the motorists passing beneath them. Gang culture has its own code of justice. You don’t wanna be a King no more? V-Out. Latin Kings style translates into a handgun shot through the fat of your upper arm. You’ll live, be a tad self-conscious about wearing a dago-T from then on, but you’ll live. After that V-Out the city council funded a feasibility study for the installation of metal detectors at entrances to public high schools. Qué drama, Latin Kings style.

Actually, I could make a good case for the erection of this school as merely an out-of-court settlement in return for the cops killing my brother Angel during the riots. And my other brother, fucking Bobo Matos, the first Puerto Rican alderman in Chicago. Bobo looked so slick when this high school was built. Never mind the fact that Westtown had the most overcrowded classrooms in the city and was due a new school. Oh no, this was Alderman Bobo’s pork chop for the community. I bet the motherfucker promised the mayor we wouldn’t try to kill any more cops. Hecho de hecho.

That first autumn, every pane of glass fell. Latin Kings were putting brick shots up to the third floor windows. Then, the blancos wised up and installed unbreakable plexiglass. Kids discovered that with a key they could scratch gang tags into the tough plastic. Now, five years on, I can’t see through the opaque film left from a generation of Latin Kings tags.

Could be Anytown USA, classes are over, kids are out on the street; girls sharing cigarettes at the bus stop, boys in idling cars lined up in the no parking zones. At the Division Street entrance I make out a silhouette beyond the frosty, gang scarred window. I pound my fist against a handleless metal door and an amplified, blanco voice cracks from a cheap intercom. Goddamm security, might as well be back in jail.

Name?

I’m Reynaldo Matos from El Cuarto Año Alternative High School. I have an appointment with Mr. Smiley.

Motherfucker takes his time. Kids laugh and point at me from the street.

Do you have any identification?

I pull a card from my wallet.

Hey asshole, you want me to read this to you or what?

Slip it under the door, the voice orders.

Except that in Anytown USA the spinster schoolmarm asks you to take a load off and stokes up the tea and cookies. A minute later the latch snaps, doors blow open and some muscleman school narc yanks me inside. He quickly shuts the door behind me, a big metal bolt clicking into the door jam.

This pig weighs about 250 pounds and can bench press twice that. He has a beeper, check that, two beepers and a walkie-talkie. He hands me a clipboard.

Sign in, he says.

You want my shoelaces and belt?

I make for the escalators and notice the blood. Must have been some fight. The down escalator is stopped. Blood, collected from where the steps fold into the floor, is smeared along the black belted handrail. At the top of the escalator are two kids, Latin Kings dressed in black and gold, cleaning the handrail with buckets and rags. Behind the narc is a cluster of more Latin Kings.

Looks like the Kings are telling the freshman class exactly what time it is. Anybody with an enterprising notion has been clearly informed of just who controls the local drug turf. Maybe I could get a research grant to explain how street gangs in Chicago are delineated on superpower, cold war terms? There’s Folks, the Disciples and all of their allied gangs, and there’s People, the Latin Kings and all of their allied gangs. Clemente is a People school. A Folk cousin by marriage fails the first week of school, Latin Kings security clearance. You’re an aberration, waiting for an accident, soon to be an example.

I rise on the stairs and the narc bellows at the kids. Move!

As if rehearsed, they walk straight for the red puddle and form a circle around it.

Drop! The narc orders.

Five of the kids fall into a push-up position, eyes a foot above the blood. All but one. He poses, throwin’ down a representation for the Kings: arms folded left over right, thumb, index finger and pinky extended from his fist to form the three-pronged crown. Dios mío, it’s my fucking nephew, Mano, one of Angel’s boys.

Synchronized, the others count out repetitions, each time they descend dotting their noses in the blood. The narc grabs Mano by the back of the neck and forces him to a crouch.

The escalator is going up and I’m trying to run down, every step forward I’m carried back. From his knees, Mano tries to get his fists at the narc’s face, swinging at the hulk like something out of a cartoon. None of his punches land.

My feets fail me, the transition from treadmill to lino is too abrupt. By the time I get up Mano is cuffed and the narc is barking into his walkie-talkie. I rush the pig, but then I stop, frozen, and Mano is staring up at me.

The others have quit the push-ups, puffing and panting, wiping the blood from their faces with shirt sleeves. They look so small, like tots, blood dripping from their noses instead of snot, smears like tears on hard cheeks. The stares of twelve unblinking brown eyes will me to clip the narc. I don’t swing and Mano drops his head. No crimson tears of bloody snot on his face, but his hands are cuffed behind his back.

I give my handkerchief to one of the kids.

Use this bro’, don’t mess up your clothes.

The metal doors clank open and four Chicago cops troop in, rolls of pink neck bulging over their baby blue collars. Mano looks up at me.

I’ll follow the squad car Mano. Don’t talk any shit at the station and it’ll be straight.

He nods to me and the cops take him out, one to each arm, one in back, one in front leading the bounty.

MANO MATOS

September 8, in the park

The scales have been lifted to my eyes. I see threats everywhere. Threats to my family. Threats to the moral code I’ve chosen to live by. I’m sick of threats. Someone’s got to pay …

Got to be ruthless. Somebody strong got to save the Latin Kings, a leader to rescue this wandering Nation of Amor. Trust can be a very childish thing, and a man must put childish things away …

Flaco stands alone among us. Flaco don’t wanna be a Latin King no more. V-Out. By dropping his colors my brother determined his own sordid fate. To restore order, I must be the delivery boy for his punishment. Civil War! Brother against Brother …

OR TWO STRANGERS???

Once, I was a mild-mannered tagger, happy to doodle on walls with my simple spray paint cans. Mano, the Minister of Sight, Prince of Propaganda. The spray paint can is mightier than the sword. I deal in pictures.

So did Poppy, in his own way. My father let his actions speak for themselves. We all need a hero.

Tonight, I will start to reclaim this hood for a Nation of Amor. For Poppy. King Love!!!

Someone must avenge the cancer of corruption that has spread since Poppy’s death. My pretty tags alone ain’t enough no more.

The boys will be boys. And this hood’s got too boring for all of us. We’re out, ready, my army is assembled, a great circle of Amor around Flaco, a ring of steel strong as a handcuff. Twitchy Kings pant misty breath into the night. It’s a junta, it’s a leveraged buyout. Flaco has abdicated. The King is dead. Long live Mano!

I step forward into the heart of the circle. Somebody switches on the fog lights of a Toyota. Me and Flaco glow green in the dark from the knees up. We look like we be standing in a deep, deep puddle. Craggy cloud shadows pass over the full moon.

Meanwhile, beyond this V-Out, past the flame tips of smoking doobs, over the lagoon, past the rest of the park, all West-town is asleep. People tucked into their quiet beds. People like my Mariza, and deep inside her, my baby is asleep too.

Gonna be the shot heard ’round Westtown tonight! Tomorrow, everybody’ll know it was me. Next to Poppy’s plaque I’ve left a tag, a little memorial of my own. A pure square of black, the black of smoke. A three pronged crown in gold, the gold sun of Amor. A symbol. Zip zip zip. The Mark of Mano. My will be done. Justice for this treacherous traitor.

Maybe I don’t talk right. Maybe I can’t write it straight. But I have X-ray vision. I see what others can’t. Then I tag a crown.

The boys are gettin’ restless. They want action. This ain’t no Sunday softball game. Mob voices whisper from the dark fringe.

Do him Mano!

Flaco stares down at me. The gun is heavy in the front pouch of my sweatshirt. This is all his fault, ain’t got nothin’ to do with me. Flaco dropped his colors. Flaco don’t want to be a King no more. Flaco is my brother, but the Kings are my bro’s. Sheeit, all words, more sorry ass words, more empty words, just kinky black shapes on the page, just hot breath on my neck.

Flaco takes off his black sweatshirt, takes off the gold T-shirt. His skin glows a green Hulky color in the fog light. Flaco’s strong, his body drawn with a razor-sharp pencil. The cuts of his pecs, lats, biceps and triceps make little shadows.

Family ties are the ones that bind. Flaco ran this hood from since he was fourteen. He can’t walk away from the Black and Gold. I can’t let nobody in this hood walk away from Amor. King Love!!!

Out the punk!

Flaco kneels down in front of me. My brother, I’ve got to shoot my brother. His nipples get hard like a girl’s in the cold night air. I reach for his right arm. Flaco lifts his head to beg for mercy.

Mano, he whispers, my other arm. So I can still write in school.

Punk! You worry about school when Poppy already gave you everything. You are his heir. You are strong and smart, braver than I’ll ever be. Can’t you see me Flaco? Look! They need a leader and you won’t lead. We got nothin’ here without the Kings! Why Flaco? Why?

I pull at the loose skin under his other arm, but there ain’t much. I lift the gun out and point it towards the stars. So close, so easy. My finger on the trigger, the barrel only inches from my ear.

It could be me? Who’s right and who’s wrong when brothers become Two Strangers? One shot, 4-ever. I could go to a heaven where all colors are People colors. No more spray paint handcuffs of only Black and Gold. I could tag with thick oily paint drops … Blue, a vein pumped on a sweaty forearm. Red, juicy fruit lipstick. Pink, a dirty smudge where somebody got erased.

But I’d still remember. Some things, no man can forget. Like Folks on a joy ride, the flash bulb firecracker from the back seat and Ka-Boom!!! Homeboy is down and out, another black hat skids to the pavement, no more head to fill it. Like Husky the Puerto Rican cop, raising his night stick high with a diabolical leer then Kerwhack!!! A porky squeal as he brings it down on my back. Like Poppy before the firing squad, the guns shouldered and pointed and Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! A hollow burst of fire and Poppy’s dying in the park but nobody knows which gun killed him.

Flaco looks up to me, his eyes tough and impatient, a halo of loose curls around his head.

Get it done Mano! Flaco yells. Do it bro’!

Don’t call me bro’ no more, I murmur.

I press the gun barrel into the fat of his arm and Thoop!!! V-Out. The King is dead. Long live Mano.

The boys scatter. I pimp it, nice and slow. Flaco’s behind me in the darkness now, he can walk back alone. I can see that craggy moon leading me home, feel the nighttime dew squeaky clean on my hightops.

Division Street is quiet and empty. The Hood sleeps safely tonight. Mariza will be there for me, waiting warm in my bed. I must protect her from these things. What a man’s family doesn’t know won’t hurt them.

There’s a fat shadow waiting by my door, a darker shade of nothing against the nighttime. There’s a hat, and the moonlight glints on the shiny brim. I draw my six-shooter.

Put that away you knucklehead!

Husky the cop steps to me outta the darkness.

You couldn’t even walk him home and make sure he’s all right? Could you? Husky says. He crosses his heavy arms over his belly.

I understand, Husky tells me, some things you got to do. I’ll look the other way. But don’t push your luck. You’ll force me to lock you up one of these days.

Husky lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. I knew your father. Better than you think. Angel Matos was a good man. Don’t push too hard. Take it easy kid. Life’s too short.

He walks slowly past me and heads for the park. I can taste the decay in the air. Some things a man never forgets …

REYNALDO MATOS

September 13, at Roberto Clemente High School

All booked up, no room at the jail. These days, a minor needs a murder rap to get a reservation. Until Mano turns eighteen, judges, lawyers and probation officers will pass him back and forth like a nasty joke. But when the police pick him up after his eighteenth birthday, the judge will greet him like Norman Bates, a neon sign on the bench flashing vacancies, vacancies, vacancies …

Same damn narc at the school doors. The pig must sleep with that clipboard, a check here, asterisk there, the kind of motherfucker who logs kill rates. By now, he’ll have passed primary responsibility for Mano to the beat cops. The blues will amuse themselves by yanking Mano from street corners and kicking his ass in the alley. Do I remember the old body shots from a night stick … I always maintained my pretty, young face, but my legs and ribs were so battered I used a cane and stooped like some viejito.

The up escalator retains salmon-colored traces on the handrail. Schools never seem clean; blood, urine, saliva, vomit, all wiped down and spread out, then sprinkled with disinfectant. Chemical pine perfume deodorizing human waste, the smell of education.

At the top of the escalator twenty alleged students mill before the glass doors to the guidance office. As I open the door a kid emerges and I’m eyeball-to-eyeball with Flaco, another motherfucking nephew, Angel’s other boy. If it isn’t old home week!

Caught the punk comin’ out of the principal’s office, and Flaco’s the reputed scholar of the two. In respect of the audience he brazenly chills on me, made bold by twenty defiant, adolescent mugs. I’m visibly unimpressed. So he eases his pimp and straightens up for a free political broadcast on behalf of Flaco Matos. But Flaco has me fucked up with some other uncle if he thinks I’m buyin’ a Colgate smile and a vertical spine.

What were you doin’ in there?

Nothin’ Uncle Rey.

What makes a kid believe he can play off anybody over the age of thirty as if they are some sángano homeroom teacher? Clemente is like a lazy Skinner Box, conditioning youth for the village idiot Olympics. What were you