Chapter 5 Fade to Black

By the time I paroled from the California Youth Authority, I was quite lost, confused, and angry at the world. Coming home after spending a couple of years inside felt unfamiliar to me. I definitely did not see the world the same way anymore. I was a stranger in a world that had moved on. Everywhere I went, I was ashamed because I thought people could tell I just got out. I had lost contact with most of my friends from high school. When I ran into old friends, it was awkward to hold a conversation with them. I could tell they were hesitant to talk to me because they heard I had been locked up.

I did what I thought would be best: enroll in college and try to rebuild my life. It was difficult to find jobs because of my criminal conviction, so I did part-time work at different companies.

The gang lifestyle, though, was prevalent in the Vietnamese community in the early ’90s. Even though I was in college, it was normal to be part of a gang. The gang culture gave me a sense of completeness and acceptance, and my life revolved around being with my homeboys, whatever they were up to.

During one of my first weekends home, I was shot at for the first time. We were headed to a park to watch a fight between one of my friends and some guy he had a beef with. It was late in the evening, and we pulled up to the park and turned off the car lights. I was sitting in the back seat and lit up a cigarette. Most fights could escalate quickly, so two of the guys in my car had brought along guns for our protection. Just knowing we had a couple of guns made me nervous but at the same time reassured. I was on active parole and knew I had no business being there. But I did not say a word. These guys had heard of me from the inside, and I did not want to diminish my reputation in their eyes.

I remained quiet in the back of the car, smoking one cigarette after another. Soon enough, I saw headlights of several cars pulling up to the park. One of the cars stopped next to us. Four people sat inside, all wearing dark bandanas over their faces, with their windows rolled down. One of the guys in the back pulled out a shiny silver handgun and aimed at us. I ducked, my cigarette fell on the floor of the car, and the whole world erupted into gunfire all around. Square window fragments fell on my face. I felt the car move as it screeched off. Some more shots rang out, and I could not tell if we were shooting or being shot at. My ears were ringing, and the smell of gunpowder, a smell I became intimately familiar with later on, filled the car. I opened my eyes and saw my cigarette still lit on the floor. I smashed it out with my foot and kicked it under the seat in front of me so nobody could see it and sat back up. I touched myself all over to make sure I was OK. Our car had been hit a few times, and the front passenger window had shattered, but nobody in the car was hit.

It was strangely exhilarating and exciting, yet I never wanted that to happen to me again. Within a couple of weeks, I got my hands on a gun and carried it whenever we met up for trouble. Not until many years later did I see the irony in not wanting to be shot but still being OK with shooting people. Having a gun alleviated my fear of feeling helpless and added to my reputation on the streets.

Whenever I experienced things that scared me, I never wanted it to happen again. Therefore, I resolved to do it first. Getting choked out led me to attack people first. Watching another man get his head stomped out made me never put my head down or lie on the ground in a fight. Seeing someone get beaten up for snitching made me never consider snitching on anyone. Getting shot at without a gun caused me to get one and shoot at others first. That worked for me until the time I ran out of bullets.

It was my homegirl Smurfette’s birthday. She was like the older sister I never had, and we always hung out together. We drank and had deep conversations about life and the world. She encouraged me to leave the gang and figure out something for my life, yet every weekend they were all we hung out with. She told me that I was meant for much more. At the time, it fell on deaf ears.

We were at a nightclub when rival gang members arrived. We recognized them from their gang attire: sandals, oversized slacks, and ball caps. We referred to them as fresh off the boat, or FOBs, because they could not speak English well. We threw punches at each other, knocked over some tables, and security kicked us out. I had guns inside my car, and we planned an ambush at a nearby commercial street. Since these enemies all knew my car, they would naturally follow us. Everyone else was supposed to head for the freeways, and we would meet up after the ambush.

There were two carloads of them following us slowly down the dark street. One of my homeboys, Sandman, jumped out and hid about a hundred yards behind us, along the path they would take. The plan was simple. Sandman was to let them drive past him toward my car, which was parked at the end of the street, and open fire when he had a good angle. We would turn my car around one of the buildings, come out from a parking lot right behind where they entered, and then join in the shooting. Then we could pick up Sandman and make our escape.

Of course, the plan fell apart. For some reason, Smurfette’s car pulled up next to mine after we dropped off Sandman. Gunshots started ringing out, and I knew Sandman had started shooting. I heard different shots and knew they were shooting back at Sandman. We had to go help him! 

“Smurfette! Get on the freeway. Do not follow my car!” I shouted. She nodded, and we sped off. To this day, I am not sure if she heard what I said or not. There were too many shots ringing out. We pulled the car around, and the sound of more gunshots rang through the streets. As we came around the building behind them, I thought for sure they were out of bullets. Our driver slowed down, and we opened fire on a couple of the idiots who had stepped out of their cars. They began shooting back an inordinate amount of shots. I could not comprehend how they could have so many bullets!

We turned down the street, and Sandman jumped in breathless. “Those fuckers are crazy, dude! One of them was running at me, shooting with his sandals on like he was still in Vietnam!” he exclaimed. Smurfette’s car was right in front of us, headed for what looked like a nearby freeway.

Our conversation was cut short as the sound of a car coming up behind us had us all turn around. I aimed at the driver and began shooting in hopes of slowing them down. Bang, bang, bang! Three quick shots and the slide on my gun locked back, exposing the barrel. I was out of bullets.

“I’m out of bullets! Don’t let them pull up next to us!” I yelled.

“Fuck! I am out too,” muttered Sandman. Our driver floored the gas pedal, but the other car continued to gain ground on us, and they were still shooting. We came to an intersection, braked hard, screeched, swerved, and made a hard left turn. My body shifted to the right, and I saw the green traffic lights swirl around me. The pursuing vehicle didn’t have time to react but instead continued to chase Smurfette’s car. 

I do not know if they were shooting at her car or not, but she tried to make a hard right turn at an intersection and instead hit the light pole. She was thrown from the car but was still alive according to the first witness at the scene. Smurfette bled to death on the cold black asphalt that night.

Smurfette’s death was humiliating to our gang. Someone had killed one of ours, and until we retaliated, we had lost face on the streets. We all knew what we had to do, yet I saw the hesitancy in some of my homeboys. Instead of acknowledging the fear in myself, I became disgusted at many of them. I never wanted anything like this to happen again, so I bought some high-capacity clips. I thought more bullets would be the answer to it all.

Of all places, Smurfette was buried at the same cemetery as my father. Her death put me in a dark place. She loved alcohol; I would buy some, go to her grave in the evenings, and inebriate myself while pouring some on the ground for her as a sign of respect. Many times, I did not even visit my father’s grave while there. After I was drunk, I would go hunting for the group who was responsible for her death. Even if I did not find them, I always found other gang members to shoot at.

By the summer of 1995, at age twenty-one, I lost any perspective of what it meant to have a soul and no longer saw other gang members as even half humans but as targets to take my anger out on.

There were numerous shootings over the next few years, but one in particular stands out. One night, I was passed-out drunk in the back seat of my Acura Integra as my brother drove us home. While at a stoplight, a car pulled up next to our passenger side and opened fire. I woke up disoriented, my ears ringing, and saw my brother slouched over the center console armrest. The buckle to the automatic seat belts where his head had been was shattered. Square window shards were all over his shoulders and in his hair. I felt sick to my stomach. Cold air was streaming in through the passenger window.

My brother finally moved and miraculously was not hit anywhere. He said it was a black Honda Accord that had opened fire on us. When he described the rims that it had, I knew which particular gang had tried to kill us. These guys knew my car, and I was furious that they had ambushed us like that. My brother had almost died because of my gang ties. The next opportunity I had, I was going to kill any and all of them, I told myself.

The next day, we drove to Los Angeles. My friend had an auto body shop that would fix the damage to my car. While they were working on it, I kept thinking about my brother and what had happened. Part of me wished this could all stop, but the only way I saw it ending was with more violence. I could not wait to find these fuckers slipping on the streets. They were all going to pay.

The repairs took all day, and it was dark when we almost got home. At a traffic light, I noticed movement in a black Honda Accord several cars behind us. There were four guys inside pulling on ski masks. It was the attackers from the night before! Instinctively, I wanted to jump out and open fire, but there were too many witnesses around. I knew they would follow us and instructed my brother to turn down a series of residential streets, then jumped out with my gun and an extra clip.

“Keep the headlights on, and turn the car and block the street,” I ordered him. He hesitated. “Just do it!” I yelled. I ran back up the way the Honda Accord would be coming and hid between two parked cars on the side in which the driver of their vehicle would be closest to me.

I already played out in my mind how this would go down. My enemies would drive up and see the taillights of my car stopped ahead. They would slow down or stop while they figured out what to do. That is when I would come from their blind side and take two shots at their car. Their natural instincts would be to duck down. From there, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. I would run up and unload at the driver first, so he could not move the car. The other three would still be ducking, and it would be a matter of emptying my first clip at the rest of them. Then I would reload the second clip and make sure they were all dead. How dare they try to kill me and my brother, I thought. Didn’t they know who I was? Didn’t they know who they were messing with?

Inside my car was the last clip; this would be for the getaway in case police responded. I knew committing multiple murders would get me the death penalty, and I was not going to get caught.

The sound of a car horn and my brother yelling at me shook me out of my murderous thoughts. It was hard to understand what he was saying, but he had my attention. He must have spotted a police car or something. I ran back to my car and jumped in.

We took off, and my brother looked at me.

“You were going to kill those guys back there! What are you doing? What is wrong with you?” He looked at me like he did not know me. I couldn’t believe my brother had called me back to the car because he did not want me to kill these guys! 

“Fuck that,” I justified. “They were trying to kill us last night, and they were going to try again tonight. I could have wiped them all out tonight, and their gang wouldn’t be about shit no more.”

We did not speak about it further, but something had shifted between my brother and me. It bothered me the way my brother had looked at me. That was the night I knew I was alone in the world because nobody understood how I now saw it. 

If you liked what you read, and think it could be of value to those inside, please consider purchasing some for donation!