Born to Go to Prison
By Dwayne The Knowledge
My generation was born to go to prison.
America no longer tolerates those whose beliefs are different.
Like the hippies of the ‘60s, we don’t believe we are sinning
we were raised on TV and all we see is criminals winning.
The light at the end of our tunnel is dimming.
When it comes to money, we’re all scamming and skimming
to get to the top, smoking weed till our brains rot.
Moms, no pops, two bedrooms, skids, sleeping on cots
neighborhood stay surrounded with cops
violence forever in the air, every 20 minutes gunshots
gang and turf wars, drug dealers and crack rocks.
All birds of the same feather, so together we flock,
we the next generation of the block.
It all started with our aunts, uncles, moms, pops.
Black Panthers were David, trying to slay the government aka Goliath
when South Central LA was overcome with gang violence,
to 1984 when the crack epidemic in East Oakland reached its highest
now crack was permanently on the scene,
when President Reagan accused our mothers of being welfare queens
so most of our parents hit the streets,
got in a lot of trouble -- they hustled for what they need
so when we were born we began to follow their lead.
Taught to be better than them and always do our best
‘cause of all they did, they didn’t know what to expect
so they tried to stay strong, worked hard, and tried to keep us in check,
but ‘cause they were broke we have no respect
tired of living underprivileged, hungry, and in debt
stopped going to church, ‘cause our life was such a mess.
We hit the streets, started bangin’, slangin’, claimin’ sets
now all of our births our parents regret
labeled our generation as "Generation X"
they marked us before we even met,
polluted our generation with alcohol and cigarettes.
Politicians forget my generation, let’s focus on the next
they’ve yet to be influenced, so they’re our best bet.
My generation can’t stand to lose and/or be used
the older generation claims that’s part of the rules
that we must lose, can’t win all the time,
we say we can if you stop telling us these nursery rhymes
and let us know to our face the real
we down to lie, cheat, steal and kill
if that’s what it takes to get a fair deal.
All we want out of life is a couple mil’
sit back with our families in our houses without worrying about bills
live fat, relaxed, smoking bats, sipping hen, popping pills,
stay pickled with game like all our names was dill,
stay wild and crazy, I stand in the street pissin’.
So world clean yo’ ears and listen
to the voice of Dwayne The Knowledge
the ambassador for the generation that was
born to go to prison.
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Lifetime of Stress
By Baby A
If I was to create a movie or television series of my life, it would be based on my previous surroundings, past experiences, future perceptions, my thoughts, and my dreams. It would be about me, about others like me, who were pre-determined to be a thug which eventually became an obsession before our young minds were even able to comprehend the reality of this lifestyle.
You know the repercussions of living a life like mine,
the unwanted drama that accompanies a life inundated with crime,
went from popping cap guns to popping XTC
even though I was told it could debilitate your spine.
This world has shocked my mind since my inauguration to the game
from sun up to sundown, my environment has stayed the same.
Highly impressionable since the age of three
by the time I hit my teens, I was mesmerized by the way the homies bent the corner on D’s hiked up on three’s
lowride gang-bang, slang dope, and pimp –
there was no other way for me
So that was the way I went,
precocious with a shallow mind that wasn’t ready for a game whose roots extended to the abyss
life’s a trip, and yes I concede that I’ve had a lot of stumbles
ran the field like an all-star, but caused the team a lot of fumbles
maybe if I had of been academical
then maybe my life wouldn’t of been so damn difficult.
I started young, gazing at Penthouse and Playboy centerfolds
eyes popping, penis throbbing, heavy sweating, mouth slobbing
a horny toad in progress
whoever would’ve thought I’d grow-up to be monstrous like Loch Ness
outlook on life monotonous.
I can remember back in the days, mid 1980s,
my brothers Joey and Allen and I, just babies already acting crazy
posted up on the eastside area known as Poco Way
across the street from our cousin’s house, the Mexican candy lady stayed.
Little kids with nickels, dimes, sometimes quarters in our pockets
bought candy by the handful and Popsicles when it was hot
late at night we played ding-dong ditch and strip tag
popped bottle rockets and went to the carnival with our dad --
you know the carnivals, they used to have it in the parking lot of Newberry and that laundromat --
if you hung on the eastside back in the 80s, then I know for sure that you remember that
I’m talking back when my mama worked at "Jack in the Crack"
before the close down of Pay ‘N Pack, that little liquor store that had stairs before Kragen’s was even there
back when I rocked a jeri-curl and right before the ’89 earthquake rocked us all
back when Nintendo first came out and I was still wearing Superman and He-Man drawers.Game pause: let me skip
skip to the year nine-oh
right before there was an unexpected drug raid at our Santa Clara home
I still recall the cacophony of our door being kicked in,
popo barging through waving four-four’s (or was it Mac 10’s?)
but anyways, let’s move on to my new San Jose home
Chynoweth Road, Banana Court, right down the street from Oak Grove
my god sister used to go to school there.
I used to sneak into her Jam gel and put it in my nappy hair
I didn’t care even though she got mad and always told my mama
who had no problem with telling me to do it again so she could whoop my ass.
Speaking of ass, I caught a lot of ass-whoopings that year and from every year from then on
so that’s why now my ass is strong.
Nine-oh, ’91, ’92, out of one of those years, my dad won the lottery
100,000 dollars, so you know what that means
more pounds, more friends, more money, more fakes, and hate
it’s innumerable how many chances in life we take.
I believe it was in ’91 that I met my brother Shomorrow, playboy was cool
two years later, he got shot in the head across the street from James Lick High School
his death was my first experience with kissing the face of a dead man
all I remember is tears and loud cries and a lot of gangsters with green shirts
my brother’s death hit a lot of people where it hurt
but I suppose it was meant to be, and yes
I hope he’s watching over me
keeping these haters at bay
it ain’t good livin’ life like me
but will he understand I just wanted to be like him
but he should understand how it is being raised around dope and hooligans.
Now that I’m posted here cogitating
I realize I haven’t seen his daughter, my niece, since around the time of his funeral
I don’t remember her name, but I do remember that she was beautiful.
Now it’s late ’92, early ’93.
We moved back to the east; Hostetter and Berryessa
I admit that this was the era when Kriss-Kross turned most of us into backwards pants dressers
fourth and fifth grade, rocking turtlenecks and fades
the homie Chris chose to rock the braids
I wanted to do the same.
Sixth grade, Morril School, baggy jeans and steel toes
tagging on the bus, leaving our names on the seats and window
this is when I smoked my first Marlboro and choked like it was Indo
by this time I was mixing my mom’s Vodka with Lipton tea from the fridge
horny enough to want to have sex
but not ready to father a kid.
In sixth grade I had around maybe ten or more freaks
and I swear I tried to hump every day of the week
I remember this one girl, I was sprung off her
she seemed so sweet
come to find out she was screwing my brother before me
but he didn’t know she was my girl
so it’s not like his game was intended to disrespect
hell, he likes women just as much as me so why should I be upset?
But the effects of betrayal stained me like fruit punch on white jeans
people always use the word love without knowing what it means
especially towards me
that’s why I’m solemn and sometimes mean
and I really don’t want to be that way but that’s just me
manipulative since kindergarten, player that’s just me
robbing houses since 12 years old, player that’s me
ambivalent towards my previous actions
sometimes I ask, "Why me?"
and it’s as if my burden accumulated through the years of my adolescence
my sorrow turned into malice during Christmas time
because I knew there wouldn’t be that many presents
Mama’s paper is short, plus Daddy isn’t providing like she believes he should
it didn’t take long for me to stop obeying the rules of the ‘hood
’96 was the year we migrated to them San Lorenzo streets
it was all good until I robbed somebody, then got caught the next day
five guys including me participated in the lick
I guess they figured since I was young and from out of town
I had to be the one that snitched.
14 years old, ninth grade it was like everyday that I ditched
new players, new scenery, seems like that was when the game got flipped
I stole my first car at that school from one of the teachers
me and the homie Greg laughing smashing abusing the pedal with my K-Swiss sneakers
in those days I was smoking BeeDees by the pack
$1.80 to be exact
Old English and Cisco kept me faded on my back.
Now the year is ’97
because of that robbery incident to San Jose I had to move back
by then I was a potential alcoholic and a part time drop out
proceeded on with my route
by word of mouth my infamy was expanded
by ’98 I was part of a coalition of bandits
some homies couldn’t stand it
but that didn’t stop me from putting it down on a daily
kicking up dust at the fairgrounds and parties
chasing suckers while I dumped with three-eightys
brain damage, born savage
label me as you wish
just know that my thoughts and character remain the same
only my game plan has switched
right now as I speak
I’m caged up with animals surrounded by bricks, mechanical doors and melancholy
because letters and pictures seldom get sent
I’m all on my own
because I’m the only one who won’t let me down.
If I start to gradually lose my mind
keep doing your thing, don’t try to help me now
my life’s story was already written
I’m just the main character laying it down
speaking to you lyrically
showing you how it was living life prison bound
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My Life
By Blondie
Sometimes I wonder if my life is worth living. I feel that I have had so much to deal with in the sixteen years of my life. Sometimes I feel like screaming, but I hold that inside.
I see all my friends and the family I've only dreamed about. Daughters going out with their mothers, and fathers spending quality time with their daughters. Unfortunately, I have never experienced that life they live. It hurts to hear kids who have caring parents complain when I would give an arm or a leg to have what they have. You could say that I'm jealous, but when you hear my story, you will understand.
Before I was born, my parents were what you call "junkies." They smoked cocaine among many other things. My mother deceived my father by skipping birth control so she could get pregnant. She did this to tie him down so he would marry her. My father did not want to marry my mother because she stole money from him whenever he wasn't looking so she could buy drugs. My father stayed with my mother till I was born. He would come home and find her passed out on the couch, and he would find me crying and not fed for hours. My sister, who was seven, had to learn how to make me a bottle. My father decided to take me out of that lifestyle.
My father took my mother to court and the judge said, "Whoever could stay clean could have custody." My mother went to rehab and failed, and my father stayed clean. At age two, I went to live with my father and his wife he just got married to. My stepmother would beat me because I wasn't her child, well, that's what she told my father. When I was three, I was crying from an earache -- she slapped me across the face and left a hand print. My mother came over the next day and saw it and went to hit my stepmom, but my dad held my stepmom back and my mom’s boyfriend held my mom back.
My mom moved to Reno with her boyfriend and I never saw her again till I was seven. My stepmom continued to beat me. My father and stepmother had three kids; Tyanna, Jordan and Matthew. They are my life, and one of the few good things in my life. When my mother returned back in my life, she was upset that I wouldn't call her "mom." My stepmom was who I thought was my mom, and I thought getting abused was a part of life.
One day my brother set fire to the camper in my backyard that belonged to my deceased grandfather. She told us to get on our knees and she grabbed my hair and flipped me back and screamed, "Admit it!" I refused and I got more. My brother finally admitted it, and she just grounded him. Well, there was one more incident. She slammed me into our sliding glass door and hit me with a belt across my face over and over again. My mother called Social Services and nothing happened.
My stepmother and father were taking a downfall in their relationship. She started to cheat on him with his so-called "friend." One night they got into a fight and she started to hit him in bed and he rolled over and accidentally elbowed her in the eye, but at the time, I didn't know. I saw her doing laundry and crying and she had a black eye and said, "Your dad hit me." She waited for him to go on a camping trip and called the police. That night, the police took my father away. I was scared to go with him because I thought he hit my stepmom, so I told the police I didn't want to go with him, so they sent me to the shelter. I stayed there for two months and then went to live with my mother while my father went through the divorce.
I lived with my mother for about a year when another traumatic incident happened. One night my stepfather and I were watching a movie while my mother was gone and he told me I could watch it in his room in case I fell asleep, so I watched it in his room. I fell asleep and awoke to his hand massaging my breast. He told me to wish him luck on his interview for a job the next day. I laid and cried in silence. The next day I told my mother and at first she thought I was lying, but later she believed me. We moved to Hanford with my aunt for a couple of months.
At school it was hard because I insulted an African girl’s hair and almost everyone at that school was African American so they all ganged up on me. I ditched school because I was frightened to take the bus. My mother found out and scolded me. I later told school what happened with me and my stepfather. Social Services were called. My mother told me if I loved her, I wouldn't press charges. She said she loved him and it had happened to her as a child and she never had the chance to forgive her uncle. So when they came to talk to me, I told them I wouldn't press charges. My stepfather wrote a letter to my mother apologizing and said he did it because he was drunk. Reluctantly, my mother took him back and I went to live with my father, but I told my mom I wanted to live with her because I was scared.
My dad won custody of me and we were on our own because my stepmother won custody over my brothers and sisters. She went to live with her new man, my dad’s so-called "friend." I visited my mother every other weekend. We got into a car accident in 1999. She told my father they had not given her any settlement money even though they had.
My mom fell ill of Chinese food poisoning. I was in class in the seventh grade and I got a call from my aunt. She told me, "Your mother is sick." I hadn't known how sick. I went and bought her chocolates and a card. My father drove me to Ceres Hospital two hours away. When I got there I saw the gloom in my grandma, grandpa, stepfather and sister. They told me to be strong. We went to Intensive Care and the doctors told me before I went in not to cry.
Nothing could have prepared me for the horror I saw. My mother lay on the hospital bed breathing off a machine, eating off a machine and pissing off a machine. I saw so many tubes in her it was unbearable. I took her hand and it was stiff from all the fluids they were pumping in her. I cried silently and kissed her on the forehead and told her I loved her, even though I knew she could not hear me.
I was at school when one of my fellow students said, "Boo-hoo, my mom’s dying." I wanted to hit him, but I was too depressed. Two days later my mother died. We went to her funeral and I cried so much. I felt my heart break. My father did not cry and I resented him for it. Little did I know he was taught crying was not appropriate.
After my mother died, I found my way into drugs. I popped cold pills and overdosed twice and got alcohol poisoning and almost died. The doctors sent me to a mental hospital because it was the third time in two weeks I was there.
One night I was kickin' it with my boyfriend and four other homies and little did I know in their deceitful minds what they were planning to do. We went behind some apartments doing "Endust" computer cleaner. They held me down and pulled off my pants and underwear and started fingering me. They all took turns with grim faces and smirking as I cried and struggled to break free from their grips that pinned me down. Finally a spotlight came on and they let go and ran. They hid my pants and it took me twenty minutes to find them. They waited in front of the apartments, and I didn't know where I was so I had to go with them. They had the nerve to ask if I enjoyed it. I never kicked it with them again.
I still got into drugs and ran away and slept on the streets. I stole my dad’s credit cards one day and he pressed charges. I went to Juvenile Hall overnight and got out. The judge only gave me EMP and 50 hours of community service. I still had not learned my lesson. I was failing school and kept ditching.
In ninth grade I got into a serious relationship. His name was Clint, and we were together for six months. Then I decided to break up with him for all the cheating and lying. That was the biggest mistake because he flipped. He shoved me in my back door and refrigerator and grabbed a knife. He started cutting his arm yelling, "It's all your fault!" He put it to his neck and threatened to kill himself. I tried to grab it and he swung it at me. It barely missed as I dove to the ground. I calmed him down and got him to leave. That was a night I will always remember.
That's my life. That's why I wish I had a normal life and family. I have a hard time trusting men and fear them. I just wish I could trust them. I am slowly recovering through the two years of counseling. Now, they are sending me to a group home for nine-eighteen months because they don't think I can handle being at home. That's why I wonder if life is worth living.
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Next: Girls in the Hall
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