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Chapter Two Anatomy of a Gang
Just the mention of the South Brooklyn Boys was enough to send shivers
throughout the entire community. For many years, they were one of the strongest gangs in Brooklyn. However,
with the passing of time their influence slowly began to dwindle, leaving a void in the community. Looking
back, it's hard to imagine how the decline of a gang could leave a void in a neighborhood, but back then
gangs played a different role than they seem to have in our society today. The gangs back then were a source
of community, strength, structure, purpose, and meaning for its members, who usually lacked these things in
their family or environment elsewhere. The gang was an organization with a hierarchy, a chain of command,
and titles for its officers. The purpose of being in a gang was to obtain a sense of identity and
self-image. A member was given a nickname and a title, giving you a sense of belonging. Through the gang,
life took on a meaning and purpose.
When we look at some of the gangs today, we see brutality of such an intense
nature that it almost makes the gangs of the '50s seem gentle. Many gangs today
exist for the sole purpose of inflicting hatred, terror, and acts of senseless violence
whenever and wherever they can. With such massive decay in the moral fabric of our
country in general, is it any wonder that gangs, which often seem to epitomize the
lowest level of a society's moral character, have become so violent and sick?
Now don't get me wrong—the gangs I was involved with in the '50s and '60s were not
material to start a church choir with. We participated in a lot of fights, and we had
hatred and prejudice toward a lot of people. But the senseless and perverted acts of
violence that characterize what we see on the streets of America today were the
exception rather than the rule in the gangs of my childhood.
One of the talents God blessed me with was leadership. I was never a follower but a
person who had the ability to make things happen, both good and bad. In 1963 I
decided to start a new gang in South Brooklyn.
Perhaps if there had been some positive role models in our community, I might have
started out in life using my natural leadership qualities for the betterment of our
community instead of its decline. The gangsters, politicians, and other people of
authority in our community didn't concern themselves with the health, welfare, or
well-being of the young people of our community. Their main aim was to enhance
their own self-interests, which they did a very good job of. The really sad thing
about not having positive role models was that there were in fact many good, hard
-working people we could have admired. But they were, unfortunately, just "regular"
people. Instead, we wanted to look up to people of prestige, status, and power, and
in so doing totally bypassed the positive images that were there all along.
Fortunately, a decade later, these positive role models would enter my life and
transform me into a part of the solution to society's problems and evils instead of
their cause. But for now, in the year 1963 immediately after my father's death, we
began to form the Little Gents. My father was a good, kind, loving man whom I love
dearly. He was the only stable figure in my home. In order to fill a void in my life and
to cope with the great emotional pain, I, along with Gerard and Robert Serra and
Jingles, formed the Little Gents on the roof of the railway located on Sackett Street
between 3rd Avenue and Nevins Street.
A great deal of my time began to center around a new gang that we formed called
the Little Gents. While "Little Gents" mean little gentlemen, little gentlemen we were
not. Fourth Avenue and Sackett Street in Brooklyn became our headquarters, and we
immediately held elections. There were only three candidates for office since we only
had myself, Gerard, and Robert as members. We decided that Robert would be
president, I would be vice president, and Gerard would be Warlord.
Our brand-new gang was now ready to go about the job of recruiting members. But
before we started out on our membership drive, we held a strategy meeting to decide
on how extensive our turf was going to be. Every gang has to have its own turf, a
piece of property that is owned by them. Turf is territory, and is kind of like an
exclusive island that can only be entered by nonmembers with the permission of the gang that owns it.
We carefully surveyed the area and decided that the Little Gents' turf would consist
of a six- to seven-block area from Fourth Avenue and Union Street down to Fourth
Avenue and DeGraw Street and down to Third Avenue. Our headquarters consisted of
an old abandoned railway right off Sackett Street and Fourth.
We felt a great sense of power as the leaders of a brand-new gang, and we had high
hopes of enlisting a tough band of followers. It was incredible to see how our gang
grew as we traveled all over the neighborhood explaining to would-be members the
advantages of joining the Little Gents. Within a relatively short time,
membership—thanks to the diligent efforts of our senior officers (myself included)—swelled to about 300.
Just how could so many people come to join the Little Gents? I would have liked to
think it was my magnetic personality, but there was a very powerful group dynamic
that took place. Our organization seemed to provide the youth in our community with
something that our community leadership failed to provide. It provided a sense of
identity, a sense of position, and a sense of home for these young adolescents, who
were seeking to find their place in society.
There was a strong sense of paternity, brotherhood, love, and family in the gang.
The Little Gents, as well as other gangs of the time, seemed to be able to provide
these individuals with something that families, the community, and churches could not provide.
The need for acceptance and love is so important to the development of the human
spirit that our youth naturally gravitated to the place where these basic needs could
be met. The Little Gents helped provide this type of atmosphere. It is true that most
of the people we recruited had troubles in the home and low self-images. Thus, a
gang became a natural place for those who felt out of place everywhere else.
Unfortunately, as I would later come to realize, a gang, although it might temporarily
meet some of our social needs, can never meet our need for love and acceptance
except in a very superficial way. With so many people in gangs having low self
-images, family problems, and a faulty perception of what is right and wrong, it is
only a matter of time until the gang begins to turn on itself and create an
atmosphere of bondage instead of freedom. As I describe some of my early gang
experiences, I think it will become clear why I feel so strongly that gangs seem to
offer the promise of a future but only deliver a life of further discouragement and despair.
In my early days as a gang member, before the formation of the Little Gents, I
devised an ingenious way to raise money to help support myself. I would charge
people fifty cents to join the gang and have protection. However, whenever I needed
money—which seemed like always—I would throw them out of the gang and leave
them without protection. At this point, I would either beat them up myself or have
someone else beat them up. This would then generate the desired outcome: they
would always be more than happy to pay me the fifty cents to rejoin the gang and obtain protection.
As time progressed, I logged more and more fights, learned more and more ways to
beat the system, and developed more and more into a leader in our neighborhood. By
the time I was ready to form the Little Gents, I had developed into a natural gang
leader. My book knowledge was learned in school, but my street smarts were
carefully cultivated through my associations with the gangs I grew up with.
In order for me to stay in the leadership of the Little Gents, I had to constantly
project the image of toughness. Thus, the group dynamic made it necessary for me
to get into a continuous series of fights and wars with other gangs to constantly
justify my position. I had begun to enjoy the recognition that my position in the gang
brought, and started to expand my horizons toward the presidency. My platform as
vice president was "a war with every gang." For instance, the Little Gents were
constantly fighting with the black and Puerto Rican gangs in our neighborhood. In
order to enhance my platform, I decided to go down to St. Marks and Fourth Avenue
and fight a black gang called the Soviet Lords.
The record for going down to St. Marks and Fourth Avenue, fighting and coming back
without any injuries, was two times in one night. I decided that it was just the right
time to break the record. I felt that if I could break the record, I would be in a great
position to become president and be a true gang leader in the community. The status
of being president drove me on to attempt the seemingly impossible. If I could only
become a well-respected gang leader, it would mean I was now a "somebody."
Having a low self-image made it hard for me to feel important unless I was a leader in
something, and in my life at that time, I thought the gang was that something.
I decided to go for it. It must have been about midnight, and I had already made two
successful battle trips to St. Marks and Fourth and back. By now my body was
feeling pretty good, having consumed a substantial amount of alcohol. As I
approached this all-too-familiar location for the third time that night, I met a guy named Donald Duck.
Donald was a friend of mine who came from Third Street and Fifth Avenue and had
just recently joined the gang. He had on a thin jacket while I was wearing my old,
faithful, very thick leather jacket. In an act of spontaneous generosity and concern
for my friend, I suggested that if Don was going to come with me on my mission we
should switch jackets. With my thick leather jacket on Donald could never get hurt
by a knife, aerial antenna, stick, or bat.
It was now my third time at St. Marks and Fourth Avenue. Donald had my thick
jacket on while I felt almost naked wearing his thin one. When we arrived, we found
three Puerto Ricans standing in a laundromat. It was raining outside as we entered
the laundromat to lay down the law to our three Spanish adversaries. I introduced
myself as Louis G. and told them to leave this territory. I said that I was expanding
my territory and if they didn't leave, I would have to break their heads. Two of them
instantly ran away, figuring, "This guy must be crazy."
The third guy, however, remained and came out of the laundromat into the rain. He
dropped to his knees and started to search around for something on the floor. He
kept smiling at me and made me think that he was either crazy or having a seizure.
For the life of me I couldn't understand what he was doing, and I began to feel sorry
for him. As he continued on his knees, he kept moving his hands on the ground until I
suddenly noticed him coming up with a barber's straight-edge razor blade. As I turned
to run, he cut my back with the razor. Because I was so high on alcohol, I never felt the razor cut my back.
Since Donald's thin jacket was on my back, I was without the protective luxury of my
own thick jacket; as a result I had gotten sliced. It's kind of ironic that on this third
journey to St. Marks, I had felt sorry for two different people. In order to protect my
friend Donald, I gave him my own protection. And because I felt sorry for the Puerto
Rican, I let down my guard and blew my chance to set the record. Even though I was
one tough customer, I had a soft spot inside of me that I thank God would one day
be used in many wonderful and helping ways. But for now, I had been cut from the
top of my back across the spinal cord to the bottom of my back. A quarter inch
deeper and I would have been paralyzed.
As I was running away, I ran into a police officer. He put a gun to my head and
arrested me for disorderly conduct. With my world now spinning all around me, it
struck me as quite absurd that I was running away with my back opened up and here
I was getting arrested for disturbing the peace. So much for the caliber of the police
enforcement back then.
After I was rushed to the hospital, I passed out on the operating table. They had put
forty-eight stitches in my back by the time I came to. The doctor told me that it
would cost me fifty cents a stitch. I told him I came from a very poor family and
didn't have a dime. I gave him two choices: he could either take my IOU or remove
the stitches. He decided to take my IOU.
It was difficult enough to endure the pain I was experiencing in my back, but now I
was being marched off to the police precinct. As I arrived, my brother Jamsie and my
friend Hornsey were there to greet me. It didn't take long for Jamsie and Hornsey to
spread the word that I had gotten myself arrested. Immediately the Little Gents en
masse decided to march down to St. Marks and Fourth Avenue and have a few words
with the Soviet Lords. One thing led to another, and before the dust had settled a
full-blown riot broke out, several guys got beaten up really badly, and Hornsey and Jamsie got arrested.
It's amazing what a few hours can do to the human spirit. Just a short while before, I
felt like I owned the world. I was in a great position to become president of my gang
and receive all the power, prestige, and respect that came along with the title. And I
was on the verge of becoming a legend by placing my name in the record books for
accomplishing the three-trip quest.
As the effects of all the alcohol I had consumed finally wore off, I started to reflect
back on this recent series of events. Here I was, sitting at the police station under
arrest for the third time in my life. My younger brother Jamsie was also keeping me
company because he had participated in a riot. I was in quite a lot of physical pain
with forty-eight stitches to prove it. My bid for the presidency was going down the
drain fast and so was my spirits as deep depression began to grip my heart.
To top all of this off, I was about to participate in something I am not very proud to
discuss. In our neighborhood, there was a street cop everybody called Prune Face.
Prune Face looked a lot like a prune, a face from Dick Trac y days. He knew us and
liked me because I was Italian. As he looked at my sorry condition, he asked me if I
knew who stabbed me. As I began to say I didn't know, Hornsey, in a loud voice,
screamed, "I know who sliced Louis."
Obviously Hornsey could not have known who stabbed me because he was not
present at the time I got stabbed. Prune Face took Hornsey down to St. Marks and
Fourth Avenue to find out who did it. Hornsey pointed to the first Puerto Rican they
encountered and said, "This is the guy that sliced Louis in the back." The police car
pulled up to the station and Prune Face, Hornsey, and some Puerto Rican guy
surrounded me. Prune Face pointed to this guy and asked me if I could identify him.
I will never forget what I said. As I looked this stranger over carefully, I turned to
Prune Face and told him, "Yes, this looks like the person who sliced me." It was just
a short time earlier that I had felt sorry for a Puerto Rican who repaid my momentary
kindness by slicing me in the back with a razor blade. Now here I was telling a
policeman that a totally innocent Puerto Rican was guilty of that stabbing. My
motivation for this shameful act on my part was twofold. First, I was really not too
happy about being sliced and unjustly arrested; second, I felt that somebody had to
pay for what happened to me.
As deplorable as my behavior was, it was equally matched by what Prune Face was
about to do. He turned around and smashed this poor kid in the face. This guy spoke
no English, and he had no idea what was going on. As he fell to the floor, one of his
front teeth came out and his head cracked open. As I turned to Prune Face I said,
"You know Prune Face, now that I look at that guy, I don't think he is the one who
did it." With my new confession Prune Face picked him up, told him never to hit
Italians, and threw him out of the station.
This incident only added to the depression I was experiencing. I really felt sorry for
this guy because of the unjust beating he had just received as well as the fact that
he had been beaten up without having any idea why. However, he was thrown out of
the precinct and went on his merry way. For my reward I spent the night in jail and
when I awoke, I again faced the reality that I had forty-eight stitches in my back
and had been arrested for the third time. Fear gripped my mind as I began to realize I
might not get out of jail this time.
As I contemplated my future, which at the time seemed to be going nowhere fast,
little could I imagine that God had a purpose for this incident in my life. As I was
growing up, I always knew that there was a God, but He was a very nebulous
concept in my life. As I have grown over the years, my knowledge of God has grown
greatly and my relationship and faith in Him have been a key to all the positive
changes that have taken place in my life.
Just when I thought my future was about to be destroyed, a turning point took place
in my life that to me demonstrates how God can turn even the worst of situations
into a future blessing. The time was now at hand to go before the judge and await
my sentence. I found myself sitting in the "bullpen" at 120 Schermerhorn Street,
which is the criminal courts building. While awaiting my court appearance, my fellow
bullpen mates consisted of a wide array of characters ranging from con artists to
rappers, robbers, and everything in between. While in the bullpen, a silent inner voice
said to me, "Louie, look around. This is where you belong. You are a criminal." This I
already knew, but oddly enough I then heard this prayer within me, "Dear Lord Jesus,
teach me to use my God-given talents and abilities in a constructive way and to
maximize my effectiveness as a human being." I later called this "the Gent's Prayer."
I was appointed a Legal Aid lawyer who had long hair and talked like a sissy,
possessing a very feminine voice. As he began to speak to me with that high-pitched
voice, my hopes for ever getting out of this mess rapidly fled. With each question he
asked, I fell into a deeper and deeper depression. I can still remember him asking me,
"Where do you live?" and "Where do you come from?"
However, when I went in front of the judge, the lawyer advocated strongly on my
behalf. He told the judge that I was just starting college and was active in the
community. (At around the time I started college, I was involved with a gentleman
named Hank Boerner, attempting to get legitimate jobs for gang members who
wanted a job. My life was extremely confusing and conflicted at this time, since I
was still a leader in the gang.) The lawyer really painted a very positive picture of me
. The judge, based on my lawyer's application, decided to parole me. Eventually the case was dismissed.
This incident represented a significant day in my life. I was so impressed with what
this lawyer did for me that, for the first time, I really started to think seriously about
leaving the gang and starting to channel my strategies and efforts in a positive
direction. How I thank God for this Legal Aid lawyer, whom I firmly believe God placed
in my path to open my eyes to the possibility that perhaps I could be a real
"somebody" in this world by also becoming a Legal Aid lawyer. (End)
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