Read Online Can't Stop Won't Stop by Jeff Chang - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeff Chang
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roof of an abandoned building. He told a friend, âWhen youâre on the roof, when the birds are actually flying and nobodyâs around you, it feels more free.â
But things changed quickly. One day, he and some friends went up to Little Italy, north of Fordham Road near Bedford Park, looking for some pet stores to buy some birds. Twenty Italians swooped down on them, brandishing bats and chains and yelling slurs. Michael and his friends ran all the way back to the train station. They were learning you just didnât go
anywhere
without backup.
He met Carlos, a kid just a year older who called himself âBlue,â the only one who seemed to know more about flying birds than he did. They became fast friends, and built a fortress coop of five hundred birds across the street from Michaelâs school. One day they took down some birds from a roof a block away. The owners came over to get them backâtwo big, scowling Savage Skulls in their early twenties named Cubby and Ruben.
As soon as he was asked to, Blue joined the Skulls. He came back and told Michael to do it, too. âTheyâre just like a family,â he said. In order to be down, he would have to be checked out by the Skull leaders. If they thought he could be a good Skull, he would go through the initiation. But there was no Apache Line here. To become a Savage Skull, you played a game of Russian Roulette.
It was a summerâs twilight when Michael arrived at the main Skulls clubhouse. He was sweating, nervous as hell. In the initiation room, a few older Skulls, theiraces masks of stone, told him to take a seat. One of them brought out a rusty .22. Michael was told to examine the long bullet. The Skull dropped it into the chamber of the six-shooter, spun the barrel, and passed it to Michael. It was the first gun he had ever held. He was told he could either put it to his chin or to his head.
He closed his eyes. He lifted the cocked gun to his head. He thought, this is it. He thought, this rusty old thing, maybe itâll get stuck. He thought, what if itâs all gonna end right here. Sweat dripped from his chin. He pulled the trigger.
For a whileâan eternity, perhapsâhe kept his eyes closed. Then, he thought, I did it. He had heard the chamber click overâjust like that, click, nothing elseâand the enormity of what he had done began to fill him up. Damn, he thought,
I did it
. He took a deep breath and exhaled.
When the Skulls led him out of the room, they broke open a beer for him. It was the first one he had ever drank. That was how Michael got the name âLucky Strikeââjust plain Lucky, for short. He was thirteen years old.
Soon the Skulls would be spinning out of control and Blue would be dead, killed by rivals and left in the gang clubhouse. Lucky would quit the Skulls and meet Afrika Bambaataa, a former Black Spade who was uniting Blacks and Puerto Ricans in an organization called Zulu Nation. In so many accounts, the story begins there. But here is the half that comes before, the half less often told.
The Gangs and the Revolution
The lifespan of youth style in New York City parallels the life-cycle of a neighborhood. Itâs about five years, the time it takes for youths to come through their teens, long enough for them to imprint their own codes, styles, and desires on the block. Youth gangs returned to the Bronx around 1968.
Back then, new rebellions were exploding every week. The Black Panther Party for Self-Defense staged âFree Hueyâ rallies. Ten thousand Mexican-American high school students in Los Angeles marched against racism in the schools, launching the Chicano youth movement. Black power leaders Stokely Carmichael and H. Rap Brown joined antiwar protesters to shut down the Columbia University campus. Students of color hoisted the banner of the Third World Liberation Front, demanding a college of ethnic studies at San Francisco State. Onto the Paris streets
But things changed quickly. One day, he and some friends went up to Little Italy, north of Fordham Road near Bedford Park, looking for some pet stores to buy some birds. Twenty Italians swooped down on them, brandishing bats and chains and yelling slurs. Michael and his friends ran all the way back to the train station. They were learning you just didnât go
anywhere
without backup.
He met Carlos, a kid just a year older who called himself âBlue,â the only one who seemed to know more about flying birds than he did. They became fast friends, and built a fortress coop of five hundred birds across the street from Michaelâs school. One day they took down some birds from a roof a block away. The owners came over to get them backâtwo big, scowling Savage Skulls in their early twenties named Cubby and Ruben.
As soon as he was asked to, Blue joined the Skulls. He came back and told Michael to do it, too. âTheyâre just like a family,â he said. In order to be down, he would have to be checked out by the Skull leaders. If they thought he could be a good Skull, he would go through the initiation. But there was no Apache Line here. To become a Savage Skull, you played a game of Russian Roulette.
It was a summerâs twilight when Michael arrived at the main Skulls clubhouse. He was sweating, nervous as hell. In the initiation room, a few older Skulls, theiraces masks of stone, told him to take a seat. One of them brought out a rusty .22. Michael was told to examine the long bullet. The Skull dropped it into the chamber of the six-shooter, spun the barrel, and passed it to Michael. It was the first gun he had ever held. He was told he could either put it to his chin or to his head.
He closed his eyes. He lifted the cocked gun to his head. He thought, this is it. He thought, this rusty old thing, maybe itâll get stuck. He thought, what if itâs all gonna end right here. Sweat dripped from his chin. He pulled the trigger.
For a whileâan eternity, perhapsâhe kept his eyes closed. Then, he thought, I did it. He had heard the chamber click overâjust like that, click, nothing elseâand the enormity of what he had done began to fill him up. Damn, he thought,
I did it
. He took a deep breath and exhaled.
When the Skulls led him out of the room, they broke open a beer for him. It was the first one he had ever drank. That was how Michael got the name âLucky Strikeââjust plain Lucky, for short. He was thirteen years old.
Soon the Skulls would be spinning out of control and Blue would be dead, killed by rivals and left in the gang clubhouse. Lucky would quit the Skulls and meet Afrika Bambaataa, a former Black Spade who was uniting Blacks and Puerto Ricans in an organization called Zulu Nation. In so many accounts, the story begins there. But here is the half that comes before, the half less often told.
The Gangs and the Revolution
The lifespan of youth style in New York City parallels the life-cycle of a neighborhood. Itâs about five years, the time it takes for youths to come through their teens, long enough for them to imprint their own codes, styles, and desires on the block. Youth gangs returned to the Bronx around 1968.
Back then, new rebellions were exploding every week. The Black Panther Party for Self-Defense staged âFree Hueyâ rallies. Ten thousand Mexican-American high school students in Los Angeles marched against racism in the schools, launching the Chicano youth movement. Black power leaders Stokely Carmichael and H. Rap Brown joined antiwar protesters to shut down the Columbia University campus. Students of color hoisted the banner of the Third World Liberation Front, demanding a college of ethnic studies at San Francisco State. Onto the Paris streets
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