Opinion: ‘For Many Years I Didn’t Believe I Was Human’

In 2000, I was 14 years old, in Los Angeles' Skid Row. You wouldn't believe such a Third World slum existed within history's richest country; oh, but it did. It does. A section of one of the world's most glamorous cities set aside to hide thousands of homeless people, to hide America's unwillingness to deal with poverty, mental health, drug addiction and homelessness. It’s all swept under the rug, or under the shadow of downtown's skyscrapers from the top of the world, down to a grimy, violent underworld, where you had to fight just to eat and humanity was perverted into its most animalistic tendencies.

And, here I was. My second time there in a month. I had been told that many of these homeless people receive a check from the government and when they do, they spend it all on crack and heroin. Other minor dealers came in from around town, like sharks smelling drops of blood, to feast on this goring of humanity, this societal mayhem locked in a box, a piece of the apocalypse. 

There was nothing but cheap druggie hookers, flashy abusive pimps, demented war veterans, mental hospital kick-outs, drug addicts, drug dealers, gang members, hustlers, male and female, old and young, all kinds of crazy stuff. Sidewalks cluttered with ''homes'' made from cardboard or tarp or shopping carts with blankets or whatever else they managed to find in this industrial section of downtown where the streets are littered with trash and sleeping bodies of America's forgotten. People having sex and doing drugs right in the open, on the sidewalk and the cops just driving by, looking right at them, doing nothing, because it was just pointless. 

For more information on juvenile justice issues and reform trends, go to JJIE Resource Hub

A 14-year-old kid just stood with his back against a building, watching all this, trying to not draw attention to himself. In my pockets, I had bagged-up crack rocks. In my waist, a 9 mm pistol I stole from one of our gang's gun houses.

Dope boys stand out in this area and random homeless people walk up to you and ask for a ''nickel,'' a ''dime'' or sometimes more. They'll come back several times within the hour, bringing you filthy crumpled dollar bills or grimy coins that look like they were found in the garbage. 

I don't know where they got this money. From the hookers, it was obvious. Sometimes they would beg for a rock and I didn't say anything, I felt bad for them. I'd say no and if they kept begging, half the time I ended up just giving it to them.

Why did this touch me?

This one day, I saw two homeless men wrestling with a third one. The street was crowded with madness, but everyone just ignored them, it was nothing new. But one guy, without shoes, filthy and clearly demented, jumped in to help the one guy. I felt like helping, because the guy was getting choked on the ground by the two men. The one guy who tried helping, he got punched one time and that was it. His frail starved body didn't get back up, just lied on the ground and watched what happened. I watched what happened. The man was strangled. Until his body stopped twitching.

I wish I could tell you that I pulled out my gun, crossed the street and saved the day. I wish I could tell you this man survived, whoever he was, just another anonymous homeless person. Or maybe he did, I don't know. Sometimes people would be dead on these sidewalks for days, before someone called the cops because he stank and the city came to pick up his corpse, like clearing a dead dog off the street. 

After these two guys left, the guy who had helped, he got up and as crazy as he was, he took care of the lifeless body. He made his bed for him, there on the sidewalk, laid him in it, tucked him in, covered him, sat beside him and petted him. He was speaking out loud, like many crazy people around here did and he was smiling. 

I tried not to stare, serving the crackheads that kept me busy. I had seen death before, worst things, but this just struck me for some reason. I couldn't understand why I felt so strongly for what I was witnessing. I couldn't admit to my tough self that this hurt my heart, it touched my soul. 

I kept an eye out for the cops and other dangers surrounding me, my hand close to my gun. I admit, being alone here, without the gang, in a literal human jungle, I was quiet, but buzzing with excitement, ready to kill and survive.

The safety of a home that was not safe

Instead of walking back to my hood that was about a mile away across a bridge, something kept me there, even when I had nothing else to sell, nothing else to do there. I felt comfortable there and I didn't want to head back to my life. I was lost. I found a spot right there on the street, against the door of that abandoned building, and I lied down just like many others around me were doing. 

I got as comfortable as I could on cold cement and I managed to fall asleep. Here and there I awoke to loud music coming from a passing car or some shouts or a bottle breaking, but I slept pretty good and felt safe. 

In the morning I heard voices speaking about going to go get food at some shelter and I got up and with a sore body headed back to my hood. I looked across the street and that crazy guy was gone, but that lump of a body was still there. The street was already crowded with action, people putting their tent homes away and going to the local shelters for food.

I hadn't been home in a couple weeks; people were looking for me there. Our gang was involved in a serious battle with all the smaller gangs around us. It was a Saturday and I didn't expect mom to be home. Something made me just seek warmth, seek comfort, seek the safety of a home, even though my home was not safe. 

When I entered I did not expect my mother to walk out of the kitchen and when she did, I expected curses and chastising. But, to my surprise, I got something much worse. She walked up to me, saying nothing and just hugged me. She cried. I felt so worthless. Then she invited me to eat and I felt I did not deserve this food, this peaceful moment with her and my brothers. I was filthy from sleeping on the street and I hadn't been home nor called in weeks. 

Then, I left. Months later, already 15, I did the same thing, missing for weeks and that time my mom just snapped at me and it stuck with me because it hurt. She said, ''The only way I know you're alive is when I see your freaking name painted on the walls!" She knew my gang name and when she saw it on the walls, she knew I was out there somewhere, alive. 

After that moment, I made sure to tag my name close to the house and all over, so she could see all the places I was alive. I wanted the world to see that here I was, this was my name. I was alive. I existed. I was somebody. I wanted people to know because I believed I was going to die before I turned 18.

‘You are still human’

Cave paintings tens of thousands of years old have been found in various places across the world. Modern human behavior is considered to encompass language, cooperation, religious practices, art, toolmaking and the ability to plan ahead. For many years I didn't believe I was human. Sentenced to over a hundred years to life, the first few years I ate with guilt because I thought I didn't deserve food. 

But now I realized that all I did, all of us where I come from, we were simply being human. We painted ourselves with ink, we cooperated in a group, we hunted for survival, we planned ahead, prayed, buried our dead. The human is like the hardware in a computer and society is like the software, the programming that molds your behaviors. This is why you see humans across the world have so many things in common, but also have cultural differences.

The point of this? I'm not sure. It is not meant to be negative. Even though you may suffer inhumanities, you are still human, as inhumane as society can be, as much as it can dehumanize you. The humanity in you is always stronger, it transcends your environment. 

I still want to be known, for the world to know I exist. These words are my version of Neanderthal cave paintings, telling you of all the beautiful things I've seen in this life, painting for you my visions, painting my name and handprints. I am here. I am alive. I exist. I see, think and feel. 

I’ve been In prison for 11 years now and my family is gone. And still, I have this urge to find ''home,'' just like that kid many years ago. My life has made me who I am today. Some days of my life stand out for some reason, like that one. On that day, a demented person was the only sane one, the only human fighting to help save a human life and then to provide that person comfort. 

Just like the darkness of Skid Row is hidden from the world, so is prison. I am that crazy guy fighting when no one else will when no one else notices or cares. In my cell, I smile and talk to myself. When will all this end? Will you help us? Come in this cave and see the horrible things painted here with blood. Come here, in the dark, where they hide us like secrets. The humanity in you, that is the light, and in this inhumanity, I found my own humanity. 

I found some light. Everyone is born with it, it is in everyone. Anyone can fight. But can you fight for the right reasons? Can you fight to save your own humanity? To shed some light on darkness? I will. Until I die. It is human. No matter how dehumanized, we are human. The light is in you. You have to let it out. That’s the only way to end this darkness.

Z is serving 137 years to life on kidnapping and robbery charges in a California State Prison level 4 prison yard.

The Beat Within, a publication of writing and art from incarcerated youth, was founded by David Inocencio in San Francisco in 1996. Weekly writing and conversation workshops are held in California, six other states and Washington, D.C. Submissions and new partners are welcomed. Write to him at dinocencio@thebeatwithin.org.