Am I My Brother's Keeper?"I was raised by thugs and schooled by killers, learned my mathematic skills from real drug dealers." -Tupac  I've been thinking about my past life as of late. It's been fifteen years since I've hurt someone in anger (who never did anything to me personally), and just over 10 years of leaving the gang life behind. I've suffered indescribable feelings of loss. Too many friends to count. Did they deserve it? Maybe, but to me, they were family. I needed a break from these recollections of the past for a while...but if you've been a faithful reader of my blog, you know that the main reason I write is to reach that troubled youth, or to inform the parent of the dangers of gangs, and street life. 
The first picture is a wall of death. It's located on Pico Ave. and Union St. in Los Angeles. All the many names on there are people who died in the neighborhood. I knew most of them. Their deaths impacted me in one way or another. The other two photographs are just some streets in Pico Union. Poverty is everywhere. It's a sad thing that poor and rejected kids are usually taken under the wings of drug dealers, criminals and gang members. Family members usually fight with each other to see who will end up with custody of the poor kid with the fucked up parents. Mom is probably a junkie and dad in prison. These kids have nobody. I often wonder what my life would've been like if I would have had someone to turn to for advice...or food. But out of all the so called Christians that passed me by in the street, none of them ever took me aside or befriended me. Why? Was it my appearance? I doubt it. I wasn't always infested with tattoos. Was it because I was a dirty wetback lookin' kid? Was it because I smelled bad and had grubby clothes that was not my correct size? Was it because....FUCK! What was it??? What excuse do you have for passing a poor child in the street without doing anything? Mother fuck all you fuckin' Christians who passed me by and turned me away, and yet carried your Bible with you in your fancy clothes on Sunday! Fuck you!!! Fuck you!!! Fuck you!!! 
I'm sorry about the language and the emotion behind it. I had left this half finished for a few hours because I recalled painful memories of my young life, and it overcame me. I don't mean to offend. I truly don't. But I just can't understand why out of all the millions of Christians in the world, it took a lowlife killer to see the pain I was in. Drug dealers and murderers acted more Christ-like than the hundreds of people who walked right past me on the way to church. It turns out that I was not only hungry for food, but knowledge as well. Maybe my life was meant to be. In fact, I know so. But that doesn't make it any less painful.  
I grew to love and admire the people who took me in. Because they gave me what I thought was love (at the time), I was loyal to the death. These were my role models. I didn't aspire to be the president of the United States. I didn't look forward to being a lawyer someday. I looked forward to going to jail. I looked forward to the day I could be like my older homeboys. I knew well of the dangers and pitfalls of the life I had chosen. Death was all around me. I knew of the possibility of being a tough street soldier only to be confined to a wheelchair in the same breath. I knew of colostomy bags and tubes for your penis. I knew of the chance of losing a limb or eyesight...and yet the love that they provided meant more to me than all of that combined. It could have just as easily been a caring neighbor, a thoughtful teacher, or a relative. My life could have taken another direction. I would've been spared the feelings of seeing a good friend die in my arms. I would have been spared of all the things associated in the street life. The rape, the kidnappings, the murders, the boodshed...and the most vile thing of all...my hate. The hate I had in my heart for the injustices I endured was overwhelming. Once I had reached that point, there was nothing that would've made me better...save the power of God. I never quote scripture (to make a point), but I will this one time... "A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh..." I include that because I've pondered those words in my mind for hours. Days on end. Is that a literal thing? Is it a metaphor? Is it to be taken figuratively, or is it real?  My honest opinion is that it has to be real. At my lowpoint, I could watch you die an excruciating death as I ate. Putting a bullet in your ass, was the same as crossing the street. I felt no emotion in it. Hardened beyond words or description. Yet, this is not the case now. But I understand those feelings. I've been there. Before I continue with my point, I want to ask everybody something... Why do we (myself included) choose to ignore other people's suffering? Why don't we make a greater effort to help those around us? *****EDIT# 1************************ "It was in the darkest part of my life both mentally and physically that I was overwhelmed with the most light."-Juan Venada ("Las Confesiones Del Diablo")  It was in the darkness of solitary confinement that the greatest miracle in my life took place. Though it sounds like madness, I am glad I ended up there. I don't expect anyone to understand. Though I was covered in darkness sharing my cell with rats and eating whatever they chose to give me...it was, at the same time, the best time spent on this earth. I found God. I found purpose. I found hope.   I'll be the first to admit that prison doesn't always have this effect on the average person. It usually makes things worse. It fills you with even more anger and feelings of being repressed. In fact, some of the most evil men I've met in my life reside behind bars. *********FINAL EDIT**************  The truth is that we all do stupid things and make foolish decisions. Yeah, it was tough but I can't blame my decisions on anyone but myself. Other kids in the neighborhood had it just as bad and they remained civilians...they never joined the gang. The choices I made in life took me in a direction that I wanted to go. Luckily, I am still alive...though I shouldn't be. I'm a survivor, the exception to the rule. I realize the hand of God in it.  In answer to my own question, I have to say that the reason we pass up opportunities to help others is that we see what we choose to see. We are only fooling ourselves if we think that there isn't anyone around us that we can't help in one way or another. It doesn't always have to be money. A kind gesture, a smile and some words of encouragement may be God sent to those in need. I can tell you that I agree 100% with Eccentrique. Because I lived through it, I can better understand my fellow man. I have empathy because I know how fucked up it is to be on the other side. Though I'm not perfect, I strive to help those in need and show others (by my actions) what my convictions and beliefs are. I hope that this will be enough. -Miguel | 
