Life in Compton
An excerpt from Chapter 1 of Jim Daly's book Finding Home.
Although I never heard a shot, the word on the street was that a shotgun had been used. My best guess is that the killing was gang related. Perhaps a little payback in the decades-old turf war between the Crips and the Bloods for control of illegal drugs. Or, it might have been a clash between the Latino gang element, the Hells Angels, and an African American posse in our racially mixed neighborhood.
You'll have to forgive me for being sketchy.
I was only eight at the time.
There are two unmistakable images forever imprinted on my mind. First, the yellow chalk line scratched onto the pavement outlining the position where the body fell in the alley. Second, the blood stain — a brownish-red calling card left behind the victim for the rain to deal with. My memory of those two images is clear because the murder occurred about ten feet outside of my bedroom window … a real-life nightmare worse than any dream I'd ever had. Talk about inflaming the imagination of a child — no wonder I was afraid of the dark.
We were living in Compton at the time. Yes, the Compton — that concrete jungle of southeast Los Angeles popularized by rappers on MTV. Compton was, and still is, a rough place, no question about it. Drive-by shootings, crime, poverty, and vice were a way of life. For years Compton had the dubious distinction of being ranked as one of the highest crime cities in all of California.
And now we called Compton home.
Given the grave reputation of the city, I wasn't entirely surprised to discover our apartment had served as the backdrop for a homicide. And yet, let's just say it was a bit much for me, as a child, to process. I mean, the wall separating me from that savage deed was a mere four inches thick. I wondered how often this sort of thing happened in my neighborhood. What if a more powerful gun was used next time? A bullet could easily penetrate the thin layer of white stucco, make mincemeat of the flimsy drywall, and plow into my chest while I was sleeping.
Suddenly, my ground-floor bedroom, at the back of a two-story apartment complex and adjacent to a dark alley, made me feel exposed.
Vulnerable.
Defenseless.
In midspring of 1970, my stepfather, Hank, and my mom, Jan Daly, had moved the family from the rolling hills of Yucca Valley, California, to the gritty streets of Compton to save a little money. I knew their goal was to eventually move to the serene ocean-side community of Long Beach, California, but that came at a price I wasn't sure we ought to pay. But hey, I was a kid. My vote didn't count. And so the wail of sirens replaced the song of birds.
Not only was Compton a dangerous place, it was noisy. Not a happy noisy like the sound of a merry-go-round at a carnival, where smiling tykes, munching cotton candy, lobbied dad for just one more ride — pleeeease! It was more of an unsettling noisy on par with the shrieks echoing from inside the haunted-house ride.
Whether white, black, or Hispanic, our neighbors had this thing about hollering and screaming and slamming doors day and night. Perhaps taking a cue from their human counterparts, the constant blare of TVs battled it out at full volume. When evening rolled around, the banging of pots and pans signaled the neighbors cooking dinner. The pandemonium was further accented by crying babies, barking dogs, kids playing stickball, or someone picking a fight in the street.
On some nights, red emergency lights splashed bursts of hot color against my windowpane. The eerie light show involved hues of police blue or fiery yellow depending on the rescue service that had arrived.
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Excerpted from Finding Home by Jim Daly. Copyright © 2007. Used by permission of Cook Communication Ministries. Excerpt may not be reproduced without the prior consent of the publisher. All rights reserved.
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