A Matter of Honor

A son reaps a reward at the expense of his father.

Honor among thieves is a popular characterization of criminals. But honor is that commodity of men and boys who trade in it, collect it, and treat it as something to put on a shelf to be adored. More importantly, it cannot exist without others who are charged with the power and authority to confer it on the honoree, so that they can then admire it. Honor can easily be lost by one small misstep by the honoree, an ill-advised word spoken in the heat of the moment, or inadvertently, a “Freudian slip” as people of the twentieth century might have said. Then again, one may break the rules of honor if one does not know what the rules are. These are the dangers of the spoken word that becomes an insult to one whose honor has been questioned.

Or, honor may serve to urge those who have mutual interests in their honor as a group: a special ops force, various military units, a football or cricket team, variously called “esprit de corps” thought of as the moral fiber of a team or group that has adopted a particular endeavor or challenge against which they must use all their combined energy. Great military leaders such as Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Napoleon, won their battles largely because of the honor they bestowed on their troops, the badges, medals, ceremonies and awards for bravery and courage bestowed on individuals who excelled. Theirs is an honor won in battle or competition. Woe to those who do not take this competition seriously: in games, those who cheat (break the rules) are humiliated and punished (tampering with a football or cricket ball to gain advantage for example). Or dosing one’s body with performance enhancing drugs may be enough to drum such person out of the group that has bestowed the honorifics.

The importance of honor may also depend on where one actually lives and into what geographic or social setting one is born. The upper echelons of society into which one is born usually carry with them particular locations in a city or country in which one lives, as well as the history of honor that is bestowed upon the families who give birth to their children. These are born into honor that must be unquestionably fostered and held high. Such were the gentlemen of the 18th and 19th centuries in much of the Western world, particularly those who for various reasons were on the fringe of such societies and thus had to work harder to demonstrate their devotion to honor and its defense against attacks (insults, slights etc.).

In contrast, poverty stricken areas of large cities, usually contained within specific boundaries in inner city locations or ethnic diaspora in outer fringes of a city, are devoted almost entirely to the pursuit of honor, a commodity not as scarce as material needs of life. In these places, actual food and material means of living are scarce. In contrast honor does not cost any money and does not require physical or complex infrastructures to exploit or develop, and thus produce sustenance. Rather, honor is something that can be created out of nothing but social relations, and in most cases, this honor is traded, exchanged and maintained by gangs of young men and boys, whose women, such as they are, watch from the sidelines and bear the children who will become future gang members. Many of the occupants of these gangs may lie, cheat, steal and perpetrate violence. But they do it in the name of honor.

But wait. Members of sporting teams and military groups are expected to fight against others who are their designated opponents or enemies. They must abide the rules of engagement, but let there be no doubt, the rules must not be broken and one must give no quarter to one’s enemy. In the military, provided the rules are obeyed, killing one’s enemies is honorable. So when we say that there is honor among thieves, we acknowledge that this is an admirable trait, confined to thieves who steal from us, yet stealing is surely not an honorable occupation. Aha! But they do not steal from each other — so goes the popular belief.

Most importantly, though, the means of ensuring that the rules of honorable men are enforced, those who break those rules must be punished. Thus we come to our story of an innocent (no such thing) boy who runs afoul of this complicated set-up.

On his twelfth birthday, Napoleon was just walking out the front gate, such as it was, one hinge broken, the wood rotting away, only a couple of palings left, when he was accosted by a huge man, or so it seemed to him. At first he thought it was Mike Tyson, but then saw that the man was too skinny, and his arms and fingers too slender. His fist reflexively tightened around the ten dollar bill in his pants pocket. It was a birthday present from his mom. She had given him the choice of the money or the weed, and he chose the money because he knew that if he wanted, he could buy the best weed in town or even something else down by the Crips hangout. Actually, she didn’t give it to him, he had taken it from under the sugar tin in the kitchen. She was too high to notice. He was too young to join the gang just yet, but it would not be too long before they let him in. Even so, he did errands for them and generally was tolerated by the others as a kind of mascot.

“Whatever you got, it’s mine.” growled the man putting on an evil, snarling face.

Napoleon turned to run back inside the house, but the long arm of his father reached out and grabbed a handful of his blue t-shirt, the shirt that one of his Crips friends gave him. It was well worn, a hole here and there, cigarette burns in random places. The shirt tore at the neck, and Napoleon grabbed the man with both hands.

“Let go of me!” he cried, “you’re a dead man!”

“You’re my kid and what’s yours is mine you little fucker!” laughed the man. He stooped to grab the ten dollar bill that fell to the ground. Napoleon seized the chance to run back inside, through the front door and out the back, over the old fence, through the weeds of next door and away to Magic Johnson Park to inform Nod Boddy, the Crips leader, of the shockingly horrible act. Not only had the man, claiming to be his father, robbed him, but he had torn his sacred shirt. It was a crime against the whole Crips gang and could not go unpunished.

“Tell you what,” said Nod Boddy with a stern face. “You did good, my man! You did good. But now’s the time you step up and be a man if you wanna be a Crips boy. That shirt, it’s all torn up. You gonna let your ol’ man get away with that insult?”

“It’s why I ran straight ‘ere,” panted Napoleon, breathless.

A few other gang members gathered round.

“So what’s he look like?” asked one of them.

“Mike Tyson,” answered Napoleon.

“Shit, man. You lucky you aint dead!”

Another spoke up. “Nods,” he said, “I know the guy. He drinks down at the Tavern on 121st street and deals a bit on and off. He aint no Mike Tyson. He’s harmless.”

“Not any more, he aint,” lectured Nod Boddy. “We’ll go down there and find him. And Napoleon, here, can step up and show us if he’s ready.”

Napoleon’s face lit up. “What you want me to do?” he asked. “He ripped my Crips shirt and took my ten dollars!”

“Fuck the ten dollars! He dissed the Crips. If the Bloods hear about that, they’ll come after us. We gotta defend our honor! Aint that right boys?”

“We want blood! We want blood!” they cried as one.

Nod Boddy put his arm around Napoleon. “You’re about to become a Crip. My man!” He put his hand out and they did the Crips handshake. Napoleon had been practicing it for many months. A complicated series of hand and finger actions. “Look boys! He’s gonna be a Crip!”

“Yo! But he’s gotta show us what he made of, first!” called one of the gang.

“You got a gun? Who’s carry’n?” Nod Boddy looked around his gang. They all looked sideways at each other. Guns were a priceless commodity. Contrary to popular belief that gangs were awash in guns, they were actually scarce because of all the gun laws. So there was some hesitation among the gang members.

“I can get him one. It’s stashed down by the old kids playground by Jemison school.”

“But that’s Bloods territory,” murmured one of the gang.

“All the better, then!” announced Nods.

“You ever shot a gun, Napoleon, my boy?”

“There’s always a first time,” grinned Napoleon.

Nod Boddy stood up on an old tin can. “I hereby proclaim that Napoleon will save the honor of the Crips by dispatching one Mike Tyson look-alike. Go forward, and may the honor of the Great Crips be with you!”

Napoleon had seen the Crips guys handle a gun often enough. But he was surprised when he was handed the gun at how heavy it was. He turned it over in both hands, ran his finger along the barrel. There were specks of rust here and there, He brandished it around, much to the amusement of the gang.

“It’s fuckn loaded!” said one with a grin, but none shied away from it scared that they might be shot.

“Are you sure it’s loaded?” asked Napoleon. “I don’t want to get up close to the big fucker, and the gun doesn’t go off.”

“We always keep our guns loaded, in case of emergency,” observed Nod Boddy. “And this is an emergency!”

Napoleon looked around. He passed the gun from one hand to the other, trying to get used to the weight. “You care where I do it?” he asked.

“It’s up to you, big guy! But you gotta get it done before sunset tomorrow. That’s the Crips rule. Twenty four hours rule. Offenses against honor have to be corrected within twenty four hours. If you’re gonna be a Crip, you gotta learn the rules.”

“That fucker won’t know what hit him!” said Napoleon, aiming the gun at a crow perched on a wire above.

“So one piece of advice, Naps my man. There’s four bullets in the gun. You gotta empty the lot. That’s the rule of engagement.”

“Got it!”

“And when you’re done, stash it somewhere only you will know where it will be, and especially were the cops won’t find it.”

“I got a great place. I’ll put it…”

“Shut up you silly fucker. Keep it to yourself. So you can tell the next one to be blooded.”

Napoleon tucked the gun inside the back of his old jeans. He had put on his old Crips shirt backwards, so the rip would show even more. “That fucker Tyson needed to be taught a lesson! No one fucks with the Crips!” he recited to himself as he walked in the direction of Tom’s Tavern, a bounce in his steps.

He waited outside, across the street. He dare not look inside the Tavern in case some drunk grabbed him. So he did not know whether Tyson was in there or not. “My fucking father! Who says so? And anyway, after I’m done he won’t be anyone’s father!” he smiled to himself.

Drunks talking loudly came in and out the tavern. None looked like Mike Tyson. He lingered in the shadows as dusk approached. It was a typical cool late summer evening in Los Angeles, the air still, the sky clear, though Napoleon did not look up. He started to walk back and forth, getting impatient. His father had ten dollars, surely he’d be in the tavern. That’s what they said. Then he heard chatter, men arguing. He stepped out of the shadows and looked about. Two large black men came towards him, silhouetted against the fading blue sky. He ran towards them, his hand on the gun behind his back. They ignored him, kept walking and gesticulating, deep in their argument. Now he could make out their features. It was his fucking so-called father all right.

And all of a sudden, there he stood, no more than ten yards from them. He grabbed his gun, its weight causing the barrel to catch on the top of his jeans. He tugged hard and it let go. The two men stopped arguing and stood grinning at this twelve year old kid waving a gun around. His father leaned forward, squinting in the dim light.

“You who I think you are, you little fucker?”

Napoleon pulled the trigger. He was surprised how hard it was to pull. But suddenly the gun went off and the recoil almost caused him to drop it. But he was a determined little bugger, that’s what he was. He raised the gun slowly and carefully and this time aimed at his father’s chest. He’d heard the Crips boys talk about where you should aim. The chest was the best, the biggest target. He squeezed the trigger not once, but twice. The first seemed to hit the target, as his dad staggered back a little and put his hand to hist chest. His Dad’s mate though, leaped forward and grabbed his wrist. “Gimme the fucking gun, you little shit!” he cried.

Napoleon, trying to break loose, pulled the trigger again and the last of the four bullets zoomed straight into the man’s face. Blood poured from his jaw and he let go. Napoleon ran, making sure to keep the gun. He’d spent his four bullets and he had to stash the gun. He could hardly wait. He’d be inducted into the gang, for sure.

The next day, the Crips gathered and conferred full membership on Napoleon. The L.A. Times reported in a small note at the bottom of page two that a man was shot near Jemison school and a ten year old girl had been shot while sitting in the living room watching TV. A stray bullet had entered through the window and killed her instantly.

Moral: The side effects of punishment are incalculable.