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MY BLOODY LIFE PDF

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My Bloody Life. The Making of a Latin King. Reymundo Sanchez. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data. Sanchez, Reymundo. My bloody life: the. cittadelmonte.info Review In My Bloody Life, Reymundo Sanchez tells a chillingly Making of a Latin King free pdf book download My Bloody Life: The Making of a. Editorial Reviews. cittadelmonte.info Review. In My Bloody Life, Reymundo Sanchez tells a chillingly sad tale, from his birth in the back of a pickup truck in Puerto.


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Looking for an escape from childhood abuse, Reymundo Sanchez turned away from school and baseball to drugs, alcohol, and then sex, and was left to fend for . Book details Author: Reymundo Sanchez Pages: pages Publisher: A Cappella Books Language: English ISBN ISBN Description this book My Bloody Life Looking for an escape from childhood abuse, Reymundo Sanchez turned away from. My Bloody Life Looking for an escape from childhood abuse, Reymundo Sanchez turned away from school and baseball to drugs, alcohol, and then sex, and.

More Product: My Bloody Life Looking for an escape from childhood abuse, Reymundo Sanchez turned away from school and baseball to drugs, alcohol, and then sex, and was left to fend for himself before age The Latin Kings, one of the largest and most notorious street gangs in America, became his refuge and his world, but its violence cost him friends, freedom, self-respect, and nearly his life. This is a raw and powerful odyssey through the ranks of the new mafia, where the only people more dangerous than rival gangs are members of your own gang, who in one breath will say they'll die for you and in the next will order your assassination. Search this site. My Bloody Life: Audible Book.

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A Guide to College Reading and Writing. The History of Video Games. He bought a brand-new car almost every year and carried a large amount of cash on him at all times. My mother looked like a frail toothpick next to Pedro. When he would come over my mother would send us outside.

After a couple of months of that we all moved to the North Side. He was twenty-three years old, six feet, three inches tall, and weighed four hundred pounds. He was a sports fanatic and had a particular taste for big flashy cars. He had the personality of a kid. Hector enjoyed playing practical jokes on people and had a knack for making people laugh.

Like his father, Hector also dabbled in the illegal lottery. Unlike his father, Hector was also a drug dealer. Hector sold heroin. His girlfriend Missy, a junkie, was a tiny woman whose teeth had rotted away because of her craving for sweets. In fact just about everyone who hung around Hector was a junkie, including his previous girlfriend, the mother of his child, his sister-in-law, and her boyfriend.

Hector enjoyed their company. They worshipped him. They did anything he wanted at his command. We went past an African American neighborhood, then through Polish and Italian areas. I saw railroad tracks, parks, and kids enjoying themselves in the spray of water coming from a fire hydrant. The buildings changed in style, each telling their own unique architectural story.

It seemed like the city embraced its dwellers the way a mother demonstrates love for her child. My love for Chicago grew stronger by the day. We all seemed to have something in common other than being of the same race. I was eight and a half when we moved to the North Side. The area we moved to seemed predominantly white but there were also plenty of Puerto Ricans. We lived in the Humboldt Park area.

My Bloody Life: The Making of a Latin King

Humboldt Park was the most beautiful park I had ever seen. There was a beach for swimming, a lake for fishing, and many baseball diamonds. To me it was like a world within a world. Our home was a second-floor, three-bedroom apartment above a grocery store. There were wooden porches in the back with stairs that led down into a walkway that went into an alley. Next door to us was a three-story building with a bar on the street level.

I was enrolled at Von Humboldt School, which was located about six or seven blocks from where I lived. By now I had become somewhat proficient in English, but there was still a lot I did not understand. I was still very ignorant in the ways of American youth. I was going on nine years old. At Von Humboldt I was put in the fifth grade with kids my own age. I went from being the biggest kid in class to being one of the smallest.

On the very first day of school the school bully confronted me. His name was Ricardo, but everyone called him Ricky. He was a big, ugly, black-skinned Puerto Rican. He had a big afro and could easily have been mistaken for an African American until he spoke. Ricky proclaimed himself the toughest guy in school and pointed out a certain girl as his girlfriend. He warned me to stay away from her.

You better stop saying that. The next person I met was a guy named Jorge. He was short with big feet and curly hair and was an easy person to get along with. Jorge introduced me to his buddies Noel and Julio.

Noel looked more like a white boy than he did a Puerto Rican. He had dirty blond hair, blue eyes, and rosy skin. Then there was Julio. He looked more like a stereotypical Puerto Rican. He was brown skinned with pushed-back black hair and a very deep Latin accent. Jorge and Noel were born and raised in Chicago. Their families had been some of the first Puerto Ricans to inhabit the Humboldt Park area.

They told me a lot of horror stories about white violence toward Puerto Ricans. As new additions to the neighborhood, Julio and I could only take their word for it. The stories the guys told about the white people in the area were never pleasant. Jorge showed me scars he claimed were caused by a group of white boys who jumped him because he was Puerto Rican. All the white people I had encountered since coming to Chicago were friendly and nice.

I told the guys about some white boys I had passed on the way to school. They seemed friendly enough. They kept pointing at the sky with their middle fingers. I thought they were showing me how beautiful it was. They also yelled words that I understood to be friendly gestures. I had never heard these words before. They yelled punk, spic, pussy, son of a bitch, and I think they even offered me a pork chop.

Julio, Jorge, and Noel laughed uncontrollably as I told them about these white boys. After the laughter they explained to me what I was being called and what the middle finger pointed at the sky meant. I felt like an idiot. All day long I kept thinking about what the white boys were saying to me. Now I was scared. I had never experienced such hatred. I became wary and cautious of the company I kept. Noel, Jorge, and Julio wanted to confront the white boys but hesitated because of the presence of a police officer.

The officer was standing near his patrol car about four or five feet from the white boys by the edge of the sidewalk. He looked at the boys with this half smile, half smirk on his face, but did nothing. It seemed like he was enjoying what was going on.

The Puerto Rican kid, apparently pushed to the limit, suddenly lunged at the white boy nearest him and tackled him to the ground. The white boy covered his face with his arms as his friends backed off, yelling, Leave him alone, leave him alone!

The police officer walked up to the two boys and grabbed the Puerto Rican kid by the hair. He lifted the kid up and pulled him toward the patrol car. The officer opened the back door of the car and tossed the kid in as he kicked him in the rear end. He then turned around and yelled, Get in school, all of you. I hurried inside and went to my classroom. There were only a few kids there. About ten minutes later Noel, Jorge, and Julio walked into the classroom along with the rest of the class.

I told you. The white boys get away with everything, Noel said as he walked past me toward his desk. From that point forward I was always leery of white people. I never saw him again—not in school, around the neighborhood, or anywhere.

Maybe his parents had been scared right back to Puerto Rico. That episode certainly put the fear of whites in me. I immediately recognized that when a Puerto Rican complained about abuse from a white person they were classified as weak, cowardly, not able to conform to American ways. However, when a Puerto Rican became the aggressor, he was classified as an animal, not fit to live within American society.

At school I hung out with Puerto Ricans, mainly the guys, and avoided whites. This became easier as time went on. It seemed like they were moving out to get away from the Puerto Ricans.

Jorge, Noel, Julio, and I became inseparable. We soon started meeting each other on the corner of Rockwell and Potomac Streets. There was a candy store located there that we routinely shoplifted from. The most popular item in the store came in a little folded brown paper envelope that cost five dollars, called a nickel bag. I always wondered what kind of candy could be so expensive. Anyway, it was because of the popularity of the nickel bag that we were able to steal candy so easily.

The boys and I played around on that corner until it was time to go to school. The best thing that came from hanging out with Julio, Jorge, and Noel was how quickly I learned English. They spoke in a mix of Spanish and English that made it easy for me to follow and understand what they were saying.

After, they had a good laugh—at my expense, that is. In no time at all I was using the most popular words in the English language in complete, proper sentences. Fuck you, you stupid mother fucking asshole, was my first English sentence.

We called it the escape hole. Kids our size could jump right through it but a grown-up, like, say, a truant officer, would have a hard time. By the time they did get through we would be gone.

On the other side of that fence was an alley that led to Washtenaw Street. When we came out of the alley there was a game room right across the street. It had two pool tables, an air hockey table, a foosball machine, and various kinds of pinball machines.

The most popular item there was also the nickel bag. One sold them inside and the other worked outside on the street. Back in school I was in heaven. Being able to read, write, and understand the English language better made school even more fascinating. I was a model student, always on time, my homework neatly completed, and always attentive and eager to learn.

My three amigos and I were all pretty good students. On several occasions Noel took us to his house. It was the first time I had seen an adult female body in the nude.

I was kind of embarrassed at first, but I was also definitely excited. Noel seemed a bit more experienced in sexual matters than the rest of us.

My Bloody Life: The Making of a Latin King (Illinois) [PDF]

After school we would rush home to watch our favorite cartoon, Speed Racer , get a bite to eat, and then meet at the school playground for a couple of games of baseball. While we were having a good time with our ball game, the neighborhood teenagers would group up by the mobile classrooms. They would play loud music, drink Old Style beer and Richards wine, and, to my surprise, make the contents of the infamous nickel bags into cigarettes.

I finally found out what the nickel bag was used for. The best-looking girls always hung out with that group. The girls also drank and smoked the expensive cigarettes.

They were always tongue kissing the guys and would let themselves be touched and grabbed in places that I had thought were sacred to the opposite sex. They would do these things right out in the open with no shame. My friends and I were so envious. Most of the guys playing baseball with us had their minds made up—they wanted to be part of this cool group when they got older.

His name was Oscar. It was obvious that he and Noel were not the offspring of the same father. Oscar looked more like Julio, only his skin was just a little lighter. His name was spray painted or written in marker all over the place. Wherever his name appeared, so did the letters L D.

They stood for Latin Disciples. That was what they called themselves. That afternoon after we finished playing baseball, I bombarded Noel with questions about his brother and the Latin Disciples.

Noel told me that people in that group were considered the coolest guys in the neighborhood. They protected and helped each other in times of need. They were all known by nicknames—everybody who joined them was given one.

He also told us about how sometimes he would see the Disciples chasing white boys and blacks out of the neighborhood, and sometimes even all the way out of Humboldt Park. I asked him why. That summer went by quickly and left a lot of unanswered questions in my mind. We played a lot of baseball, tried to hang out with the Latin Disciples, and talked a lot about girls.

My stepbrother Hector would come by once in a while and talk sports with me. Sometimes we played catch together and once he played fast pitching with us. Fast pitching was what we called a game of baseball played against a wall. The wall acted as the catcher.

A box representing the strike zone would be drawn on a wall that had open space in front of it. An imaginary playing field was created, depending on the space available. All pitches that landed inside the box were strikes and any outside the box were balls. Any number of players could play, but the usual number was one to three players per team.

No base running took place. Boundaries were agreed upon to determine base hits, doubles, triples, and home runs. Of course, if they were caught it was an out. Any ground balls hit past the pitcher were base hits but if caught beforehand it was an out.

When he ran we all made believe there was an earthquake. Surprisingly, Hector was a pretty good athlete for a man his size. He had a hell of a curveball and had a good swing when at bat. When he hit the ball solidly in the air, man, it went a long way.

I was so happy playing baseball and going to school.

ANNELLE from Arizona
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