Tales From Da Hood

It’s almost Halloween, so I’d thought I’d tell a s-s-s- s-c-a-r-y s-s-s-s-t-o-r-y about something that actually happened to me:

It was getting late and my brothers and sisters were getting ready to go to bed. As the oldest (I was 13 at the time), it was partly my responsibility to help the 5 younger ones with getting their pajamas on, teeth brushed and so forth. As I helped my sister find some clean pj’s, I heard a loud knock at the door. My sister and I hurried towards the front door as my Mother came to answer it. She shooed us back, as she had told us many times not to come near the front door when she answered it until we knew who was knocking. As she answered the door, I peaked around the corner.

”Please let me in! There is a group of people after me! Please let me in!” The young man at our door pleaded.

”I can’t let you in here, but you can wait in our backyard and I’ll call the police for you.” My mother offered. I remember momentarily thinking it was rude that my Mom didn’t invite him in.

The young man put his hand on the front door, trying to push it open wider. “NO! Don’t call the police! Just let me in!”

At this point she became alarmed, and with all her might she slammed the door shut. She had to wedge her foot in the bottom of the door to keep it closed enough so she could hurry and lock the dead bolt.

The guy outside started to yell. “LET ME IN! LET ME IN, OR I’LL BREAK DOWN YOUR DOOR!!”

I came out from the corner. Eyes wide, she gestured towards the bedrooms where the rest of my siblings were. Without any words spoken, I knew what to do. I quickly gathered all of my siblings and we huddled behind our couch in the living room.

My Dad came in at the same time to see what all the yelling was about. My Mom quickly told him what was going on, and then she went in the kitchen and called the police.

My Dad went over to the front door, and could see through the peephole that more people had arrived. He ran to get our shotgun. The group that had gathered outside our front door were now all yelling “OPEN THE DOOR!” and were pushing and kicking the door.

As my Dad came back with the shotgun, the group had started to kick the door in unison. boom. Boom. BOOM. My Dad pushed back on the door as hard as he could.

I sat in the dark, behind the couch with my arms around my huddled siblings. Through their quiet whimperings I could hear my Mom pleading with the police to hurry. I wondered if they would get in. All sorts of horrible scenarios went through my head.

Luckily, our door withheld the pounding, and the group of thugs outside gave up after terrorizing us for 20 minutes or so. The police didn’t arrive for another 45 minutes after they were gone.

This incident, was the last straw for my parents. The bullets that flew through a friend’s mattress from a drive by, narrowly missing them as they slept, the shooting at my school during lunch, the riots and looting, the break ins on our street… they had had enough. It was time to move. Unfortunately, Southern California has the most expensive real estate in the country, and while there were plenty of nice, safe areas, they weren’t anything that they could afford.

Finally, a year later, my parents sold the house, and my Dad had found a new job. For me, however, although the crime was a problem, at 14 years old, the last thing I wanted to do was move away from all of my friends. At the very least, I hoped that my Dad would find a job somewhere I thought was interesting, like San Diego, or Lake Tahoe. However, I was devastated when my Dad came home and announced: (this is the scariest part!)

”Guess what kids? We’re moving to Orem, Utah!”

to be continued…