How A Simple Errand Put Me In The Middle Of A Gang War

5

A Forgotten Sweater Put Me In The Crossfire Of A Gang War

My father and I drove down from our home in Northern California to visit the hodgepodge of aunts, cousins, uncles, and other distant relatives living in Southern California. One afternoon, we ended up at my father's cousin's place, and he had an older teenage daughter named Sarah. She was the first person I'd seen in a week even remotely close to my age. Plus she had a car, a license, and the most perfectly worn-down Converse sneakers. She was an instant rock star in my eyes, and seeing that we were getting on quite well, the adults encouraged us to go hang out at the mall. First, however, Sarah informed me that she needed to stop by a friend's house to pick up a sweater. A friend's house in East LA.

Our parents had warned us about East LA. Even as we walked out the door, Sarah's mother -- still in hot rollers, with a dishrag wrapped around her thick neck -- explicitly forbade us from going there. But Sarah was unfazed and told me we would only be there for a minute. After all, we were just going to retrieve a sweater. What's the worst that could happen? Sweater-mites? Moth attack? Drive-by shooting?

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Spoiler: It's the last one.

4

It Wasn't Until Afterward That I Found Out How Close I'd Been To Death

Luckily, Sarah wasn't quite funny enough to serve as dramatic cannon fodder, and we both made it through unharmed. As we lay there, hunched uncomfortably over the parking brake, we tried to shift to see out the window. Sure enough, Sarah's friend was gone. I found out later that he did survive. (I mean, I didn't assume he'd been disintegrated by bullets or anything, but he could have been hit and bleeding out for all we knew.)

3

I Couldn't Remember A Damn Thing About It

Not too long after we got out of the car, two young police officers pulled up. They asked us if we had been the ones involved in the drive-by earlier, and Sarah explained that we were just visiting a friend and these random guys started shooting at us. They asked us what the men looked like, and Sarah did her best to remember, but mostly sobbed unhelpfully. As opposed to, say, helpful, practical sobbing. You'd think you'd remember every detail of your attacker after something like that, but traumatic events are where your memory is at its worst. After she finished, the officers looked to me to confirm her story. "Is this true?" Still processing my own mortality, I muttered a brief, "Yeah, I guess."

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Which maybe isn't the most helpful response for cops investigating an attempted murder.

2

East LA Cops Aren't Funny

It started to rain, so the officers advised us to get into the backseat of their squad car. I didn't realize how much attention two brown girls sitting the in back of a cop car could generate. Some passersby simply gawked, while others shook their heads disapprovingly, and for some reason, I felt ashamed. Hell, maybe we were gangbangers. Was it possible I'd accidentally ganged a bang and didn't even know it?!

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The judgmental glares of so many bystanders can't all be wrong, right?

1

The Drive-by Lasted For Minutes; The PTSD For Years

For years after the shooting, I couldn't walk down a street without flinching every time a car passed. I would duck down and pretend to tie my shoes beside cover. I took to lingering behind trees. I would cringe and shake for no reason whatsoever. I hated parties because they had balloons and the mere threat of a sudden pop was enough for an anxiety attack.

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A PTSD flashback can kill a party faster than an East LA patrol cop.

I was eventually able to move on with my life, and I'm grateful to say that much of that PTSD faded with time. However, after rereading the court documents and revisiting the events in my head, I can't help but think how very close I came to actually dying that day, and for absolutely no reason whatsoever. In all, ten spent 9mm bullet casings were found at the scene of the shooting, yet none hit us. But if Sarah hadn't yanked me down like I was an oblivious president and she my faithful Secret Service agent, the bullet that went through the front passenger window would have hit me right in the head. I've lost touch with Sarah over the years, but if she happens to be reading now: Thanks for chokeslamming me into your parking brake. They uh ... they don't really make a card for that.

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