Veterans Day 1995

There are nights that never leave you, no matter how far you travel or how much time has passed. For me, that night was Veterans Day—1995.

Or better yet, Veterans Night.

The night I got shot.

The night I got ran over.

The night I died—and somehow lived to tell it.

Woods and Verona

We were deep in East L.A., at a Maravilla party on Woods and Verona, kicking it with the homegirls from the Rascals, the music thumping, the streetlights painting everything gold and shadow. It was one of those nights when you thought nothing bad could happen—until it did.

Steve wanted to smoke some of the Indo I had come up on in Hollywood. Two pounds of it. “Let me go grab it,” I told him. “Then we’ll roll by your pad and pick up some skante.”

I was about to leave with my .380 when my homie Corn Nut stopped me, begging for that strap. At first, I told him no, but he kept pushing, wouldn’t shut up. So I handed it over just to quiet him down.

That turned out to be both a blessing and a curse.

Because if I’d still had that .380, this story might’ve ended differently.

The Setup

Stomps had parked across the street. As we walked up, I told Steve to get in the back seat. I pulled the seat forward and shoved him in. Just then, a big car rolled up next to us. The door flung open.

Instinct took over—I reached for my black wallet and pulled it out like it was a gun.

That move saved our lives.

The gunman in the front seat ducked, they drove forward a few car lengths, then stopped again. Two guys jumped out—one with a shotgun, the other with a .22—and started blasting.

I took off running, but so did Stomps. He panicked, threw the car in reverse, and hit me—ran me over. I remember the bumper cracking my head.

So this is how I die.

Everything went dark.

The Tunnel

Then I wasn’t in the street anymore. I was in a batter’s box, staring down a pitcher on the mound. All the homies who had passed away were standing around, having a meeting.

They asked me, “What are you doing here?”

I said, “I’m here to play ball, ese. Pitch me the ball.”

They shook their heads. “Nah, chale. You gotta go back.”

And then—just like that—I was rushing through a tunnel of light, faster and faster until I broke through.

I felt wind on my face. I opened my eyes, disoriented. Wicked was holding my hand, banging on the window, yelling, “He’s alive! He’s alive!”

I was naked in the back of my homie’s truck, covered in blood and dust, clinging to life as they sped toward East L.A. Doctors Hospital.

The Hospital

We pulled up, and the nurses came rushing out—only to tell my homeboys they couldn’t admit me, that I was too far gone. My homies started yelling, “He’s dying! You need to help him!”

Then came the sirens. The sheriffs showed up.

One leaned down and said, “Who shot you?”

“I don’t know,” I told him.

He said, “We’re not letting you in unless you tell us.”

I stayed quiet.

I knew, but I didn’t know.

I’d told them before—you got your job, and I got mine. My job ain’t to snitch.

They finally let me in.

Shot in my leg and my backside. Back riddled with shotgun pellets. Severe road rash.

On my third night, I somehow dragged myself to the bathroom. When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t recognize the face staring back. My forehead was swollen, my eyes nearly shut, blood caked on my skin. I looked like a monster.

And I cried.

Not just from pain—but from the rage that burned deep in me.

These motherfuckers are gonna pay, I whispered to my reflection.

Recovery

Doctors said I’d need rehab to learn to walk again. Said my head injury had messed up my equilibrium.

I spent three weeks in the hospital. When I finally got home, they laid a mattress on the floor so the nurse could reach me easier. She came three times a day to clean the wounds with saline.

The pain was unbearable. I screamed every time.

The nurse was a Black woman from Compton—tough, kind, and funny. The first day she told me, “Don’t you go getting hard on me, young man.”

Even in the pain, she made me laugh.

My house became a revolving door—homies, old friends, people from school. Stomps came too, crying, apologizing, asking to be put on the set. I told him, “No need to apologize—but you’re not getting in the neighborhood.”

About ten days later, I managed to walk to my room. The first thing that hit me was that smell—the Indo. I rolled a fat joint, went out to the porch, and lit it up. Halfway through, I started to fade, thought I might pass out—then the sheriffs rolled up again.

East L.A. Sheriffs. Gang Task Force. Guns drawn.

“Get down!” they shouted.

I couldn’t. I was still in a hospital gown. Ramirez and Garcia led the raid. Ramirez barked orders. Garcia recognized me.

“What happened, mijo?” he asked.

“I just got out of the hospital. Got shot and ran over on Woods and Verona.”

Ramirez said, “That was you on Veterans Day?”

“Yeah.”

They said they were there to arrest me for murder. I told them I’d been in the hospital. My mom came out, cussing them out. I told her to grab my discharge papers. She did.

Garcia looked them over and said, “Guess it wasn’t you.”

Ramirez sneered. “You’re not off the hook. You had to be involved somehow.”

I hit the joint, looked at him, and said, “Then get off my property.”

The Healing

The doctors said I’d never walk right again—but I swear to God, that weed healed me.

I never went to therapy. By New Year’s Eve, I was standing, walking, even dancing at a party with the homies.

I’m not saying weed is a miracle cure. I’m just saying it healed me.

Two months: shot, ran over, accused of murder, and introduced to opiates.

The doctor sent me home with a bottle of Lortabs.

That’s how the next chapter of my story began.

By December of 1996, Detective Ramirez had me locked up. Tried to hit me with two strikes.

We beat it. Even had the witness lie.

Oh, what a time to be alive.

You had to be there.