1998 L.A. Times Magazine Article "Big Evil's Ride to Death Row"

Police Attribute More Than 20 Murders to Cleamon Johnson, a Guy You've Probably Never Heard of. His Victims Were Innocents Trying to Survive or Gang Kids in Over Their Heads.

November 29, 1998

In these days of support groups, Violet Loggins could start a large one for people whose husbands, sons, brothers, daughters or friends were murdered by one man. Loggins' own mourning began seven years ago. Her husband, Donald Ray Loggins, worked at a local cable company, and since the birth of their son five months earlier, he had been as punctual as a Marine Corps reveille. He would pull into the driveway of their pleasant two-bedroom, South-Central Los Angeles home at 2:45 p.m. to watch the baby while Violet got ready for her swing-shift job. But on Aug. 5, 1991, Violet was sitting on the couch, cradling their child and staring at the telephone, wondering why her husband was so late.

Had Violet been outside at about 2:30 p.m., she would have heard distant gunshots, the sound of an Uzi being fired into the skulls of her 30-year-old husband and his friend, Payton Beroit, as they waited at a carwash on 88th Street and Central Avenue. It was the sound that symbolized the reign of terror of street gang leader Cleamon Johnson, who authorities say ordered the murders as he sat 100 feet from the carwash on the porch of his parents' home, his throne.

Loggins and his friend were killed because they lived east of Central Avenue, a dividing line between Crips and Bloods. Evil says neither was a gang member, but Johnson, seeking to provide a newly recruited Blood with a mission to earn his stripes, spotted them and issued their death sentences.

"He tore my family apart," says Loggins. "My husband was one of the good guys. He was always doing favors for people. Now I'm bringing up a child without a father . . . . All I have for my son are pictures. What do I tell him?"

Few of the loved ones of Johnson's victims, Violet Loggins among them, know the real name of the man who ruined their lives. But their eyes dart about nervously and anger distorts their faces at the mention of his street name.

This is the story of how a sweet young boy named Cleamon Johnson grew up to be "Big Evil."

*

By the early 1990s, the neighborhood controlled by the 89 family Bloods, Big Evil's neighborhood, was among the deadliest in California. In 1993 alone, there were 12 murders in the gang's half-square-mile turf. If all of Los Angeles had such a rate, there would have been 22,512 murders in the city, 4,635 more than in the entire United States last year. Big Evil was not responsible for all the mayhem, of course. But in a city with 100,000 gang members, he stood out.

"Every gang has a bad ass, a shot-caller," says LAPD Homicide Det.

Rosemary Sanchez. "Evil was the most violent one I ever knew about."

FBI Agent Jon Lipsky says only famed Mafia killer Anthony "Tony the Ant" Spilotro was as violent. "Johnson has admitted to 13 murders by his own hands. That makes him a serial killer."

In total, police attribute more than 20 murders to Johnson. But even using the lower figure to which Johnson has confessed, that means he murdered as many people as "Freeway Killer" William Bonin or "Night Stalker" Richard Ramirez. In all likelihood, Evil's relative obscurity has to do with where the slaughter occurred. No celebrities among these victims. No Palos Verdes bankers or Newport Beach realtors. These were innocents just trying to survive, or young gang members in way over their heads. Johnson's defense tried to portray him as a victim of geography. "Evil is a product of 89th and Central," said Joe Orr, counsel for Johnson's co-defendant, Michael "Fat Rat" Allen. "With his charm, there's no telling how far he could have gone. He was talented, but his abilities were diverted to the streets. If he had been raised in a different area, this would not have happened."

His own mother, however, can't believe it's that simple. After a jury sentenced Johnson to death for Loggins' and Beroit's murders, she pondered her personal version of the question that has kept sociologists and criminologists and theologians bickering for decades. What makes a boy go bad? "I feel I gave him my all. I just don't know what happened. Sometimes I feel I am to blame, but I did all a mother could do. I don't know why it turned out like this."

*

Cleamon Demone Johnson was born on Oct. 15, 1967, in Los Angeles. He had what many hard-core cases dream of--two loving parents. Aileen and Cleamon Johnson raised their son in a three-bedroom home on 88th Street. The white house had a large porch and a big backyard, complete with a pigeon coop that served as a playground for Cleamon, his two older half brothers, two younger brothers and a boisterous bunch of neighborhood boys. Norman Rockwell could have painted that scene, or the summer afternoons when Aileen gave her sons and their friends Kool-Aid and sometimes invited the neighbor boys to dinner, at which the family of seven said grace before eating.

Neighbors remember Cleamon as a sweet child with a big smile and an eagerness to help ladies bring groceries from their cars. He'd scan the bags, grab the most overflowing and wobble toward the porch, peering through the leafy contents to avoid curbs and steps. As a member of Boy Scout Troop 374, he earned many merit badges, including one he is still proud of: Survival. Like all boys with brothers, Cleamon learned to roughhouse from an early age, to fight back when the older boys slugged him, and to fight back tears when the punches hurt.

That was a time when South-Central's gangs still fought with fists, an occasional tire iron, a rare knife, and street trouble seldom spilled into homes. No one had yet heard the rumblings of an Uzi or AK-47 here. But in 1970, when Cleamon Johnson was 3, an epochal event occurred: Less than a mile away, some young men got together and started calling themselves the Crips. Things in South-Central would never be the same. Enter the era of families routinely ducking for cover, of sleeping on floors, of burying babies. Soon the "The City of Angels" was better known as the "Gang Capital of America."

In response to the Crips, various groups of young men and boys from rival gangs--the Piru, the Bounty Hunters, the Brims and the Swans--banded together into a loose confederation that became known as the Bloods. Over time, large, well-armed Crips factions--East Coast Crips, Avalon Gardens Crips and, directly across Central Avenue, the Kitchen Crips--hemmed in Johnson's neighborhood on three sides. That embattled horseshoe engendered the 89 Family Bloods.

One sweltering afternoon, when Johnson was 8, he was sitting on a fire hydrant at 84th and Towne when a car drove up. Teenagers got out and opened fire, shredding the body of his friend Darryl. It was Johnson's first numbing, close-up view of death. Within a year he saw another boy murdered. Violence became part the backdrop, like the sound of jets descending toward LAX. Soon Johnson was caught up in it.

When word got home that he'd been fighting, Cleamon Johnson knew what to expect: "An ass-whipping." But he doesn't begrudge his parents their attempts at discipline. He says he enjoyed his childhood, and by all accounts, even during this time of schoolyard fistfights, he remained a good student, a curious, intelligent boy with a certain charm and bright smile. Cleamon's parents took him and his brothers camping throughout the West. They understood the advantages such experiences offered, and because they sympathized with the children who came from broken homes, they often took along some of the pigeon coop boys. Cleamon was particularly fond of Oregon's Crater Lake, a tree-sheltered pool of serenity atop a dormant volcano.

Though far from rich, the Johnsons spoiled their boys. At Christmas, when other kids received roller skakes, the Johnson boys got go-karts. What they couldn't give them was immunity to the forces transforming the city. By the time he was 12 or 13, attending Drew Middle School near Watts, Cleamon was encountering young Crips hourly.

It was there, in the seventh grade, that he first tasted the thrill of being a bad ass. A larger and older Kitchen Crip had been bullying some youngsters. Johnson charged the boy, got the upper hand, and kept on going, smashing the boy's face into a basketball pole until blood spurted onto the court. From then on, the other boys looked up to him. So did some of the girls. Nearly two decades before he received the death penalty, the battle for his life had begun.

From that point on, Johnson's family found itself in a tug of war with the 89 Family. His parents dug in, pulling steadily; the gang yanked with adrenaline-filled spasms on the other side. The family pulled with love. The gang with power and fear. The gang won.

Johnson graduated to hanging with older, hard-core men, many of them ex-convicts. They were glad to have him on their side. "Evil was a great street fighter," says Ricky Parker, Johnson's half brother. "He was good with his hands, his elbows, his head, his feet, his knees, his teeth."

"He could really get down with his hands," says a rival Kitchen Crip, one street fighter appreciating another. "It takes more than a gun to get respect." Yet in this new Wild West, most gang members came to see a gun as survival gear. By the late 1970s, even the best street fighters had turned to firepower. Evil became as unfazed by shooting people as he had been at stomping their teeth in. From the most ruthless family members, Evil created a commando unit of sorts, which he called the 88 Monsters. Though he still lived with and respected his parents, on the street his rage would flow. Defending his outgunned 'hood became an obsession.

"When his anger goes off, it is a something to check out, blood," said a member of the Swans. "It was scary. He be getting like a hurricane, and you can't stop him when he want to jack up someone. You know that he ain't just talking, like so many other brothers. If he said it, I would say to myself, 'Someone gonna die tonight.' "

*

Thanks, in part, to Evil, the LAPD and the District Atorney's hard Core Gang Unit came to view the 89 Family as the deadliest small gang in the city. "Part of the reason they were so violent was that they were surrounded by much larger gangs on three sides," says South Bureau Homicide Det. Christopher Barling, who testified as a gang expert in the murder trial. "To keep their little territory, 89 had to fight harder."

Det. Thomas Mathew calls Johnson "the most cold-blooded killer in the city," and sees himself as Evil's nemesis. One of the gang's traits, he says, was their turnaround time when it came to a retaliation shooting. "They were notorious for quick paybacks. Whenever we heard there had been shooting [on 89 Family turf], we would rush over to the rival's turf and wait for them to come by. Sometimes they had already given the payback."

But Evil wasn't just fast. He was a street strategist, detectives say.

"Most gang members are reactionary, heat of passion," says Barling. "You shoot us, we shoot you. Evil was different. Evil would think and plan things out." He built a reputation for beating murder raps and for allegedly calling in several murders from behind bars. He even ordered the assassination of Mathew. For a time, an LAPD SWAT team shadowed the detective to counter the threat.

Evil's crimes, meanwhile, were becoming street folklore. Barling recalls a 1991 assault on the Avalon Gardens housing project that Crips, Bloods and cops still talk about. "Evil had his guys do two other shootings just to get police away from Avalon Gardens," he says. "He had guys in stolen cars waiting as getaway drivers. He had guys going into [the project] on the flanks. Then he led 10 of them--walking--into the middle of the project and fired off more than 200 rounds. It was lucky only one person died."

Such tactics do not go unnoticed. In 1994, LAPD's South Bureau homicide squad organized an 89 Family Task Force, consisting of detectives, FBI agents and the district attorney's office. Their goal: bring down Evil for good. To succeed, however, the task force needed something authorities had always failed to get--witnesses who would take the stand. Many times Evil had been arrested as the prime suspect in a murder case and many times he had walked. His myth grew as word spread that he was untouchable. "How many times you gonna get arrested for murder then get out right away?" asks the former girlfriend of an 88 Monster. "Everyone in the neighborhood was talking about it. He gonna get out and kill you if you ratted on him. It was really simple."

In 1994, Gloria Lyons told authorities that she saw an 89 Family member kill a man. She was killed. Georgia Denise Jones testified in the same case. She was killed. Two years earlier, Albert Sutton was due to testify in a murder trial. He was killed. But in developing evidence in the Loggins and Beroit murders, detectives latched onto a witness, Freddie Jelks, who was facing life in prison for a murder. During the Loggins-Beroit murder trial, Jelks said that Evil had ordered the killings. The jury voted to convict and sent Johnson to San Quentin's death row. Now he's in the Pitchess Detention Center in Saugus preparing to represent himself in yet another murder trial in January.

*

Big Evil receives a visitor from behind the thick glass window of a small metal cage that his 6-foot-2, 220-pound fat-free frame fills to capacity. These are the visitation arrangements the sheriffs reserve for their most explosive charges.

It is not the man's menace that strikes you, though, or the bulging biceps, or his shaved head and piercing eyes. It's Big Evil's engaging smile.

"He was so nice," says Sanchez, the homicide detective, recalling her first street encounter with the gangster. Sanchez, a 17-year veteran who had heard the fearsome tales about Johnson, was taken aback by his personality. "He had this big smile. He joked with us. And that laugh. That Big Evil laugh. It was . . . well, it was really evil. I'm happy we finally brought him down."

Johnson smiles when he hears that Sanchez is glad he got convicted. His laugh rises in volume like a tsunami about to devastate a fishing village. "I think she's mad at me because I wouldn't give her any," he says. "She was listening to me talk nasty to my wife [on a bugged county jail phone], and she was getting turned on."

Sometimes , even when he's laughing, it's hard to tell if Johnson is joking. At the time of this interview, for instance, he was a trustee at the Men's Central Jail. His job: food server. "No one complains about the service," says Johnson. "That would be dumb."

Ask him, though, what life is like now for a man who has deprived so many people of theirs, and the laughter stops. "I'm not really fond of life," he says. "It seems like I'm already dead. I ain't never been one that depends on hope."

Ask him to tally how many deaths he has meted out, and his gaze becomes a glare. "That's another story. That's a whole long story," he says. He pauses. Then he lowers his head and cocks it to one side, and suddenly he's back 23 years and is talking about that boy who sat on a fire hydrant and watched his first killing. Listen to Evil now, and you can almost begin to see things from his severely contorted, Boy Scout-turned-killer's perspective. You can almost see how, in the twisted realm of certain neighborhoods, where a parent's tender hug is counterbalanced by some tough's shove, a boy's thinking could go so haywire.

In a way, Johnson was cursed with the rare qualities it takes to transcend the fear that can cripple such neighborhoods, that leaves many inhabitants half-dead with dread. He had that athletic body, wicked knockout punch and the drive to fight back ferociously. In the end, perhaps, the gang won out because to Johnson, love was no longer as vital as power.

And he loved that power.

Most boys at some point in their lives fantasize about being the baddest street fighter, about taking down bullies while girls ogle from ringside seats on the curb. Johnson's parents and lawyers, the judge and the jury that convicted him, might not be so perplexed about his fate had they ever felt the addictive rush of walking into a party with a reputation that paralyzes the room, of having brutal men turn to you for protection, of hearing tales of your ruthlessness grow into legend.

From his perspective, love never stood a chance. And once Johnson was off on that alternative course, he threw himself into it with all his heart.

"I was the epitome of a gang member," he says. "I was real. A lot of people be putting on a front that they bad. Acting tough. I wasn't acting at all. I was just being me. I love to fight. Win, lose or draw. I'd rather put down a gun and fight. I fight to win. If you got to bite, bite. If you got to scratch, scratch . . . . People fail to realize, it was like a religion. It's not for the fun of it. Some people worshiped Allah or Jesus. I worshiped Bloods.

"It's like people going to Vietnam and getting programmed to kill. They can't stop killing, and when they come back, they need help mentally. We couldn't stop killing our enemies here either. I was one of them sick individuals. They locked us away, but we needed help mentally."

Det. Mathew reflects on Johnson's swift transition from boy to out-of-control killer. "He used to come up and ask me for baseball cards. Two months later, we're looking for him on a murder. Did I have any baseball cards for him? Hell, no. I got handcuffs for him, that's all."

With Big Evil sentenced to death, and other key 89 Family members locked away, murders have plummeted in the area. Still, the legacy of the neighborhood that Evil helped create--that helped create Evil--lives on.

Johnson seems unconcerned that he is headed for death row. "I'm not worried at all about going to San Quentin," he says. "I been in worse places."

Such as?

"In an alley, with a .45 pointed at me. Too many times. But I'm a survivor. I just turned 30. I never thought I'd make it to 20. After I got the death penalty, I celebrated in jail with some homemade brew. I know I'm gonna be around at least 10 more years with all the appeals. Getting the death penalty saved my life."

http://articles.latimes.com/print/1998/nov/29/magazine/tm-48648

1997 L.A. Times Article "Big Evil's Reign Appears Over For Good"

October 01, 1997 

Cleamon "Big Evil" Johnson is the "most cold-blooded killer in the entire city," by one detective's estimate.

"He's the type of guy you can have an interesting, articulate conversation with--laugh with, joke with," said homicide Det. Thomas Mathew of the Los Angeles Police Department. "He'd be cool to you. And then you turn your back on him, and he'd blow your brains out."

Johnson, 29, known as a shot-caller in one of the city's most notorious street gangs, once put out a contract on Mathew, the detective said. LAPD brass were concerned enough to have SWAT officers tag along with the detective.

"Even before the contract, I was always very aware whenever I was with Evil to be careful because I knew he would do me in a second," Mathew said. "He has beat us on so many cases, because no witnesses want to come forward."

Two witnesses did come forward in 1994 to testify against members of Johnson's gang, the 89 Family Bloods. They were both killed.

But Johnson's winning streak skidded to a halt after prosecutors were able to penetrate his protective cloak of silence with three witnesses who testified to his involvement in the 1991 murders of two rival gang members.

Johnson and a co-defendant, 25-year-old Michael "Fat Rat" Allen--already serving 35 years to life for another murder--were found guilty Sept. 2.

A jury recommended Tuesday that they be put to death.

As the clerk in Los Angeles Superior Court Judge Charles Horon's courtroom said the word "death," the two men sat expressionless. So did Johnson's parents and Allen's wife, sitting in the spectator section. Horon has scheduled sentencing for Dec. 12.

Prosecutors contend that Johnson gave Allen an Uzi and ordered him to kill the rival gang members. Allen gunned the two men down before dozens of witnesses, they say.

But during the initial 1991 investigation, no one would admit having seen the shooting. The reason was simple: Testify against Big Evil, he'll kill you, police say.

"I can't even tell you the way he kills without any kind of emotion," Mathew said of Johnson. "It's unbelievable. And he has this scary laugh. He personifies the term 'evil.' He would make a good candidate for an FBI behavioral profile. I'd like to see what some psychiatrist says about his mind."

Authorities say the 80 members of Johnson's gang are responsible for more than 60 slayings in the last decade. There were 32 killings on the gang's turf--a quarter of a square mile--between 1993 and last year--a homicide rate nine times higher than the city's at large.

The gang claims an area bounded by Central and Manchester avenues, Avalon Boulevard and 92nd Street.

Police say they conservatively estimate that Johnson has committed 12 murders. A police task force on the gang has put many members behind bars--including Johnson, who once served three years on drug charges. But Johnson's orders have penetrated prison walls, directing underlings to kill for him, authorities said.

*

A statement Johnson gave to police before his trial summed up his philosophy:

"I don't answer to nobody. What I do is what I want to do and when I want to do it."

The case that led to Tuesday's death penalty recommendation was revived this year after prosecutors found three witnesses willing to talk. A source close to the investigation said the three were in custody facing criminal charges of their own.

A key prosecution witness, Freddie Jelks, is a member of Johnson's 89 Family and is awaiting trial in another slaying. His co-defendant is Johnson.

Jelks said he saw Johnson give Allen the Uzi used to kill Donald Ray Loggins and Payton Beroit on Aug. 5, 1991.

Johnson "terrorizes the neighborhood because he can, and he enjoys it," Deputy Dist. Atty. Jennifer Lentz Snyder said in her closing argument.

Several residents along East 88th Street just west of Central, where Johnson grew up, painted a different portrait.

"No one on this block would say a bad word about Evil," said Bessie Dunn, 42, who has lived in the neighborhood for 20 years. "He was that type of guy that if you had a bunch of groceries in the car, he'd help you unload them."

Mathew said no one in the neighborhood dares say anything bad about Johnson.

A neighborhood teenager, who would identify himself only as Ya Ya, recalled when his mother's purse was stolen and she reported it to Johnson. Within an hour, the purse was back, he said.

*

However, even those who talk fondly of Johnson and Allen still admit that their mere presence caused problems.

"We'd have to hit the ground about four times a week with all the shootings," said a woman who requested anonymity. "But as far as [Johnson] and Michael, they were nice guys. I never saw them get ugly. They call them monsters, but I don't know that part of them."

Prosecutor Snyder described Johnson and Allen as predators and played an audiotape for the jury of a telephone conversation between Johnson and a fellow gang member. On the tape, Johnson ordered the killing of Mathew, prosecutors said.

"The most chilling moment of the tape," Snyder said, came when Johnson mimicked how Mathew would react.

"He's gonna be saying, 'Why me? Why me?,' " Johnson is heard remarking. That comment is followed by what another listener described as a "maniacal, bone-chilling laugh."

Mathew said Johnson wasn't shy about his role in killings.

"He would brag to me about killing people, say it right to my face," said the detective, who worked for eight years in the LAPD's gang unit.

*

Johnson's is not the case of a young man who turned to gangs because of a broken home life, Snyder said. His parents were in court every day. They refused to comment on their son other than to ask: "Why does the press print those lies about him?"

On 88th Street, Johnson's older half brother, Ricky Parker, was eager to talk.

Johnson got into gangs early and worked his way up in the neighborhood surrounded on three sides by rival Crips sets.

"Evil was a great street fighter," Parker said.

Parker said part of the problem that led to Big Evil's downfall was his fearsome moniker that tempted the police to try to bring him down.

"I always told him to get rid of that nickname," Parker said.

http://articles.latimes.com/print/1997/oct/01/local/me-38056

 

L.A. Times Op-Ed-"Haha" &"Lol",Texting's Equivalent of "Amazing"

April 21, 2014 - Last week I sent a text message to a friend. A Hollywood business meeting I had high hopes for had been suddenly "postponedEverybody canceled except me," I texted.

She texted back, "Haha."

What's so funny about it, I wondered? Where's the haha in my disappointment? My text was more sad than funny; her text steamed me. Dismissed twice.

"Haha" and its partner, "LOL," are texting's go-to replies, a vaguely complimentary, vaguely condescending way to acknowledge a text has been received.

I once wrote about the overuse of the superlative "amazing," and, predictably, almost everyone I knew who read the piece told me it was an "amazing" article. Haha. Good one. LOL.

But the use of amazing is paltry compared with haha and LOL. OMG, I bet there are serious stats somewhere. Maybe the NSA could confirm it: I'd guess haha and LOL are approaching 1 billion "sends" a day, about three hahas and three LOLs for every American.

My 20-year-old friend Ida is the Barry Bonds of haha. I could break my femur and that's what I'd get back from her. And fast. In the Texting Hall of Fame, Ida will be first ballot.

I can pretty much predict when I'll get the response.

The single ha is employed for something that approaches humor, but more likely is a statement bordering on the ludicrous. For example, I text you, "Lets go 2 Aleppo, Syria"; you reply, "Ha."

Less ludicrous, more humor and haha comes back. LOLs require being a bit funnier, but not much.

One time a text I sent got a hahahahaha. Two hahas, one ha. Not too shabby for a gang reporter. Someone told me a cousin of a friend of theirs once got a hahahahahahahahaha (nine), but this guy exaggerates, so maybe he only got a hahahahahahaha (seven) — which is nothing to laugh at.

It might have taken Richard Pryor in his prime to get hahahahahahahahaha (nine) or even a hahahahahahahaha (eight).

Still, even if Pryor got a string of hahas, it wouldn't be as good as LOLLOLLOLLOLLOL (five). Now, that's very funny. That's someone approaching hysteria. That's someone bent over, hands on their thighs, panting heavily just to recuperate from the laughter that may have even brought them to tears.

And though technically five LOLs have about the same number of characters as "that's very funny," they can be typed 2.4 seconds quicker. I'm pretty sure.

And therein lounges the lure of these two text messages: Speed. Ease of thumb typing.

And then, simple laziness or maybe social desperation: The way you politely laugh at a story someone tells at a party, even though it isn't funny, you can now haha by mobile device.

Even if a text is funny, no one is really laughing. Walk down any street and people have their heads down, staring at their phones, texting or looking at texts. None of them is laughing out loud. They aren't even smiling. They might be typing haha or LOL, but they are not living the text, not texting the truth.

If they were, you would be able to stick your head out of any office building in America and hear uncontrolled laughter. (I don't know about other countries. I mean, do Russians haha? I bet Russian teenagers do. "Crimea back in da house!" "Haha.")

I'm not saying you shouldn't haha or LOL, but maybe change it up every now and then. Maybe frame a real response.

And yeah, I'll get a lot of texts about this. You know what they'll say.

Michael Krikorian, a former Times staff writer, is the author of a crime novel, "Southside." Twitter: @makmak47

http://www.latimes.com/opinion/commentary/la-oe-krikorian-texting-haha-lol-20140421,0,4518529.story#axzz2zivhO2tQ

A Gay Leader Emerges In A Watts Housing Project

Deshawn Cole came out at Watts' Imperial Courts project, blazing an inner-city trail

By Michael KrikorianThursday, Apr 4 2013

Asked if being poor, black and gay hurt him at the start of his career, author James Baldwin famously replied that his situation "was so outrageous ... you had to find a way to use it." Deshawn Cole knows outrageous and he, too, is trying to make the most of being a young, gay, black man — at Imperial Courts public housing project in Watts, where coming out has long been scorned as a manhood wasted.

"Early on I knew I was different," says Cole, 23, who lives at the project and works in its on-site recreation center for the Los Angeles Department of Recreation and Parks. "I was always a leader. ... When I saw someone who was outspoken or different, they had to be in my circle."  

As a teen, Cole says, "I know I confused people — it was fun. It was, like, 'This guy is doing cheerleading — gay. But he's playing football and fighting — can't be gay.' "

Gallup poll data show that 3.6 percent of blacks identify themselves as lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender, as do 3.5 percent of all Americans. But against the backdrop of the recent U.S. Supreme Court hearings on same-sex marriage, there's still a strong anti-gay taboo in many inner-city communities. Pew Research Center found that while Latino support for gay marriage has surged to 59 percent, the longtime low support by blacks for gay marriage has edged up to just 38 percent. In 2008, many Latinos and blacks voted in favor of Proposition 8 to ban same-sex marriage.

At Imperial Courts, which gained infamy as a violent bastion of the Project Watts Crips (PJs) gang, Cole, who supports gay marriage, is said by many to be the first boy to live openly as a homosexual. His mother, Cynthia Mendenhall, says, "De­shawn wasn't the first gay person in the Courts, but he was the first one to really be proud of it and come out" about a decade ago.

Cole sees attitudes — even among many PJs — finally changing. Subjected as a youth to countless sexual slurs — Cole estimates that "back in the day" he was called "faggot" several thousand times — he pushed back as a student at Ritter Elementary School and Markham Middle School, jumping into fistfights and finally revealing his sexuality to his disapproving father.

Cole has become a respected community figure whose principles have earned him an unusual form of street cred: tough, kind-hearted — and out.

Imperial Courts resident Ruben Quintana, 25, calls Cole "part of the reason things are changing around here." Quintana, who is straight, says, "In a way, he's like a leader in the gay rights movement the way people were leaders in the civil rights movement."

Mendenhall, known as "Sista," a former PJ Crip–turned–gang interventionist and member of the Watts Gang Task Force, explains, "He's been a mentor to a lot of young people, both straight and gay." When her son was small, "Lots of people told me he's just confused," she recalls. "They said it was a devil. They told me to pray our way out of this. They thought they meant well."

In 2007 Cole graduated from Compton's Dominguez High School and completed a certified course at Marinello Schools of Beauty in Paramount. He still loves to "do hair" — his own, when straightened, flows in a ponytail to his midback. But last year, he found a rewarding calling as a recreational aide at Imperial Courts Recreation Center, where he had long volunteered.

"He's a major asset to Imperial Courts," says Alea Douglas, a Rec & Parks coordinator. "He's talented, he's creative, he's dedicated and he's a team player. The kids here are lucky to have him."

Many who live in the 490-unit housing project, which is calmer than it once was, admire Cole. One day, as he discusses plans for the Dynasty Imperial High Kickers Drill Team and Drum Squad that he coaches at the recreation center, a little Latino girl arcing on a nearby swing calls out: "Deshawn! Deshawn! You know my eighth birthday is coming up, right?"

"Happy birthday, girl. When is it?" She gives him the date — it's more than five weeks away. "OK. We'll have a party."

When Cole was a student at troubled Markham Middle School, which sits almost in the bull's-eye of Imperial Courts and its rival projects, Jordan Downs and Nickerson Gardens, he remembers "fighting on two fronts," one over gang turf, the other over his sexual orientation. (Cole's brothers Tony and Darrian, both PJs, died violently.)

His mother recalls, "Security guards, some teachers, they would say in a low-key way it was his fault" that other students harassed him. "Like, 'Why does he have to dress that way?' or 'He's asking for it being like that.' But I never gave up on supporting his dreams."

Cole lived in particular anguish over what his strict, military-bearing father thought. "What father wants a gay boy?" Cole asks. "Do you think when a wife is pregnant, the husband says, 'I hope he turns out gay?' "

His father, Dwight Cole, 54, is stout and muscular, a no-nonsense, retired National Guard veteran. "Look, I felt he was gay, but I wanted him to tell me," his father says. "Everybody kept telling me, but I wanted him to tell me."

Once Deshawn did tell his father, Dwight Cole informed him that he could not join drill team or engage in other nontraditional activities. "I ain't gonna lie. It hurt," he says. "You want your boys to have kids. Carry on the name. Any father wants that. Even if your daughter is gay, you want her to have kids. That's just the way it is. But I love Deshawn."

In Watts, respect is vital. In Imperial Courts, a lot of that respect must come from the PJs. Cole is not an active gang member, but he acknowledges, "Just by living in the projects, you're already from the gang. So you might as well say, 'I'm from PJs.' "

It was Deshawn's fistfight in 2004 or 2005 with his brother Darrian that convinced many local toughs to grudgingly accept a gay youth in the hood.

As Dwight Cole explains, he'd told Darrian, " 'This is not your life. If your brother is gay, he's gay.' ... But Darrian wouldn't accept him." Darrian often belittled Deshawn, saying he was going to "beat the gayness" out of him. His dad finally told Deshawn "he was going to have to fight Darrian to get his respect." Cole decided his father was right. "I stepped up for myself. A 'faggot' is a sissy boy. I'm a gay boy — I'd step up to them."

Their wild fistfight "tore up the house," says his father. "But in the end, Deshawn had whipped him out of the house."

That violent episode is partly how Cole won respect at Imperial Courts. But, just as importantly, he freely embraced others. Close friend Paul Cook says that without Cole, he wouldn't be out of the closet. "He helped pave the way for me in terms of being gay," says Cook, whom Cole teases with the nickname "Paulette, my daughter."

There are still misconceptions and anti-gay sentiment in Watts. One area resident, admired by some for his knockout punch, explained toL.A. Weekly: "In the body there are male hormones and female hormones. In Deshawn's body it was like they had a war, the male hormones against the females hormones, and the bitches won."

Told of this theory, Cole starts laughing.

Another prominent Watts figure wondered: "Was he born this way or did he get 'turned out?' " — implying Cole was changed by a sexual attack. That gets a "Stupid" response from Cole.

Imperial Courts is seen by many as a gang-infested hellhole, a vast concrete corral one step up from homelessness for single mothers and unemployed men who hang out on corners to drink and sell drugs.

Some of that can be found at Imperial Courts. But what also is found there is a keen sense of community that's stronger than in the vast majority of L.A. neighborhoods.

One March evening, Deshawn Cole and Cynthia Mendenhall linger for more than an hour on a sidewalk in the heart of the project, saying, "Hi, baby" and "What up, boo" to about 60 neighbors who pass by.

Cole's mother explains, "It wasn't at all acceptable until Deshawn came out." But even as she speaks, several young people near the recreation center start yelling at an effeminate young man, shouting "Bitch!" and "You look like a girl!"

"Hear that?" Mendenhall asks. "That boy is gay, and he dresses and acts just like a woman. ... So they giving him a hard time. Deshawn tries to mentor him. Let him know he can't be too, what's the word —  flamboyant — around here."

For all that's changing, she says, "What we need is a gay and lesbian center right here in Watts. ... People in Watts, South Central and Compton, they need somewhere to go if they need counseling. They shouldn't have to go all the way to Hollywood. Hollywood needs to come here."

Handcuffed at Nancy's House, Alas, Not By Her

'Freeze! Put your hands up!' Oh, sorry 

At home, watching TV -- then an erroneous 911 call leads to a brief, tense encounter with the LAPD.

Los Angeles Times Op/Ed September 09, 2009 by Michael Krikorian

I was at my girlfriend Nancy's home in Hancock Park. She was out with a friend, and her 15-year-old son, Oliver, and I had just finished eating our superb 10:30 p.m. dinner -- al pastor tacos from the truck on 3rd Street and Normandie. He had gone upstairs to go to bed. The next day would be the first day of school after summer vacation.

I was watching a recorded episode of "Entourage" when Zeke, our golden retriever mix, got up and looked out the thick wood-and-glass front door. Now, this dog barks like an Akita on angel dust, wailing plaintively when anybody comes up the sidewalk, unless its family. So I thought it must be Nancy.

I looked out the front door and noticed a spotlight on our yard. I heard a helicopter. I opened the door, went out to investigate and closed the door so Zeke wouldn't get out.

"Freeze!"

"Put your hands up!" yelled another voice. "Put your hands up over your head. Now!"

I turned in the direction of the voices and said, "Are you talking to me?" I actually said that. And I meant it. Were they talking to me? Yes.

"Put your hands over your head!"

I did.

"Lock your fingers on top of your head."

I did. I couldn't really see them because the bright flashlights nearly blinded me, but it had to be the cops.

"Turn and face the door." I did, and then I had a frightful thought. Maybe it's not the police. Maybe it's some elaborate plan by a street gang to kill me. I have reported on street gangs for more than a decade and amassed a deadly share of enemies. I took a quick look at the invaders and could see they had police uniforms. No gang I ever reported on would go to that much trouble to kill me.

"Turn around and start backing toward me."

I marveled at how calm I was. I thought, "Just do as they say." Just do as they say. We all have heard stories in which the guy resists and gets roughed up or worse.

I backed down the three steps of the porch to the driveway, where I bumped into Nancy's car, parked with the top down. I got a closer look at the gendarmes: five uniformed LAPD officers with guns at the ready, including a policewoman who sadly bore no resemblance to Angie Dickinson in her TV cop days. Pepper Anderson could cuff me all night. The most impressive thing about this policewoman was the pump shotgun she was holding.

I hoped Roger, our next-door neighbor, had a video camera and was watching. This could go Rodney.

I was led next to the giant ficus tree in Roger's frontyard and was tightly handcuffed. Well, the cuffs weren't overly tight. I've been in overly tight cuffs in the past.

And that is why I wasn't all that upset, why I was so calm. Every other time in my life that I had been handcuffed -- and there have been several -- I was guilty of something. Here, I knew I had done nothing wrong. Not unless I was unaware that buying tacos at the truck on 3rd and Normandie was some sort of felony now.

"Spread your legs!" I did. "Wider." I did. "Do you have a weapon?" No. I was frisked.

"What are you doing here?"

"I live here. What's going on?" I asked. No answer.

It was like I had a good view of that bad show, "Cops."

There were three cops, guns still drawn, on the front porch, yelling and scrambling about as if John Dillinger were in the house. I told them Oliver was the only person at home and asked if they could call the house and let me speak to him so he wouldn't freak out. They called; he finally answered, and they talked to him.

After a few minutes, he came out. I yelled at the police -- for the first time -- to put their guns down. Oliver looked stunned.

He later told me his first thought was: "What did Michael do?" He had heard all the commotion but thought it was some TV show I was watching.

Finally, after what seemed liked an hour -- but was really about 10 to 12 minutes -- the cops were informed via radio that they had received the wrong street address. A woman down the block had heard a bang at her back door, thought someone was breaking in and called 911 to report it. In her panic, she reversed the last two numbers of the address. She gave them my address. So the cops were waiting to storm the house when I walked out to see what was going on. (The next day, the woman apologized profusely to me.)

A second policewoman, Officer Solley -- not the shotgun wielder -- was fairly pleasant. She apologized and kept saying, "You understand what happened and why it happened, right?"

Yeah, sure. You all messed up.

But I also thought about all the black friends of mine who have been stopped and harassed over the years for doing nothing wrong at all. This is what it was like. Being in the wrong place. In this case, at home. I was angry, but not outraged. I wondered how many people got handcuffed for nothing at Nickerson Gardens over the years? How many at Jordan Downs? Then Oliver said, "At least I'll have a good story to tell for 'what I did on my summer vacation.' "

As for Zeke, who barks furiously at the mailman, the gardener, the walkers, the joggers, even other dogs like they are all aliens from "District 9" -- but was quiet as Marcel Marceau in my hour of need -- well, let's just say that porterhouse bone I got for him is going to stay in the freezer for a while. I might even heat it up and gnaw on it while he watches.

Like just about everything in life, it could have been a whole lot worse. Oliver told his mother the story when she came home 20 minutes later, adding his what-could-have-happened, worst-case scenario.

"You know how you yell at Zeke when he barks a lot? How about if you were cutting a bagel in half and walked outside to see what was going on, and you had the knife in your hand and were yelling to Zeke 'Shut up!' " Only he suggested I might have added a four-letter word as I shouted.

I guess if that had happened, you would have heard all about this on the news already. Maybe the president will have me and that shotgun lady cop over for a beer at the White House.

###

Michael Krikorian covered street gangs and the LAPD for The Times. He recently completed his first crime novel, "The Southside of L.A.," and a children's book, "The Sunflower Who Loved the Moon."

http://articles.latimes.com/print/2009/sep/09/opinion/oe-krikorian9

"Southside" Gets Outstanding Review From Mystery Scene Mag

"Michael Krikorian introduces Michael Lyons, a Sinatra-loving, hard-drinkingLos Angeles Times reporter, in his debut novel, Southside. Lyons is fearless when it comes to interacting with gangbangers. That is until he's on his way to meet with King Funeral, leader of the Hoover Criminals, one of LA's deadliest gangs. Only two blocks from City Hall a middle-aged black man steps from a car, a purple Grape Street Crips rag on his head, shotgun in hand. He shoots Lyons in broad daylight, wounding him. Within minutes the newsroom is taking bets on who shot him. He's made enemies over the years, mostly members of the street gangs he writes about, but also the husbands of women he's taken a fancy to. When the LAPD doesn't appear to be putting a lot of effort into finding Lyons' assailant, the Los Angeles Times publishes a scathing editorial. Then an audio tape surfaces of Lyons arranging his own shooting with King Funeral. His cred is gone. Embarrassed, the LA Times fires him. In order to vindicate himself-he and Funeral were only joking around, he protests-Lyons scours Southside Los Angeles to discover who shot him and why. When three seemingly unrelated killings take place, Lyons begins putting the pieces together and finds the common denominator-a shot caller named Big Evil, a prisoner at California's maximum security prison Pelican Bay.

This is a nitty-gritty, down-and-dirty story of what really goes down on the gang-ridden streets of Southside Los Angeles. Krikorian's voice is authentic. Born in LA, he's not only written gang pieces for the Los Angeles TimesandNew York Times, but has lived in gang neighborhoods. He readily admits the well-plottedSouthside is heavily autobiographical with him in the Michael Lyons role, and that many of the other characters are people he knows; he writes letters and sends books to many old acquaintances who are incarcerated. Through his gang characters-Big Evil, Terminal, Poison Rat, and Lil Mayhem among others-Krikorian brings the mean streets to life; and through their parents, he shows the grief of being incapable of saving children from the war on the streets. Southside is powerful, aside from an overabundance of minor characters, and is the first in a series of four, centering on Los Angeles. The next novel, already in the works, is Westside, to be followed by Northside andEastside."

https://mysteryscenemag.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=3399%3Asouthside&catid=26%3Abooks&Itemid=185

Quaint Names For 'Hoods, But It's Still South Central To Me

Chesterfield Square, Vermont Knolls, Green Meadows, Harvard Park, Vermont Vista, Athens, Manchester Square, Gramercy Park, Watts.These are the  Los Angeles neighborhoods with the highest crime rates. Except Watts, which has a world-wide rep, they sound like idyllic places in Olde England. But to me - and to most of the residents who live there  -  they are still  - and always will be - South Central.

Seeking to distance the city from the riotous reputation  "South Central" earned in 1992 and from rap songs,  the city voted in April, 2003 to officially ban the name.  The following is from a Los Angeles Times article that appeared January 5, 2004 

"Green Meadows or Asphalt Jungle"

The sign overlooking Central Avenue and 99th Street in Watts declares the neighborhood "Century Cove," although the nearest cove is 15 miles away in San Pedro.

Over on Manchester Avenue and Main Street in South Los Angeles, a sign welcomes visitors to "Green Meadows," although the only green in sight is the paint on a transmission repair shop.

And at 78th Street and Normandie Avenue, three blocks from where the 1992 riots started, the area is proclaimed "Canterbury Knolls," a puzzle to some.

The idea behind Los Angeles' neighborhood names has been to try to give small areas a dose of charm and community identity, no matter how incongruous the monikers. But the naming has gotten a little out of control, some say, because getting city permission is too easy.

Councilwoman Janice Hahn, who represents  Watts, said the names help residents feel as if they're living in a town, not an expanse of asphalt in a sprawling city.

"I think most neighborhoods want to have this small-town feel about them, and I think the naming of the community makes them feel better," she said. "It gives them a sense of identity, and that's a good thing."

But some of the names are scarcely known even to residents.

"What Knolls?" asked Vince Avery, a freelance photographer who lives within sight of the sign. "When you go to a real neighborhood, like Hollywood, you know you're in Hollywood. But nobody knows Canterbury Hills -- I mean, Canterbury Knolls. Nobody in Canterbury Knolls knows they're in Canterbury Knolls."

If the names are meaningless, some say, it's because too little oversight is involved in bestowing them. The process for getting a neighborhood name is simple: A group of residents, sometimes members of a neighborhood council, ask their council member to christen an area with a new title. The council member has only to ask the city Department of Transportation to put up a sign.

That, says Greg Nelson, general manager of Los Angeles' Neighborhood Development Department, is too unstructured.

"This issue is alive and ticking," Nelson said. "We need a real policy for naming neighborhoods."

Hahn does not disagree, and work is underway to change the procedure. This month or next, she said, the subject will come before the city's Education and Neighborhoods Committee, which she heads.

"We are going to have a formal motion in committee to create a citywide process.... Eventually, the name change would need to be approved by the City Council."

But Hahn said she strongly favors neighborhood names.

"The reason for all the names is to give neighborhoods an identity and distance themselves from the crime-ridden image and stigma of South-Central Los Angeles."

In fact, in April, the City Council voted unanimously to change the term South-Central Los Angeles to South Los Angeles.

Many of the names were suggested in 2001 by the 8th District Empowerment Congress, an advisory committee of residents, business leaders and neighborhood activists headed by then-Councilman Mark Ridley-Thomas.

"A lot of the names are the historic name of the tract, such as Green Meadows," said Ridley-Thomas, now a state assemblyman. "The empowerment congress set about the task of naming neighborhoods for the purpose of reclaiming their historical identity."

South L.A. Councilwoman Jan Perry said that sometimes the names can make "the history of the district more alive."

For example, the neighborhood west of the Harbor Freeway and south of Imperial Highway recently was officially dubbed "Athens on the Hill," although "the residents of that neighborhood have been calling it that a long time," Hahn said. "There's a legend there used to be a Greek community there, but we could never find a historian to verify it one way or another. So the residents wanted to formalize an urban legend."

Some officials said that distancing a neighborhood from the greater label of South Los Angeles also could have an economic benefit.

"Historically an area that is named will have a greater value in real estate than one that isn't," said Greg Fisher, a Perry deputy.

Some remain skeptical.

"OK, say I tell someone I live in Canterbury Knolls," said Ray Lockett, a car detailer who lives in the area. "They gonna say, 'Where's Canterbury Knolls?' And I'm gonna say, '78th and Normandie.' "

http://articles.latimes.com/print/2004/jan/05/local/me-hoodnames5

You Hear About Sarkisian? Zocola Public Square

DEC. 9, 2013

“Sarkisian” is one of the most common Armenian last names. But when my cousin Greg called this week and opened with “You hear about Sarkisian?” I knew he wasn’t talking about Serge Sarkisian, president of the Republic of Armenia.

He was calling to tell me about Steve Sarkisian, who had been named the head football coach of the USC Trojans. Sarkisian’s hiring may be the single most brilliant move in the history of the 133-year-old South Los Angeles institution—at least, to Armenians living in Southern California.

Henry Sahakian, a salesman from Glendale, told me, “I hope this inspires the Armenian community to follow and play more football.” His wife, Margaret, chimed in, “We are all so proud.”

Growing up in Los Angeles, an Armenian-American and member of the second generation of my family to be born here (in 1954, in my case), I often heard the words “Armenian” and “proud.” I learned to be proud that Alexander the Great only “partially” conquered my ancestral land. Proud that Armenia was the first country on earth to proclaim Christianity its national religion (in 301 A.D.). Proud that TV detective “Mannix”—Mike Connors, né Krikor Ohanian—was Armenian. Proud that four-time Formula One champion Alain Prost, the main rival of Ayrton Senna, was half-Armenian.

I was also proud of singer Charles Aznavour, artist Arshile Gorky, astrophysicist Viktor Hambartsumian, chess champion Garry Kasparov, financier Kirk Kerkorian, singer Cher (Cherilyn Sarkisian), composer Aram Khachaturian, Russian MiG fighter plane designer Artem Mikoyan, writer William Saroyan, and World War II pilot Anthony Krikorian, my dad. Heck, I was even proud of the creator of The Chipmunks, Ross Bagdasarian.

And, decades before Steve Sarkisian walked a college football sideline, my Uncle Aram revered Notre Dame football coach Ara Parseghian, who led the Fighting Irish to national championships in 1966 and 1973.

Sadly, over the past decade, the image of Los Angeles Armenians has been marred by an increase in criminal activity. In the 1940s, a Los Angeles County Sheriff’s deputy told my Uncle Harry that no Armenian was ever in the county jail. Today, there are scores in Men’s Central. (For the record, I was there myself three times.) The Armenian Power street gang is known for credit card fraud and auto thefts.

But it is that hit to our reputation that makes this USC news so welcome.

I’m one of those Armenians who remember Sarkisian from a golden period of Trojan football. In the early 2000s, when USC was dominating college football and its head coach Pete Carroll was showered with praise, my cousin Dave and I knew the real reason. The offensive coach was Armenian. To us, Carroll was a figurehead. The real star of the sidelines was his assistant, Sarkisian.

Of course, not all Armenians see this the same way. Shant Ohanian, a lawyer and UCLA alumnus, points out some chinks in Sarkisian’s Armenian armor. “It’s funny, as soon as Sarkisian’s hire was announced, you saw all over Facebook Armenians, especially USC students and fans, celebrating the hire—not necessarily as a USC fan, but more as a ‘fellow’ Armenian,” said the self-described “die-hard UCLA fan” as he started slinging Bruin-tipped arrows. “Many, however, don’t know Sarkisian’s Armenian background; it’s mostly his Armenian last name that matters. I don’t think Steve Sarkisian himself speaks a word of Armenian; his father is an Iranian-Armenian who immigrated to the USA when he was 18. He married his wife, Steve’s mother, who is Irish-American. Steve was born in Torrance.”

Ohanian went on, “Nevertheless, as soon as he has some success with USC, you will see more and more Armenians claiming him as one of their own.”

Ohanian was married just five weeks ago to Silva Sevlian. I went to their wedding at the St. Leon Armenian Cathedral in Burbank. For their honeymoon, I gave them my list of places they should see in Paris. They had a lovely time. A fairytale wedding followed by a dream of a honeymoon. But this week, with the announcement of Sarkisian as the new Trojan head coach, that honeymoon seemed over.

Silva went to USC and didn’t like Shant’s even slight criticisms of the new coach.

“My husband’s opinion doesn’t matter. He is nothing but a Bruin,” said Silva. “Sarkisian becoming coach is second only to an Armenian becoming the mayor of Los Angeles.”

Michael Krikorian is a writer in Los Angeles. His first novel is Southside, and he’s on Twitter@makmak47.

http://www.zocalopublicsquare.org/2013/12/09/you-hear-about-sarkisian/ideas/nexus/

Winston Agrees With BookLoons, Reads Into the Night

Reviewed by Mary Ann Smyth    Michael Lyons is a Los Angeles gang reporter. He can walk freely in the gang controlled parts of LA. He is welcomed to conduct interviews with gang members. Why then is he shot and wounded, dropped to the sidewalk just two blocks from City Hall?

After the first shock sets in, his fellow reporters start a betting pool and wonder why it hadn't happened before. Who shot him? Lyons does live on the edge. Then Lyons is accused of organizing the shooting for the publicity it would bring him. Because of this, he is fired as an embarrassment to the paper.

Can he leave it there? Of course not. When three murders occur in LA, Lyons realizes all are tied into his shooting. He suspects a notorious, imprisoned gang leader, Big Evil, as the instigator of the shootings, his own included. Big Evil's younger brother is one of those murdered.

Southside by Michael Krikorian sports a tightly written plot that will keep you reading long into the night. Michael Lyons is invincible. Much like his author. Krikorian has reported extensively on Los Angeles' notorious street gangs 'and receives more letters from inmates in California state prisons than he does bills and junk mail combined!' He must pull extensively from his career to write such convincing dialogue. This is a book worth your time.

http://www.bookloons.com/cgi-bin/Review.asp?bookid=16599

Winston does NOT like to be interrupted when reading "Southside"