NY Times Magazine "Lives" The Namesake

 Back in 1985, while working at Hughes Aircraft in Long Beach, Calif., I met a fine young woman named Addie. She worked in a different department, but whenever I saw her, I’d flirt with her. Eventually she became my girlfriend. I was a fixture at her mother’s house in the Fruit Town ’hood where Addie lived with her two sons. It was known as Fruit Town because of the names of the streets — Cherry, Peach, Pear — and it was one of the roughest neighborhoods in Compton, home of the Fruit Town Piru gang, one of the original gangs in the confederation known as the Bloods.

It was during this time that the crack epidemic was at its inglorious height. There were dealers up and down Cherry Street, a narrow lane of tattered two-bedroom homes. My girlfriend became hooked on crack. Some nights she wouldn’t come home. But I stayed with her and tried in vain to get her to stop. When you love someone who is on crack, you can’t help trying to get them to quit.

Like the fool I was, I continued to have unprotected sex with her. She became pregnant. I wondered if I was the father. Addie swore tearfully I was. When the baby was born, he didn’t really look like me, but he did have a bit of a hooked nose like mine. I put my trust in that nose.

Addie named the boy Michael Krikorian Jr. For the first two years of his life, I bought almost every sip of Similac, slurp of food and batch of diapers. Finally one day, Addie’s sister Kathy called me an idiot and told me he wasn’t my kid. Something I knew deep down. Eventually Addie admitted it to me. Still, the kid didn’t have a real father, so I continued to help out. (The biological father was a dealer up the street. He died eight years ago from a heart attack.)

Even after Addie and I split, I would still drop in on Li’l Mike. When he saw me walk in the door, he’d get this really big smile on his face, rush over and punch me in the leg. But eventually the visits faded, and the last time I saw Mike he was maybe 6 or 7 years old. Then last summer, Addie called. I hadn’t spoken to her in years. Michael, now 19, had been arrested and charged with a gang-related murder.

One morning a few weeks later, I went over to the notorious Men’s Central Jail, where half a dozen inmates have been killed in the last few years. I got in the dreaded line of visitors who wait outside to see loved ones. You really do have to love the person who’s incarcerated to get in that damn line. It felt as long as a football field.

Michael Jr., I learned from Addie, had joined the Neighborhood Compton Crips. As I waited in line, I wondered where Li’l Mike would be today if I really were his father and had raised him. And I wondered where I would be if it hadn’t been for my own father. Maybe I’d be there, too. I got into trouble twice as an adult, and both times my dad came to my rescue.

After about 90 minutes outside, I was let into the jail’s waiting room — a depressing place with flies and swarms of little kids running around. Finally, after another hour and a half, a deputy called out Michael’s name.

I went to Row F, Seat 14, and there he was, waiting on the other side of a pitted glass partition. He looked good — lean and muscular, like a cornerback or a wide receiver. Li’l Mike is now 6-foot-2, 205 pounds.

He looked at me as if to say: “Why you sitting here? You must have the wrong seat.” I just sat there looking at him. Slowly, the past came back: a lopsided grin, then a smile, then the big smile I remember. That recognition was sweet. It took a minute for the phones to work, so we just kept staring at each other. Then the phones came on.

“Do you know my name?” I asked him.

He just started laughing. “Yeah,” he said. “You got a cool name.”

We talked about his life — his brothers, his schooling, his plans if the case goes his way. He asked me to send him a certain book, but it had to be a paperback. I said I would. I told him I was sorry I didn’t have any cash that day to leave for him. “That’s all right,” he said with a warm, sincere smile. “The visit is greatly appreciated.” I said something stupid like, “Hang in there,” and then put my left fist up to the glass. His fist met mine.

As I walked outside into the fresh air, I thought about him sleeping in that jail. I prayed he wouldn’t be found guilty, though the trial wouldn’t be for months. I figured I’d go back and visit him again. Damn that damn line.

It's rough being gay in the projects

A Gay Leader Emerges in the 'Hood

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

Apr 4 2013

Asked if being poor, black and gay hurt him at the start of his career, author James Baldwinfamously 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 Centerfound 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 Squadthat 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 to L.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."

http://www.laweekly.com/2013-04-04/news/deshawn-cole-gay-out-of-closet-watts-leader/full/

LA Times Op-Ed - My Improbable Redemption

This was published in December 9, 2012 in the LA Times Op-Ed Section. 

When Big Cat heard of my latest Smirnoff defeat, he sent a letter that inspired me to stay sober.

December 09, 2012 | By Michael Krikorian

In 1985, I shot someone.

It happened outside the Rustic Inn, a bar in an unincorporated section of Los Angeles near Compton, which was where I spent most of my free time back then.

Moments before the shooting, I had been in a barroom brawl. My friend George and I were drinking Heinekens and taking sips off a half-pint of Seagram's VO we'd stashed atop a rickety wooden beam at the beer-only bar's side-porch entrance.

Three guys walked in and began staring at us. George, a big guy quick to unleash his fists, asked them — in Comptonese — what they were looking at. It was on.

I'm not a great brawler, but I'm a good friend, and I couldn't let George go one-on-three. The fight moved two steps down from the bar where two pool tables sat — five men punching, kicking, gouging, ducking, yelling, swinging pool sticks, hurling pool balls. My most vivid memory of the fight is an orange-and-white pool ball whizzing by my face and — amid all that chaos — thinking to myself, "That's the 13."

George and I got the upper hand and the three guys ran outside, one of them yelling, "Get the gun." That was chilling, even to a drunk.

It just so happened I had an AK-47 in my trunk that night.

Come on now? Really? It "just so happened"?

It did. Two days earlier, my cousin Lynn told me her husband did not want me to stash "that machine gun" at their Torrance house anymore. I picked it up and put it in my trunk.

As the three guys got to their car, I popped that trunk. I fired 17 rounds, I later discovered. I tell myself I fired to scare them off, not to hit or kill. But one 7.62-mm bullet hit a leg. Another busted a window and went into the wall of a room where two people were lying. I could have killed them both.

Witnesses led detectives to me. I was arrested for several crimes, including attempted murder. I faced 15 to life. I remember hoping, wishing, even praying I would only get six years in prison and do three.

But because my father paid $5,000 for a lawyer, because of a "them or me" argument, a plea deal, and because I'm Caucasian, I got 30 days in the county jail. Thirty days! If I was black and had a public defender, no doubt I'd have been Folsom-bound.

I quit drinking after that. In the 1990s, I was a reporter for the Los Angeles Times covering Watts and South Central. I've often said a political reporter should know something about politics, a medical writer should know about medicine, and a crime reporter — well, you get the idea. I became friends with gang members. When they went to prison, I'd write to them, and sometimes enclose a $20 money order or a book.

They wrote back. They were not forgotten. They appreciated it. Some shouldn't have been in prison. Others, like me, should have.

Never one to analyze my actions too closely, it wasn't until a couple of years ago that it struck me that one reason I wrote those letters was because it could've been me in there. It wasn't that I felt guilty. I was guilty.

It could have been me thinking, "I'm gone and forgotten." How good it would have been to get a letter, to get 20 bucks, to get a book that would take me outside the prison walls for 300 pages.

My sobriety lasted years. Then I decided I could handle a beer, a glass or two of red wine, and still stop. Surprise! I couldn't. So, after a few months of drinking, I'd quit again for month or two. This went on for years. I never intended to quit for good. I was just "on the wagon" and looking forward to tumbling off.

But earlier this year, I went on a wretched binge. Two 750s of Smirnoff ruined my balance. I tripped and cracked open the back of my head on the bedroom dresser. Blood spurted onto three walls. My girlfriend was out of town, but my sister, warned by worried friends, came to the house that day. She walked into that horrific scene. She got me to an emergency room. Twelve staples in my head.

That was eight months ago. I quit drinking. Again. But now I no longer say I'm on the wagon. I say, "After a long and storied career, I have retired."

Early on, I went to a few AA meetings. I don't like them. Maybe I hit the wrong meetings, but they seem to focus on backsliding, and how you can come back from it. I don't want to hear that.

I know I can't drink anymore. I also know that maybe I will. I can't even say with certainty that I won't be drunk when I read this in the paper. But don't bet on it.

I bring all this up because those letters I sent to prisons paid off recently. I heard from an inmate, Kevin "Big Cat" Doucette, a legendary shot caller for one of L.A.'s most notorious street gangs, the Rolling 60s Crips. Many years ago, police described him as one who "instills fear in the neighborhood."

He's also my friend. I've known him for 17 years. Somehow, Cat heard of my latest, inglorious Smirnoff defeat and sent a letter that inspired me to stay sober more than any AA testimony group session.

After two paragraphs describing life in federal prison, he switched his tone. Here's what he wrote, as he wrote it:

"My dude, you and drinking, yall dont go together at all.... Anything that you cant control that controls you; that aint tha set, Mike! I've got love for you, so when I speak as I do, know that I mean nothing but good: find you another high in life. A positive one ... try life itself. My Man, we both know that life is to short as it is for us to be twisted on anything, fo real it is."

I keep that letter in my wallet. It reminds me of drinking. It reminds me of prison. It reminds me of two people lying in a room my bullets invaded.

http://articles.latimes.com/print/2012/dec/09/opinion/la-oe-1209-krikorian-arrest-prison-shooting-20121209

America's Greatest Mini Mall

Cafe Fanny is gone, but Kermit and Acme are still there

 Weekend Escape: Berkeley : Food Quest : A mini-mall crawl through some of the city's best eateries

January 21, 1996

BERKELEY — At a party a few years ago, a couple cornered me and excitedly told me of their upcoming vacation plans. They were going to that huge Mall of America in Minnesota. I asked questions and listened, all the while thinking how pitiful it was. All the great places in the world to vacation--New York, Paris, Yosemite--and they were going to a mall.

Still, I have to admit, there is one mall of sorts that I would center my vacation around. It is America's greatest mini-mall: the three-store complex in Berkeley that houses the Acme Bakery, Cafe Fanny and Kermit Lynch Wine Merchant. Recently, my girlfriend, Carmen, and I spent a weekend in Berkeley, and much of it centered around this grand trio of a mini-mall.

We took off from Los Angeles on a Friday and buzzed up the convenient monotony of Interstate 5. Six hours later we pulled into the parking lot of my favorite Berkeley digs: the Golden Bear Motel, which is ideally located across the street from the mini-mall.

I stumbled upon the Golden Bear four years ago when I needed a place to crash for the night and noticed it in the American Automobile Assn. travel guide. I was informed then that the motel was booked up, yet when I turned to leave, the clerk said they did have a cottage in the back available. I took a look and wound up staying a week.

The cottages, actually small 1930's era homes with two bedrooms, carpeted living room, full, albeit linoleum-covered kitchen, dining room and bath, rent for $69 a night. The furnishings are very simple, nothing fancy, mind you, but they have a certain quaintness and the price is right. Be sure to reserve in advance, because there are just two and they are often booked. A third, modernized cottage rents for $125.

We unpacked, relaxed for a while, then took a spin through town. First stop was Andronico's market on Shattuck Avenue, where tops on the shopping list was a quart of the Castle Creamery's bottled milk with an inch of real cream on top. The store stocks Acme bread, but I like to buy it at the bakery and because I planned to be first in line the next morning, I didn't buy any. This would prove to be my worst decision of the trip.

Next, we went to the Cheese Board, the Bay Area's premier cheese stop with over 300 varieties. The friendly and knowledgeable staff insist on customers trying samples before buying. Reject 10 samples? No problem. We picked up a few, the highlight being a luscious L'Edel de Cleron, a very runny, creamy, flavorful cow's milk cheese aged in fruit tree bark. A quick stop at Kermit Lynch for a bottle of Gigondas, a red from the southern Rho^ne, and we headed to our cottage for a delightful repast. The first thing I tried was the milk, getting a delicious mixture of milk and rich globs of pure cream on that first glorious sip.

A while later, we walked across the street to the mini-mall for a closer look at the selections at Kermit Lynch. Lynch, who spends six months a year in France, is renowned for seeking out small producers of unfiltered wines with gobs of character. He also carries big name wines too, most notably those of the legendary Alsatian winery Domaine Zind-Humbrecht.

Friday night's dinner was at Rivoli on Solano Avenue, two miles from our cottage.

My interest in fine dining was sparked at age 12 when I began reading travel books to find the top restaurants for my father to dine in during his business trips. My girlfriend shares my passion for food and wine, and we've been fortunate to have dined at most of the Bay Area's best restaurants, but on this trip we planned to eat at places we'd never been before.

Rivoli's main dining room looks out onto a charming garden. We started with duck rillette and portabello fritters with lemon aioli, and moved on to grilled pork tenderloin and a outstanding Moroccan-influenced braised lamb stew with figs, olives, preserved lemons and chickpeas. From the interesting wine list, we chose a Bandol from Domaine Tempier in Provence.

Saturday morning, we were in the parking lot of the mini-mall by 7:30, and though Acme and Fanny don't open until 8, the place still seemed eerily quiet. We took a walk up a block and into Erfani Floral Studio. The shop was full of exotic flowers, and the door was open, but it was dark inside. The owner explained there was a small power failure in the area.

Back at the mini-mall, I didn't want to believe what I saw on the door of the bakery. A sign on the closed front door: "No electricity, no bread." Evidently, an inconsiderate driver had slammed into a utility pole, causing a dent in my vacation plans. Since Acme is closed on Sunday, the trip would not have the densely textured, delicious breads of the Acme Bakery, which to me, is the only rival in the state to L.A.'s La Brea Bakery. Fortunately, Cafe Fanny, Alice Waters' breakfast and lunch spot named for her daughter, was functioning. We savoured big bowls of cafe au lait and two farm fresh eggs on toast.

Back at home, we plotted the day's activities, much of which would center around our own walking tour of the university. Before that, we had lunch at Vik's Chaat House. To get to the Chaat House, one enters Allston Way through a small warehouse (Vik's Distributors) full of Indian food stuffs: aromatic Indian spices, bags of basmati rice, tins of exotic teas and lit incense. In the back is the tiny restaurant, with a few card tables and chairs. The place was teaming with people ordering a variety of Indian snacks. We had lentil dumplings covered with yogurt, tamarind and mint chutney; potato patties with a garbanzo curry, and a large, savory pastry filled with ground lamb and onions. Total bill: $8.66.

*

That evening we drove over to 4th Street, where between Hearst Avenue and Virginia Street is a shining example of urban renewal. Where empty warehouses once stood are restaurants, coffee shops and clothing stores. Ginger Island, a popular Southeast Asian restaurant, was a little too noisy, and though the food was interesting, especially a salmon satay with a lime vinegrette, the highlight was the bottle of Gewurztraminer we brought along.

The next morning, we walked a mile back to 4th Street for breakfast at the popular Bette's Ocean View Diner (no ocean view). It is the classic little diner: shiny chrome, jukebox, checkerboard floor, and red booths and stools with miniature trains circling above. As is the norm, we waited half an hour, mingling with tourists and locals who pack Bette's daily for the high-quality breakfasts.

We walked leisurely back along San Pablo Avenue, pausing a block from the mini-mall to browse through Erica Tanov, a boutique that sells exquisite robes and pajamas. I wished I had $600 to buy my girlfriend the most sumptuous silk-charmeuse-lined black velvet robe I have ever seen.

Before we left town, it was time for one last taste, at Picante, a large, upscale taqueria run by the man who manages Cafe Fanny. We split an order of good homemade chorizo tacos.

As you can see, this trip consisted primarily of eating, drinking, walking, relaxing, and a touch of culture and history. To us, that's a good vacation.

Hey, anyone wanna go to the mall?

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX / INFOGRAPHIC)

Budget for Two

Gas: $66.00

Golden Bear Motel,2 nights: $138.00

Dinner, Rivoli: $92.63

Breakfast, Cafe Fanny: $10.30

Lunch, Chaat House: $8.66

Dinner, Ginger Island: $74.00

Groceries: $26.27

Breakfast, Bette's Ocean View: $16.00

Lunch, Picante: $4.06

2 bottles wine, Kermit Lynch: $42.52

FINAL TAB: $478.44

Golden Bear Motel, 1620 San Pablo Ave., Berkeley 90402; tel. (510) 525-6770.