01 Aug Writing: Diablo

When I was about 14 I got placed in a foster home where the family spoke exclusively Spanish. I guess they put me there because my last name was Gonzalez, but I didn’t speak any Spanish, and the parents didn’t speak any English. They had this kid, named Xavier, who was bilingual and had to translate for us. But he was just a kid and he would start beef with me, start beef with them, make up things to get me into trouble. There were these times when the parents would be screaming — clearly about me — and I’d have to ask Xavier what they were saying.

The neighborhood was the most violent place I’ve ever lived. The cops don’t go there. Before I got a crew I couldn’t walk to school without getting jumped, there was no avoiding it. I’d get the shit beaten out of me, and then, next thing you know, I’m in math class with the kid who did it and I can’t talk about it.

This was the first foster home where I started marking the days under the bed. I felt like I was in prison, and every night, I took this thick Sharpie, and I’d go under the bed and make a big black line. Each line was like, alright: I made it.

The family was into some kind of evangelist religion and we’d go to church 4 days a week, 4 hours a day. They would start preaching in Spanish, and for 4 hours I would sit there, not being able to understand a word.

Then one time we went to a church that looked like an emptied-out former tax return place or something, just this tiny little room with nothing in it but chairs. As the service started happening I noticed my foster parents were being weird. They were looking down and whispering, looking angry. Xavier turned to me and was like, “They want to know why you stole.”

I hadn’t stolen anything. I tried to get Xavier to tell them that. But Xavier said, “They don’t believe you.”

I started breathing fast, and realized I had started to slip into some kind of state. I was shaking. I had this paper in my hand, this program that I was squeezing in my fist, and when I went to stop squeezing it I couldn’t. I realized I couldn’t really move any part of my body.

People were staring at me, there was a commotion, and all of sudden there were dudes on both side of me, pulling me up. Xavier said something like, “They’re gonna bless you.”

They pulled me up to the front of the room and had me face everyone. Everyone started singing the same song. This dude grabbed my head and pulled it into his head, and just started yelling, point blank into my ear at the top of his lungs. It hurt so unbelievably bad, but I couldn’t do anything to shake him off. I heard “Diablo” like 3 times, and I was like, Diablo, ok, I think that is Satan. I think this is some kind of exorcism.

The one dude started hitting my head. I realized that if I couldn’t move this wasn’t going to stop. Somehow, I managed to get my hand to open enough to give a thumbs up. People started to applaud, and that’s when they finally let me go.

*

So many foster homes and years later, when I moved to Lupinewood, I was surrounded for the first time by all these tattooers. I saw people tattooing themselves and got curious about what that would be like. One night I got a quick rundown on how, and then when I was by myself I just sent it: on my own ribs, I tattooed myself with thick black lines, one after the other. They were the same type of lines I made under the bed back in that foster home. A reminder to myself that I made it.

Story told by Jayne, transcribed and edited by Terran in collaboration with Jayne