The Jungle

by Cleo Cloman

I believe there is always a time in life when everyone can look back at a defining moment, and remember something that shaped their lives to be who they are today.

For me, my moment came at the end of the school year of my fifth grade class. I was an overzealous kid who always dreamed big. I wanted to fly like Superman, wanted to swim like Aqua Man, and dominate the world like Tarzan. I was looking forward to enjoying the warm weather of the summer, pool parties, carnivals, movies, and late nights, yeah, them late nights…

…Where I come from, late nights meant something. It meant that you were going to be somebody everyone was going to talk about, like a legend, not just another ordinary somebody who gets forgotten. What took place during these late nights were traditions that have been passed down from generations long ago, to will be passed again to the next generation to come.

People always have curiosity when it comes to trying to figure out what took place during those late nights. You had to have actually have been there yourself to fully understand, and see how one local street with countless trees all different shapes and sizes, interconnecting the yards of homes filled with lots of love, food, and harmony making us one big happy family, can turn an kid full of life like me to a power-seeking, conniving, and strategically mischievous juvenile who became his own source of destruction, to only find life again through a moment of reflection, a reflection of a defining moment in time.

Let me take you back to Friday, June 13, 1987.

Tick, Tock! Tick, Tock! was all my ten year-old ears heard throughout the excitement. The clock was moving extremely slow that day. All of my other classmate were talking about how much fun they were going to have on their summer vacation. Everyone was anticipating the sound of school bells ringing, letting us know schools was ending.

With bells sounding off in the background, I was out of breath from running as fast as I could to my father’s truck. Parked among numerous minivans of soccer moms, Twinkies on wheels, my father leaned against the cab of his coyote grey truck spitting sunflower seeds. As he gave me the look of Job watching his prodigal son arriving, I jumped in, feeling light as a feather into a warm embrace. I hugged him tightly and said, “Let’s go! Mamma hates it when we are late for dinner.”

The truth of the matter was I hated when we were late. The longer it took for me to eat dinner, the longer it took for my adventure to begin.

“Slow down boy! Before you choke on that chicken,” my mamma said, bringing me back to reality. I was in a trance, not from the good-ass chicken I was eating, but from thoughts of how I was going to be the legendary King of 20th Street, my block.

If they had the chance to paint, sculpt or photograph my block, ny artist would title 20th street “Monkey’s Playground.” From the eyes of the sun, you would be able to see the luscious greenery that nestled in the cesspool of my community. Twentieth Street was surrounded by badness. You had harlots, users, pushers, murders, and those exiled from their own communities for having zombie-like qualities.

Twentieth Street was, and still is, a secluded safe haven. All the trees combined made it look like a massive Bonsai tree in the middle of Death Valley. Up close and personal, you would be able to see one to two trees, all shapes and sizes, protecting every home. Backyards as well as front yards were filled to capacity. All the different leaves and smells of different fruits rare and exotic extended from the massive branches. It made you believe all rainbows were birthed here.

On 20th Street, everyone was considered family. If you were there, you would have been family too. On any given day, you would have had the choice to either play dominos, backgammon, chess, or checkers and many card games such as spades, pinochle, biz whiz, tunk, coon can and, my favorite, chicken shit, with the many old heads who drank nothing less than ninety proof while smoking gigantic brown cigarettes. If you were lucky enough, you would have had the privilege to enter the sanctuary and learn a cooking secret from the block matriarch that would of forever change your kitchen for the better. The best part was taking a seat under any tree and experiencing bliss while eating the finger-licking good of a home cooked meal.

However, once the sunlight was replaced by moonlight, 20th Street changed. The adults and kids went their separate ways. All our elders went indoors and played by their rules, which us kids were prohibited from knowing.

I didn’t care what went on indoors; this night was my night. All my planning was going to make me or break me.

All the kids were outside rallying up under the two enormous avocado trees at the end of the block. We called them the gatekeepers to The Jungle. There are still many fables about these avocado trees. One is that during extremely cloudy days and nights, a person could climb way up beyond the clouds and grab a star right out of the sky. Unfortunately, there’s been only one attempt by the neighborhood drunk, and he hasn’t been seen for the past fifty years. That night, I wasn’t going to make any attempt to prove that story right or wrong.

The Jungle was the kids’ playground. It was our amusement park during the summer nights, free of charge. You couldn’t win cute stuffy animals and toys here; a scratch, cut, broken arm or leg may be the reward for admission.

Growing up, every kid heard stories about The Jungle from those who dared to enter it and had survived. They spoke about how one had to have the heart of a Spartan to attempt to dig, claw, climb, and jump your way through the cobwebby sight of trees stuffed in every backyard on one side of the block, corner to corner, only to make your way back on the other side of the block to finish where you started. But there were other obstacles: cold crisp air, pitch-black dark, chain link gates that ripped your clothes at the slightest misjudgment. You also had to be hyper vigilant of the creepy crawly creatures that occupied the trees, and the untimely visit of an unleashed barbaric mangy dog that loved to feed on the souls that were lost or captured.

“Ken-Ken! I challenge you to be King of the Block,” I said.

Ken-Ken had been running things around there and things had been slow. All we did was sit up in the trees all night “bagging.” That is, talking about each other. Ever since I’d told Ken-Ken that his ears were so big that he could hear what I was thinking, I knew I could beat him. When I’d said it, nine out of ten of us damn near fell out the tree from laughing so hard. No one notice the slight tears in his eyes, which to me was a sign of weakness.

The Jungle that everyone had to go through was gruesome, but you had to prove that you were tough enough to survive around here. So when I crossed the finish line with blood on my hands, shirt and face, and Ken-Ken was no where to be found, I was happy as a kid in a candy store.

During the celebration of victory, I heard someone say, “Whose blood is that all over you?”

“Never mind that,” I said quickly. I must set my first order of business. I named my best friend Ryan second in command.

My first summer started many traditions that still exist today. Every night, all the kids met up under the avocado trees. Being King, I planned all our mischief. Everything from throwing rocks, lemons, or eggs at passing cars, playing Ding Dong ditch, where we’d knock and kick and ring doorbells continuously before making our great escape up in the trees, only to hold in our laughter and watch our neighbors look up and down the street for the assailants.

Word got out the new King was a tyrant.

Back then on 20th street, I had no fear. In order to run my jungle, you literally had to bite the dog that bit you first. I turned the jungle into a place in which no soul dared to embark if they had any sense. You could become that missing person on the back of a milk carton if you didn’t play it safe. Even our two old-ass toothless neighborhood watch ladies had to think twice when chasing behind us for the trouble we caused. When our bellies yearned for a taste of sugar, the jungle was our refuge when the candy store items so tastefully fell off the shelf into our pockets.

It may seem like we could get away with anything. This is true! But let me also tell you this Jungle was our rite of passage. You had to be the bravest and the fastest to conquer The Jungle. The moment I challenged Ken-Ken for the crown and beat him was the moment I became a man. I was the one who called all the shots; I had first pick of everything. The best part about being King was that I had first dibs on the finest girl that played Hide-Gone-Get-It, and I was so in love with Megan Potts. That’s a whole another story for later.

Reflecting back still brings much joy to my life. Now I have the ability to understand the true essence of my being and the development of my adult self from my child self. The best part about reflecting is remembering the good ol’ times.

I remember how we all would climb the assorted trees to survey the block as if we were patrolling. Really the trees became our second homes. There were many secretes shared among the many leaves. Thank God they fell with the change of seasons. No telling what those leaves said when the wind came through; they traded secrets too. Those trees were our lifeline. We heard many conversations we weren’t supposed to hear up in them, for instance, Chucky’s mom with them big-ass rollers came out one night crying. She was talking with Black Bob who looked like a used match, about being upset that Chucky’s father’s check had bounced, so she couldn’t get her son a Nintendo for Christmas. I still remember the look on Chucky’s face Christmas morning when all the kids met up at the avocado trees to brag about what our parents got us. The most memorable event was when we all saw Mr. Harry, our neighborhood lawnmower jump out the side window after Mr. Reed came home early from work. Mr. Reed’s grass grew an extra two inches that week. Shit, I told you the adults played by different rules!

I sometime wonder if the generation before us made it a point to inform us about the many stories of The Jungle. Were their lives today developed by The Jungle too? I remember everything Michael, Chris, Jimmy, Poncho, Craig, Debra, Pauline, Rashuana, Dirtball — still don’t know his real name, but he stayed dirty — and Pimpin’ Kev told Ryan and me the night I began to reign over 20th Street. They all said, “As the King of the Jungle, it is your duty and responsibility to keep the jungle in the family.” For some strange reason, there were outsiders who wanted to control our nestled paradise. The many milk cartons scattered throughout the trash proves that many have tried…and many have failed.

I often think, was it the jungle who had all the control. Were we the products of our environment? Did the jungle have magical powers that possessed all the kids to act a fool at night? Were we werewolves, little Dracula’s, and was it our job to collect more souls for the jungle to claim. I think back how responsible I am for feeding the jungle. You see, me being alpha male majority of the time, I had the privilege of witnessing new kids moving onto 20th street, or visiting, acting like they were king, wanting to run my block. They didn’t know what they were asking for as I looked at them with a smile of a jack-o-lantern. All I did was escort them to the front gate and said, “Enter at your own risk.” Damn! Nobody still can’t find Ken-Ken. Oh well. Hope he was able to find his way out.

To be completely transparent, a part of me wants to go back and feel the joy, the pleasure of picking lemons, plums, oranges and avocados off the neighbor’s trees. Eating a variety of home cooked meals that left you not only licking your fingers, but licking the plate. And the joy of our childhood pranks still warms me on the inside. I still get a kick out of thinking about knocking on Mrs. Harrison’s front door, then running to her back door and knocking, watching her run back-n-forth yelling, “Who is it?” while going crazy holding our laughter until it hurt. She did call the police on us once for being on her roof. Where else were we going to throw eggs at passing cars? She had the best vantage point.

Many years have passed and many lives have changed. I know mine has. As I look at generation “Z” make their way in life, I wonder how my antics may have shaped the lives of many young men and women whose dreams may have not been fulfilled. I often reflect on the question asked by my fellow Jungle alumnus now: If you could, what will you change about your past?

For me, absolutely not a damn thang. I have been hurt, and have hurt many in my life. I have been battle tested. I have failed and succeeded. My past allowed my future to provide me with the opportunity to get back up, love with passion, lead with strength and courage, speak my vulnerability with humility, and forgive wholeheartedly.

In The Jungle, I wanted all the power, the glory and the fame, but what does it mean if I can’t share it with nobody? Twentieth Street is where I grew up to be the man I am today, where I learned the value of family, honor, courage and respect. What I didn’t know was that these values are must-haves in the community outside our nestled paradise. The world is a big place and has a lot to offer, and I have a lot to give. The joy and happiness I feel in my life today are only comparable to the feeling I had when my dad said, “I love you and I’m proud of you,” on that fateful day he picked me up from school sharing his sunflower seeds. It was as if he knew I was going to embark on a journey that was going to change my life forever.

Hopefully, the generation that controls The Jungle today will be able to make lasting memories, and maybe in the near future, the entire alumnus can come together and share secrets. Damn! Was this the reason all the adults came together and told the kids to go play? Were they sharing secrets of The Jungle as well?

Only the cruel Jungle surrounding 20th street knows for sure.

Cleo Cloman is a writer currently incarcerated at San Quentin State Prison.