I’ve survived a lot, and it amazes me that
I’m still able to be happy and laugh. I’ve dodged a lot; I’m not
bitter. I know every single day that I’m extremely lucky. I don’t
understand who I am. I’m not normal. I have to be, like, an alien.
I’ve been through so much, how dare I still be happy? I’m scared if
I ever figure it out, my favor is gonna go away, so I don’t really
worry about it, don’t wanna jinx it.
I’m gonna break down eventually. I’m just
waiting for it to crash. I’m getting softer. My ex-best friend said
I was getting too soft for her to hang with because I actually care
about stuff now. I probably started caring like six years ago. I
don’t know what happened. I’m living in Atlanta and she calls me
and tells me that some guy she’s dating, some other girl that he’s
dating threatened, like, my god kids or whatever, so she’s like,
“You need to come up here so we can…” and I’m like, “I’m not gonna
come from Atlanta to Chicago to whoop some girl’s ass because ya’ll
both having sex with the same man.” Is that soft or is that common
sense? So then she calls me back maybe two days later like, “She
just threatened to come shoot the house up!” So of course I’m a
little more worried, but I’m still not on my way there. I can get
people to do stuff for me, so I call and had somebody watching the
house for a couple days and she’s full of shit. So she’s been mad
at me ever since that, but the code, I mean that’s common sense:
You don’t call for help like that unless you really need it. You
don’t wanna cry wolf because, when you really need it, they won’t
be there.
I’m not as numb now. While I was in hair
school, I worked part-time at a funeral home, doing hair on the
dead people. You only do the front of the hair, but I think I was
able to do it for the short amount of time because I used to be
super numb. Now I refuse to see anyone like that. I just want to
remember them the last time I saw them. I don’t go to anyone’s
funeral.
I’ve made it through a lot. You name it, I’ve
probably been through it. Shot at, all kinds of stuff. But none of
it is really tragic because I’m still here.
—
Interviewed by Ashley Bowcott
Endnotes
72 “Saddity” is a slang word that refers to
uppity-acting African-Americans who put on airs.
73 Andy Frain Services provides security at
sports stadiums and other large venues.
74 Tu-Tu received her diploma from Benjamin
Mays, a now-defunct alternative high school that operated out of
Kennedy-King College in Englewood.
HOME WAS THE THREE OF US
JEFF MALDONADO SR.
Jeff Maldonado Sr., 41, is a teaching artist
who grew up in Chicago. He and his wife, Elizabeth, live in Pilsen
on the West Side. Formerly a neighborhood of European immigrants,
Pilsen now has a strong Hispanic identity and is decorated with
mosaics and murals by Mexican artists. The neighborhood is also
home to the National Museum of Mexican Art, one of the many places
where Maldonado has exhibited his work.
Sitting on his couch at home, Jeff Sr. has a
commanding yet gentle presence, with a warm smile and tattooed
arms. His left shoulder proudly displays the face of his
19-year-old son, Jeff Maldonado Jr.—J-Def to his friends. On July
25, 2009, Jeff Jr. was gunned down in Pilsen. As an aspiring
hip-hop artist, he had hoped to be a part of the revival of
underground, socially conscious hip-hop. Born Christian Devon, he
decided to change his name to emulate his father when he was 9
years old. For Jeff Sr., the loss of his son, together with his
Mexican and Native American heritage, are major influences on his
art and community activism.
I was in seventh grade when I joined a gang.
I was approached by a good friend of mine, and we actually
formulated our own branch called the Satan Disciples of 24th
Street. I was probably in it for a good six years or so. I was
smart enough to know that it was not a true lifestyle for me. It
was more about taking advantage of my teenage years and just doing
my thing. It was kind of in response to my home life; my parents
were divorced. But I have to say this—if it wasn’t for me actually
making the decision to be in a gang, I would have never met my
wife. That’s how we actually met—through another guy in the
gang.
Back then, there was a level of ethics to
gangbanging, as weird as that sounds. I would only engage with the
enemy. That was it. I wouldn’t jump on somebody when he’s with his
mother or girlfriend, or something like that. There was an honor
system, and now it’s completely gone. Now it’s like the dirtier,
the better.
During that time, I was getting in trouble
for various things: fighting, stealing cars. Finally, I got caught
with a gun, and when I went to court, the judge looked at my record
and said, “I’m surprised that you haven’t been dealt with.” And so
what he decided to do was to put me on a year’s probation, with the
stipulation that either I had to be out of the state entirely, or
that I would have to spend the time in juvenile detention.
I ended up staying with my aunt and uncle on
an Indian reservation in Texas. I’m half American Indian; my mother
is full-blood Alabama-Coushatta. My grandfather and
great-grandfather were both chiefs of the tribe.
When I was in Texas, I actually returned to
drawing. Growing up, my interest was always in visual art and
creating comic book characters. When I was a teenager, I found my
older brother or sister’s art history book, and I started just
reading through it. I was fascinated by it. But it wasn’t until
Texas that I made the decision—I’m going to pursue my dream of
being an artist. I’m going to drop this street identity, and I’m
going to move toward what I want to do.
When I did come back, I went to high school
and graduated. When I was 20, Jeff Jr. was born, right before I
started going to Columbia College. Right out of college, I moved to
Pilsen when I got my studio here, about 17 years ago. My head was
really into the art scene. I felt like there was a level of freedom
that we hadn’t had before. Elizabeth and I had a sense that it was
our time to run the show and make our own decisions. We were
raising Jeff in a really good way. We all grew up together, you
know? And that was part of us being a successful family.
I had daily things I used to do with Jeff,
like a daily hug, even when he was big. I was like, “Come here,
it’s time for that hug.” Just for a minute. As he got older, he was
like, “Ah, man.” And then it’s like, “All right, all right.” And
when he wouldn’t give me a hug, when he was sitting at the
computer, I used to come up behind him and smell the back of his
head. You know, smell is a powerful memory energizer. Obviously, he
was 18, he didn’t like that either. But I didn’t care. I didn’t
care. Because it was for me.
At times it was difficult for him growing up
because people would always say, “Oh, is your son an artist? He has
to be an artist because you are an artist.” And Jeff was trying to
find his own way. When he tried music, he really found his voice.
Jeff started out freshman year of high school with his friend,
Rich. Over the years, they recorded, they practiced, they worked
together. They were actually doing their own original work. And
over the years, they got better. They got really good, as a matter
of fact.
The two of them kind of split off, because
their styles started to become different. Rich gravitated toward
the more gangster, kind of like he had something to prove. I think
the difference came from their home lives. Rich didn’t have his dad
around, and I know he had a lot of problems in school and in the
neighborhood with gangs. So it was natural for him to kind of thump
his chest, and say, “I’m here. What are you going to do?” Jeff Jr.
was more introspective and had greater range.
And the great part about that was Jeff would
see me as a resource. So he would call me up at the studio with
questions about the Patriot Act,75 or this, that and the other. He
ended up incorporating it in his music, and so it gave his work
just so much more depth.
Jeff’s music was really honest. When I play
his music to the different schools, these kids can all relate to
what he’s talking about. These kids are like, “Yo man, he hit it
right on. He’s got balance. He’s a little gangster, but he’s a
little this, and he’s a little that.” That was really reassuring to
me—that Jeff was really on the right track to achieving the highest
form of art that he could.
Jeff wanted to be a performer; that was
clear. However, he realized that he needed to have a handle on the
business aspect of it. So his intentions were to get his
associate’s degree and then transfer over to Columbia College and
study music management.
We all knew he was going to make it.
Elizabeth and I used to joke with him and say, “Yeah, when you’re a
millionaire, you can buy your mother a house.” And we sacrificed
part of ourselves. I took time from my career to focus on raising
him. It was definitely worth it. He found himself and that’s a
great thing. He was very confident. Things were really moving in
the direction that we had hoped.
The day before Jeff’s murder was his 19th
birthday. Since he was older, we weren’t going to get him a
birthday cake, but we decided that we were going to get him a
pizza. So we hopped in the truck and drove to Freddies in
Bridgeport. We ordered pizza, and it came out, and we climbed back
in the truck. Jeff was in the backseat. We gave him $40, you know,
spending money because he was going out that night. Jeff had warm
pizza in his lap, money in his pocket, and he just said, “The
universe unfolds as it should.” That was a good day for us. We were
really happy.
But Jeff’s murder happened on the next day,
on July 25, 2009, when he was going to have his first public
performance at a block party. My God, I’ll tell you about the day.
He wanted to get his birthday gift, like really bad. He wanted a
White Sox Carlton Fisk commemorative baseball cap, right? He wanted
to look good for his performance.
I drove him to Foot Locker and bought his
cap. And he was just so happy. Then he asked me if I could drop him
off at the barbershop, because he wanted to get cleaned up. I
remember that was unexpected. I thought we were all gonna go out
and grab a bite. But I dropped him off and he climbed out, and he
asked me if I was going to be home. And I said, “Yeah, I’ll wait
for you at home.” It was a Saturday. It was sunny out, a beautiful
day.
The next thing I know, I hear banging on my
front doors. I open the door, and it was one of the guys from the
block who is a gangbanger himself, and he was beside himself. He
says, “Hey man, hey man, hey man. I think your son got shot.”
And I was like, “What? That’s impossible.
That’s impossible.” And I remember just fumbling around.
He said, “Hurry, man, hurry!” I was looking
for my shoes, and I couldn’t find them, so I just threw on some
flip-flops. We both ran down the street. He led me to 18th Street.
I’m thinking, “This is a mistake. This is impossible.” I turned the
corner, and I came onto a crime scene. There was yellow tape. There
was a van with doors swung open. There were crowds of people on
both sides of the block. And there was a lot of blood.
I broke through the tape. I said, “I’m
looking for my son. I’m looking for my son.” The cops were
immediately like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” The sergeant actually grabbed
me and pulled me aside and started asking me some questions. I was
still thinking, “This is a mistake.” The sergeant ends up finding
out the hospital that they had taken this person to. So he gets my
information, and he says, “You need to get over there, right now.”
I ran back home. I was running at top speed, and I was still
thinking this has to be some mistake.
I climbed in my truck and called Elizabeth,
and I asked her where she was. She told me she was walking on 18th
Street, so I picked her up because I didn’t want her to see what I
saw. When we finally made it to the emergency room, and I was led
back there, it was this moment of complete shock. He was still
alive, but the doctors had induced a comatose state because of the
level of damage that was done to him. He was struck by one bullet
in the head. It entered his left side, and it went through and came
out.
We were together with Jeff, and he was still
alive, and we started talking to him, and we were telling him,
“You’re home. We love you.” We were just trying to reassure him
that he was with us, that we were together. Because that’s what
home was. Home was the three of us.
And he heard us. He tried to get himself up.
I mean, the strength of this young man to wake himself up from a
coma, to attempt to get up… The doctors went to work on him some
more, and we sat two beds down, just devastated. And wondering why
this happened. And what we were going to do. Just the thought of
living without him—it was unimaginable. And he hung in there. He
hung in there for a little while, for a few hours more. And thank
God that we had that time with him. I mean, if it wasn’t for this
guy that came and got me, we wouldn’t have had those final moments
with our son. I actually did see this young man about a year later
and I stopped and thanked him for doing what he did.
Right before his murder, Jeff Jr. walked into
the barbershop, got his haircut, and then his friend, Angel, asked
him if he wanted a ride home. They stopped at a red light. There
was a gang member on the corner who saw the van, saw two guys in
it, and just pulled out a gun and opened fire. Angel said he
hunched back and could hear the bullets break the glass and
puncture through the door. The gunman ran the opposite direction
and cut through an alley. He was caught by an off-duty police
officer. There was also an off-duty Cook County sheriff, so they
caught this guy red-handed—the weapon and everything.