Calvin Hodges (left) and Aqeela Sherrills

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Aqeela Sherrills and Calvin Hodges grew up on opposite sides of the tracks during the bloody gang conflicts of the Watts neighborhood in south L.A. Aqeela was a member of the Crips gang and Calvin was a member of the Bloods. They now both work for peace and reconciliation in Watts at the Community Self-Determination Institute (CSDI).

Aqeela’s Story

We didn’t call ourselves gangs — society did. We were a bunch of kids who had been wounded. Gangs were our surrogate families because so many of us had lost our nuclear families.

As a young person, I lived life on the edge and made a lot of bad decisions — robbing, stealing, and beating people. Our enemies lived on the other side of the tracks, and Markham Junior High School stood in the middle: a gladiator school dividing the two communities. When I was in ninth grade, a close friend was shot at school and I realized then that I had to get out. So I started selling candy door-to-door. This got me away from the crazy stuff back in Watts. Eventually I made it to college. I was the only one out of all of my friends who didn’t go to jail.

Then came a pivotal moment. I was crazy about the girl I was with. She was beautiful and looked after me, but I was jealous and thought I’d better cheat on her before she cheated on me, which I did. Things got worse; I was drinking and about to be kicked out of college.

But then I read James Baldwin’s The Evidence of Things Not Seen; something shifted inside me. I started digging deep and did the first noble thing I’ve ever done in my life — I told my girlfriend Lisa the truth about what I’d done and apologized. I also told her about being molested as a kid. It was the first time I’d shared this secret, and doing so set me on fire. At last I had something to blame! All my anger had been aimed at the government and white people, and I became a total black national revolutionary. It took many years to come full circle and take responsibility for what had happened to me as a kid and before I could stop blaming and start forgiving — not only myself, but my mother and the perpetrator too.

In 1989, I marched with the African Brothers Collective onto neutral ground in Watts and tried to reach out to our African brothers from the Bloods. Our message was that we all had the same problems, no matter which side of the tracks we were from. Finally, in 1992, community leaders signed a peace treaty and joy exploded across the neighborhood. Kids played in the park again and gang homicide dropped by 44 percent.

Unfortunately, things started to flip after a while because people began to use the peace process to line their pockets. It made me realize that you have to view peace as a journey, not as a destination. For the past 15 years, I’ve been working for peace. I’ve come to believe in the concept that where the wounds are, the gift lies.

In January 2004, this belief was seriously tested when my 18-year-old son, Terrell, was murdered. He was an unbelievable kid. After rushing to the hospital to be told he hadn’t made it, I thought, “What is the gift in this?” Since then I’ve thought about a lot of things, in a lot of different ways.

The young man who killed my son hasn’t been caught, but we know his identity through the street network. I’ve had the opportunity to retaliate, but decided revenge shouldn’t be Terrell’s legacy. Instead I chose to have valuable conversations with the community about why revenge doesn’t work. I tell people that Terrell’s killer is a victim, too — a victim of a culture that lacks compassion. You can only kill someone if you have a callous heart, so I want to know why this young man had such a callous heart. It’s not enough simply to catch him and throw him away.

Calvin’s Story

Aqeela and I have transcended gang culture, but when we were young it would have been war. As kids, we had to prove something because of our neighborhood. For me, joining the Bloods was part of growing up, but I walked in those shoes without choice. Like many of my friends I had an absent father and joined the gang in order to belong. I’ve been shot, stabbed, slammed on the sidewalk, and have served time in jail, too.

Markham Junior High School created our culture and shaped our perspective: There was no communication between the Bloods and the Crips, even though we were the same. On the campus grounds, I realized that the next generation would keep this hatred going if things didn’t change. I went through trials in prison, but came out realizing I wanted to make my community right. I questioned everything. Why were we against those wearing blue?

The 1992 peace treaty changed things. That’s when I first met Aqeela. He was one of the lights committed to change. The peace treaty gave me hope I never thought possible. For the first time, you could go off limits and cross the tracks; there was even crossbreeding between the Reds and the Blues.

Healing comes when you can sit down and laugh with someone. The more you communicate, the more difficult it is to commit violence because you’re no longer isolated or wearing a mask. In working for CSDI, I’ve realized that peace is way more difficult than war. It’s easy to kill, but it’s not easy to stop a war, or to go in and deal with the damaged emotions that are its legacy.

4•1•1

Hear Aqeela Sherrills and others speak at the Glendon Association’s 14th annual Violence and Suicide Prevention Forum on Thursday, October 2, at 6:30 p.m. at S.B. High School Auditorium and in Santa Maria on Tuesday, October 7, at 6:30 p.m. at Allan Hancock College’s Marian Theatre.

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