Lmfao — all in good fun, my brother.
Yet beneath the humor lies a deeper truth about the worlds we come from. A quick piece of history for context: the number 13 represents the Sureños, known as X3, the path I once walked under MMafia. Their counterparts, 14 — or X4 — are the Norteños, under the banner of Nuestra Familia. For over forty years, these two factions have waged a relentless war behind prison walls and on California streets. Though there’s a fragile truce in prison now, the battle persists up north, with an invisible line drawn near Bakersfield CA dividing the two. Recently, they’ve found an unlikely common cause against the Fresno Bulldogs — a gang that’s risen as a formidable mutual threat.
People speak of L.A. as chaos personified, but Sacramento, in many ways, bears even darker shadows. The life we’re talking about isn’t merely dangerous; it’s a philosophy of destruction — a deathstyle.
I carry my own scars as testament. Just last week, I returned to my old city for a tattoo — a simple act, or so I thought. As I lay there, head turned sideways for a head tattoo, music drowning out the world, I was blindsided, sucker-punched and ambushed with brass knuckles. The aftermath was a broken nose, a severe concussion, bruising to my brain, hematoma, and two blackened eyes.
And yet, a week later, I was back under the barbell, moving iron in the gym near my current home. It’s a different realm here — where those who’d do me harm couldn’t afford the cost of entry, let alone the rent.
I kept silent because people often say I bring this fate upon myself, as though I’m destined to keep learning life’s harshest lessons. But the truth is, betrayal cut deep this time. Men I’d known for twenty years — men I once called brothers — orchestrated the setup. It’s a painful reminder that success doesn’t always sever the chains binding people to old loyalties and self-destructive patterns.
At 37, I know I’m growing too old for this cycle. I’ve sworn never to return to my old hometown again — not even to trace the footsteps of memories. And to think this unfolded in San Diego. People paint it as paradise, but there’s nothing sweet about San Diego’s underbelly, bro.
The older I grow, the clearer it becomes that much of this chaos is rooted in absent guidance. When I train in my current gym and see the young ones — privileged kids with strong family structures, good schools, and safety — I can’t help wondering how different my life might’ve been had I grown up here, amidst ocean breezes and surfer dreams. I always excelled: three sports, near a 4.0 GPA. But what heights might I have reached with firmer foundations beneath me?
Sometimes, that thought brings a wave of sorrow. So I’ve resolved to mentor these kids when I can — to encourage them, to praise their discipline, to remind them to keep faith, pursue knowledge, and chase their purpose. I want them to avoid the roads I’ve traveled and the scars I’ve gathered.
Hindsight remains the cruelest teacher, revealing wisdom only once the damage is done. Still, I’m grateful for the chance to pass along what I’ve learned.
God bless you, my brother.
(jk not k)
