Tag Archives: gangsta

Strike Out 1/2

strike

1 –  to try to hit or attack something

2 – Baseball; a pitched ball judged good but missed or not swung at, three of which cause a batter to be out

3 – Collective refusal by employees to work under the conditions set by the employer, a work stoppage

4 – to be unsuccessful in trying to do something

 

out

1 – to a finish or conclusion; the game played out

2 – a means of escape; The window was my only out

3 – used in two-way radio communication to indicate that a transmission is complete and no reply is expected

As the car passes the officer he recognizes the driver as a known felon. They’ve been briefed on this guy – armed and dangerous, two strikes down in a three strike state, gang affiliations with narcotic distribution. The plates on the car come back as stolen and the officer calls for backup before attempting a felony traffic stop. The man in the car knows that he’s been made so he speeds up, trying to outrun the officers. Every officer in this part of the city starts to converge on his location. When he finds himself boxed in he exits the car and starts shooting at the officers in their cars as he runs down the quiet neighborhood street. Seeing another officer blocking his escape route, he realizes that he’s trapped. He makes an abrupt turn and runs up to the nearest house. One kick to the front door and he makes entry into someone’s home. The officers hear screams as he takes a few hostages and yells threats through an open window. The officers surround the house but pull back as they initiate a SWAT call-out for a hostage situation.

The Bear Cat rolls past me and slowly drives up the street to park in front of the house where the suspect has barricaded himself. The six SWAT officers in the armored truck are positioned to report on any changes in the house and they will be used as a rapid reaction force if the suspect does something stupid like killing a hostage. Their job is to hold the scene at a forward position and react as needed to buy the rest of the team some time to formulate a plan.

From my vantage point in the incident command center I can see the SWAT commander setting up his game plan: floor plan of the house on a white board, arrows showing expected direction of attack, frequent radio communication and the occasional cell phone call. The SWAT snipers, dressed in woodland camouflage, begin the long and solitary walk to disappear into the neighborhood, with Remington-700 Police Sniper Rifles slung on their backs and a M4 duty weapons slung in the front. They quickly vanish from sight, undoubtedly taking up overwatch positions from rooftops a few streets away.

The SWAT Medic that is embedded with the team comes up to my rig and we make a game plan on various extrication scenarios and transport options. We’ll work under force protection protocols and enter the warm zone if necessary to initiate prompt treatment and extrication of wounded. If the suspect decides to force the officers into shooting him I’ll go in afterwards and make a field pronouncement. If he’s really stupid and starts shooting the hostages I’ll handle the initial triage and treatment while my partner calls for the appropriate number of units for transport. I’ll utilize the SWAT members to help extricate victims to the curb for the responding units to transport to the hospital.

The police helicopter finally shows up and starts doing lazy orbits of the house from 800 feet in the air. The pilot has the FLIR (forward looking infrared) turned on the house so he can see any movement. It’s sharp enough to pick up a hand on a window and discern our uniforms with the patches on the shoulders or the characteristic lack of heat signature where the ballistic vest insulates the torso. Unfortunately it’s not sharp enough to pinpoint heat signatures in the house. By now the snipers are in their overwatch position and I hear their quiet radio transmissions as they report on activities in the house as seen in their magnified scopes atop the rifles.

The rest of the SWAT officers start showing up to the command center that was hastily carved out of this quiet street in the middle of the hood. Their duffle bags of gear have been laid out like dominoes on the sidewalk. Officers who drove their personal vehicles into the hood stroll up to the duffle bags and begin their transformation from average citizen to door kicking SWAT officers. Black uniforms, heavy ballistic body armor, communication ear buds placed under headphones, and finally weapons loaded and made ready. The SWAT commander walks around to the troops showing a picture of the suspect as they prepare for the final showdown.

Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp! The continued noise of the forty-millimeter grenade launcher has been rhythmically pounding the house with tear gas for the last ten minutes. They systematically hit the house room by room – filling the interior with gas – until they have the suspect and hostages pushed to a back bedroom where there is no escape. I count 35 gas grenades before it finally goes silent.

The SWAT officers – who have collectively just heard a dispatch on the radio – turn in unison to walk down the street towards the house for the final assault. The K9 officer falls in with them and someone grabs a Halligan tool for door breaching. I’m going over scenarios in my head for possible outcomes in the next few minutes. I may end up with more patients than I can handle, with trauma that I can’t fix here on the streets. I could end up with wounded SWAT officers or a dead suspect or a random bystander shot in the mix. Maybe an officer twists his ankle on entry or gets a dog bite while going through back yards or a sniper falls off of a roof. Hell, anything could happen, I’ll just have to wait here and deal with the consequences as they come.

The tear gas grenades have been quiet for fifteen minutes now and the bulk of the SWAT officers turned the corner towards the house ten minutes ago – it’s been quiet since then. Out of the darkness from the direction of the house comes a lone patrol car backing slowly towards my rig. The officer steps out and walks up to my window. “Hey, we’ve got the suspect here, can you check him out real quick before we take him downtown?” Really, just like that and it’s over?

I walk around the back of the police cruiser to the back window which is rolled down. I can see a man in his mid-30s, hands cuffed behind his back, calmly siting in the back seat. I can talk to him through the bars on the back window. “Hey, are you hurt?”

“Fuck you!” Not exactly the response I was looking for but okay I guess it’s something.

“Did you get taken down hard or is the tear gas hurting your eyes?” It’s not the first medical assessment I’ve done through the bars of the back of a police cruiser.

“I said FUCK YOU!” Maybe I’m just asking the wrong questions.

“Are you saying that you don’t want any help from the Paramedics and you just want me to go away?” I think they call that a leading question.

“No, I don’t want anything from you. FUCK YOU!” Okay then. Somewhat of a limited vocabulary but he’s made his wishes quite clear.

I stand up from the window and address the officer who has been standing by waiting for me to complete my medical assessment. “He’s all yours.”

 

 

Impact 4/4

Driving home I see the text message from my wife telling me that she couldn’t stay awake any longer and is going to bed. I got held over by three hours tonight and it’s well past midnight before I make it home.

I give my wife a kiss and pet the dogs who are asleep in their monogrammed dog beds on my wife’s side of our bed.  Sleepy eyes look up from the pillow, “How was your day?”

“Busy, I’ll tell you about it tomorrow love, go back to sleep. I love you.”

I spend an hour in the hot tub – cool wind in the trees and stars overhead – tying to let the adrenaline dissipate from my system and introspectively looking for answers while listening to the lonely call of an owl sitting in a nearby tree.

Don goes to the middle east, putting his life on the line for his country, while getting shot at by the Iraqi version of bangers in their very real killing fields. In an effort to help his fellow serviceman even more he starts medical training and gets shot at by local bangers – the very people whose freedoms he swore to protect – in the domestic version of the killing fields.

Of all people to shoot at, why shoot at EMS? We are the best chance a banger has when they get shot. We are their ONLY advocate and our single purpose is to make sure they don’t die – a job that we have become quite proficient at over the years. In the summer months of this year 204 people were shot in the urban city that comprises most of my county. Of those 204 people only 11 people died. That’s a survival rate of 95%.

In the world of modern medicine we are able to keep the elderly alive long past their bodies’ ability to function – giving their families just a little more time with grandma and grandpa. That same modern medicine seems to also be keeping the violent offenders alive through multiple life threatening altercations and solidifying their personal self image of indestructibility – thereby prolonging and intensifying the violent behavior. In the dark ages a ruffian would have died from infection following a minor cut in a knife fight. Yet today I have many patients with multiple laceration and GSW scars that tell the tale of escalating violence – and by extrapolation an escalation of PTSD, dissociative violent behavior, depression, and many other mental afflictions. It’s possible that the ability of the physical body to cope with trauma has out-paced the mind’s ability to cope with the effects of the same trauma.

As I lay in bed – wife and dogs sleeping peacefully near me – I wonder if my mind has the same limitations to cope with the trauma that I bear witness to – and occasionally participate in – on a daily basis.

One week later Jim tells me that the victim in the GSW that we worked was a friend of his neighbor. He was attending a Quinceañera party – the celebration of a Latina’s fifteenth birthday where she transitions from childhood to being considered an adult. He had a perforated right lung and ruptured pancreas as the bullet had a straight trajectory in a downward angle from right mid-axially, bouncing off of the left iliac arch. He spent three days in the ICU under sedation. Upon waking up he told the nurses that he wants to meet with Jim and I to thank us for saving his life. That should be interesting.

His shooter was arrested one day later and is expected to be charged with assault with a firearm and attempted murder. The motive for the shooting was a gang initiation test to shoot a random person.

The suspect that shot up our ambulance is still unknown…

Impact 3/4

Thwack…..Thwack..Thwack.

“Drive!” I tell Jim to get us out of here now after hearing the metallic impact noises to the back of the rig. The dark streets of the killing fields become a blur as Jim accelerates away from the shooter and adrenaline floods my system while narrowing my field of view to a small tunnel with a blurry periphery – it’s the definition of “fight or flight” response.

I’ve slumped down in my seat a bit, unconsciously lowering my profile in the rig and putting more metal between me and the outside world.

“Anyone hit?” Communication is truncated to just specifics as Jim chirps the siren through a few stop signs and gets us out of the area. “I’m good,” comes the answer from Don behind me – the closest one of us to the shooter. Jim is the definition of concentration as he deftly maneuvers the rig through the hood, “Good.”

I pick up the radio, “Medic-40, priority traffic.” I really hope I’m keeping my voice calm.

“Medic-40, go.” The stoic dispatcher comes back quickly.

“Medic-40, we’ve taken shots to the rig. Relocating now, Code-4, non-injury. Shots fired at our previous staging area with four suspects heading east.”

“Medic-40, copy that, sending PD now, go with suspect descriptions.”

“Medic-40, four suspects, African-American, ages 15-18, one in a white hoodie, three in black hoodies. One black hoodie has white skeleton bones on the front and back.” I think I just described half the population of my mostly urban county.

I help Jim navigate to the well lit commuter train parking lot, hoping it’s a little safer than our last location. I heard our supervisor requesting our location from dispatch who has been watching us on the GPS and gives him our new location.

As we get out of the rig to check the damage, police cars start to show up. City PD, county sheriff officers, and the commuter train officers followed by our supervisor. Descriptions of the suspects are given again and the officers race off to canvas the area. I doubt they’ll find the shooter as all of the suspects were wearing the uniform of the hood: sagging jeans, black hoodie pulled over the head. You can never pin a crime on one person when everyone dresses the same.

An inspection of the back of the rig shows three impact points to the metal. They are small circular impacts that chipped the paint and dented the metal but didn’t go through. Given the distance of the shooter we’re assuming it was a small caliber pistol. Fortunately bangers are notorious for shooting with the gangsta-sidewise grip and usually can’t hit anything. In this case they did hit us and that’s really messing with my head. There was a time when everyone in the hood had an unwritten rule: no kids and no ambulances. It seems that rule is no longer in place – we saw that memorial to the kid today and we just got shot at.

I’ve had my body armor on since the last GSW we went to so I guess I was somewhat protected but it’s really just random happenstance that I was wearing it at the time when I got shot at. Yes, I have good instincts, and take every precaution. But honestly this could have happened anytime of the day or night. The rule of thumb for staging is to be 6-10 blocks away without a clean line of sight to the scene – and that’s exactly what we did. But it’s hard when we’re in the middle of the killing fields and there’s twenty blocks of unsafe hood in every direction. I doubt the shooter had any connection to the assault we were staging for. I suspect it was just a random, spur-of-the-moment crime of opportunity. Like so many things in EMS I I’ll probably never know the reason for this act or even the final outcome. As usual I just showed up for the exciting middle part – however unwilling that participation may have been.

The end result of all this excitement is an hour spent filling out paperwork and making police reports.


Gangsta Rap 3/3

The police officer sees us on the security camera and pushes the button that activates the large sliding metal gate. We drive in to see the parking lot full of police cars and head towards the sally port – a secure transfer spot for taking prisoners in and out of the city jail.

Five officers are waiting for us as Kevin and I step out of the rig to see why they called us to the back of the jail today.

The officer with the stripes on his sleeve approaches me and gives me the story. “Hey guys, so we picked this guy up on being drunk in public. While we’re getting him booked he starts talking about being suicidal and wanting to kill himself. So instead of booking him we put him on a green sheet to get checked out at EPS.”

“Did he actually do anything to hurt himself or is it just talk?” I’m just trying to see if I’ll have any injuries to deal with or is it just verbalizing suicidal ideation.

“No, he didn’t do anything – he actually wants to go to EPS. Go figure.”

“Has he been violent with you guys?” Trying to gauge the need for restraints or not.

“No, he’s been good, but he’s a big guy so we kept him cuffed.”

“Sounds easy enough. Do you want us to come in and get him or do you want to bring him out?”

“You can hang tight here, we’ll bring him out.”

We’re in the mid-county, more affluent cities, so there are more available police officers than in our Big City. In these cities it’s common to have four or five police cars respond to a single incident where as in the Big City they are stretched so thin it’s hard to get just two cops even when we need them.

The officers return from the sally port escorting a man in handcuffs. With one officer on each arm, and three more keeping watch, the man is doing a slow shuffle towards me as I wait next to the rig. He’s got his eyes closed down to slits which gives him a menacing look yet also allows him to surreptitiously observe his environment without others seeing the direction of gaze – prison yard stealth. With his shifting gaze he never looked past my blue uniform, which matches the police officers, to see who I am.

“Yo, Lil’G, what the hell you doin’ down here?!” The officers stop mid-stride as they didn’t expect to hear “street speak” coming out of the clean cut paramedic standing in front of them.

Lil’G’s eyes pop up to full round and he drops the prison yard stealth mode as recognition sets in. He gets a big smile on his face, “Yo, T2, it’s my boy. Ya’ll did me right, you called my boy to come get me.”

“Lil’G, you all right man. You gonna be cool if I get you outta those cuffs?”

“Yeah man, I cool, you my boy.” I can smell the alcohol coming off of his breath and hear the slight slur to his speech.

I turn to the officers holding on to his arms. “I’m good guys, you can un-cuff him. We’re old friends.” They catch the irony in my voice.

Lil’G happily climbs up into the ambulance as I chat with the sergeant for a few minutes.  “I usually see him up in the Big City around the seventies. I’ve never run into him down here.”

“Yeah we haven’t seen him before. I’m happy to send him up to EPS and out of our city.” It’s the classic small town sheriff giving the trouble maker a bus ticket out of the city.

“I hear ya’. We’ll take care of him. See you next time.”

I climb in to sit on the bench next to Lil’G and pull out the fat person blood pressure cuff to fit around his enormous guns.

“Lil’G, you losing some weight? You’re looking skinnier than the last time I saw you.”

“Yeah man, I going through some shit, you know. Not eatin’ much. I lost my daughter two week ago, she dead.” He’s introspective and just a little bit sad. I’d say that’s justified.

“Oh man, I’m sorry to hear that.” I’m curious about the circumstances but I honestly don’t want to talk about it too much with him. Remembering his bipolar diagnosis I know he could cycle on me and you just never know where that’s going to go.

In an attempt to steer the conversation somewhere else. “You got any new raps for me?”

“Yeah man, I got a rap for ya T2, it’s my story.”

I’m a play’a… that’s my number one life style.

I’ve been a play’a… since I was a li’l child.

I grew up… havin’ hard times every day.

I had to choose a road… but didn’t know which way.

 

Started kickin’ it with the fellas… on seven ohh.

Makin’ money… cuz that was the way to go.

Smokin’ dank, full tank… get an even high.

Even had three ho’s… on my side.

 

Two was cool but one… thought she was a gangsta.

But I didn’t know… I was fuckin’ with danger.

She kept on tellin’ me how down she was… you know.

She said she didn’t give a fuck… about five-ohh.

 

Till the day on the ave… we was kickin’ it.

Wasn’t nothin’ else to do… but get lit.

Straight hands to a gangsta… whole nine yards.

Till the sucka tried to pull… my damn playa’s card.

 

I threw a left… and connected to the fool’s jaw.

The punk fell an’ tried to walk… but he had to crawl.

I split the scene… and went to the fuckin’ sto’.

On the way back… I ran into the Po Po.

 

Shit was cool… so I didn’t want to bail.

Fuck the po-lice… I ain’t going to jail.

I cocked my nine… then I fired at the dirty mack.

I started trippin’ and my mind… started to un-fold.

I’m in the middle of a shoot out… damn I’m told.

 

As curiosity was fuckin’… with my damn head.

Bullets kept flyin’, people dyin’… and bodies bled.

I dropped my nine, then I reached… for my four-four.

Empty one clip, then I headed… for my car door.

 

I couldn’t believe my eyes…

It’s my mind’s surprise…

I’m the only black nigga gonna stay alive.

 

Jesus Christ… this mutha fuckin’ gang.

Po Po try an’ jack me… and playin’ wit my fuckin’ brain.

But I ain’t going down… I’m not a sucka.

You want me… you gotta kill me mutha fucka.

 

Bill Gates… and the rest a the klan.

Ya’ll can suck my dick… cuz I’m a crazy ass black man.

But in the mean while… I’m just as versatile.

That’s my life… gangsta life… that’s my life…style.

My name is Lil’G… and I’m out.

Lil’G is a very real man and the above rhymes are his words. I apologize for the graphic nature and language yet I think it’s important to keep it authentic as an accurate  representation of how his mind works. It would be easy to dismiss this as typical gangsta rap but I think it goes deeper than that. This is a man who has been in and out of institutions – criminal and psychiatric – since he was young. He may have actually picked up some coping mechanisms to deal with the turmoil that haunts his waking moments and it manifests with introspective communication in the only way he knows how. Just as his bipolar mind cycles from emotion to emotion his physical body will cycle from street to institution until both are exhausted. There is no escape for his mind or body from the streets that created his life…style. 

Gangsta Rap 1/3

gang·sta

1  :  black slang; a gang member

2  :  a type of rap music featuring aggressive misogynistic lyrics, often with reference to gang violence and urban street life

rap

1  :  to hit sharply and swiftly; strike

2  :  a criminal charge; a prison sentence

3  :  music; to talk using rhythm and rhyme, usually over a strong musical beat

4  :  to have a long informal conversation with friends

Violence is a part of America. I don’t want to single out rap music. Let’s be honest. America’s the most violent country in the history of the world, that’s just the way it is. We’re all affected by it. That’s one of the frailties of the human condition; people fear that which is not familiar.

Spike Lee

“Ya’ see, I didn’t really call you here because I was havin’ chest pain. It nothin’ like that at all. Ya see, I thinkin’ about killin’ myself.” As the fire engine accelerates away from us Kevin and I have a very different call on our hands than the one we thought it was going to be just a few seconds ago.

Getting called to the middle of the hood for chest pain is a common enough thing and we answer these calls on a daily basis. Today we happened to be just a few blocks away when the call information arrived on the Mobile Data Terminal (MDT). I turned the ambulance around and we were on scene in less than two minutes.

Sitting on a chair in front of an urban church outreach center was a man in his early forties. The pastor and church volunteers are comforting him as we walk up to see what’s going on. Holding his chest he tells us of the pain he’s feeling and how he wants to get checked out at the hospital. It’s an easy call and the assessment and treatment are so rote that we fall into auto pilot as we go through the motions.

Seeing the fire engine approaching from down the street I write the man’s name and birthday on my glove and hold my hand up high so the fire lieutenant can copy it down for his records without having to exit the engine. In seconds they are off to the next call and we are alone with the patient. Of course, that was before I knew the true nature of the call.

After our patient drops the bombshell on us, Kevin and I take a collective deep breath and one look between us confirms the sudden detour this call has taken. In our business suicidal ideation is taken very seriously. A person who is truly suicidal, who has ceased to care about their own life, may not care about other people’s lives. Therefore, we can be in danger when dealing with these people.

Our new patient, Lil’G, is quite a formidable man. He has scars on his face, one of which is consistent with a knife wound. He’s 240 pounds of compact, short, boxer’s build with huge upper body development. He’s seriously built like a smaller Mike Tyson. He jokes with Kevin because he had to pull out the fat person blood pressure cuff just to fit around his huge biceps. He does a muscle man flex and smiles showing me a gold tooth. I’m feeling very uneasy about this. I give Kevin a look that he understands. “I’ll be back in a second.”

“Hey, where you goin’?” He’s quick with predatory instincts, watching every movement – nothing escapes him.

“I just have to get the computer from the front.” It’s a half truth which I hope he doesn’t see through.

Walking up to the front of the rig I turn on the portable radio on my belt. Opening the front door I grab the computer and turn off the rig radio which can be heard from the patient area in the back. I stand in front of the engine compartment so I can keep an eye on Kevin through the windshield as I call in to dispatch on my portable.

“Medic-40 go ahead.” The radio crackles back to me.

“Medic-40, please send PD to our location, code-2, our chest pain call just turned into a 5150 with suicidal ideation. We’re code-4, for now.” The code-4 tells my dispatcher that we are not currently in danger. The ‘for now’ tells her that I don’t know how long that’s going to last.

I’m standing outside of the back doors as Kevin is doing further assessments on Lil’G. Kevin knows the drill: we have to stall as long as possible so PD can get here to write up the green sheet (5150). Without it we have fewer of the options we may well need in this case, like restraints and chemical sedation.

I’m watching Lil’G as Kevin continues with the 12-lead EKG. Lifting up his shirt I see the multiple GSW (gun shot wound) scars.

“Lil’G, how many times you been shot?” Anything to distract him and buy us some time.

“Yo, I been shot four times, stabbed two, and sliced up a couple. It’s hard man, growin’ up in the 70s.” He’s not referring to the decade – to him the 70s are the street numbers in his corner of the hood.

“You ever do time?” I’m thinking prison ripped could explain the boxer physique.

“Yeah, I did six year, fo’ bangin’. You know; sellin’ a little, had sum ho’s, and a little bit a shootn’.” He’s not talking about shooting up with heroin. “Yeah, I got a strike on me.” In this state it’s three strikes for felony convictions and you’re in prison for good.

Kevin’s still trying to stretch out the assessment as I’m typing on the computer. “You got any medical problems?”

“Yeah, I got PTSD, bipolar, paranoid schizophrenia, and depression, but I ain’t takin’ no meds for it.” FUCK ME!!! I’ve got a bipolar psych patient who’s off his meds, built like Tyson, and thinking about killing himself. I really need a raise.

Lil’G could shred both Kevin and I if he put his mind to it. Not to mention tear the ambulance apart. We’re walking a fine line here and we have to keep him on the good side of his bipolar disorder. I’ve watched manic bipolar patients cycle from happy to violent a dozen times in the course of a single transport. If this guy cycles on us we’re fucked.

Despite the lethal potential of Lil’G he’s actually pretty engaging. He has a fast wit and keen observation skills. He decides I look like the silver terminator from Judgment Day, in reference to my hair style and clean cut white boy appearance. Seeing as the terminator impersonated a cop through most of the movie I’m not sure I like the reference.

“Yo man, that’s your new name, I’m gonna call you T2.” He has a full bodied laugh with muscles rippling to the diaphragmatic contractions. Great, I have a street name.

And just like that Lil’G cycles on us. Yet not to a violent nature – quite the contrary. Right there in the back of the ambulance he starts rapping. With perfect tempo and surprisingly colorful depictions he tells us what’s on his mind in the only way he knows how.

I’m on the microphone… gotta do it quick.

But never give a care… I ain’t scared to hit a bitch.

Gotta hit her from the back… nigga back side.

I don’t give a fuck nigga… it’s time for a wild ride.

 

Call me Lil’G… when you see me.

I see niggas on the street… trying to be me.

I got these knuckles man… I make ‘em laugh man.

Never give a care… put ‘em in a bath man.

 

Gotta do it good… cuz you know what’s right.

I never give a care nigga… cuz I’m hell’a tight.

I come from 69ville… nigga eight-five.

Never give a care… boy I don’t duck and hide.

 

I’m born on the east side… I’m going east bound.

You a block head… whose name is Charlie Brown.