Sanchez, who had been raped at age five by a cousin, left Puerto Rico for Chicago when he was seven, and reveled in his new home, excelling in school and at baseball. But his unloving mother married a monster, and by the time Sanchez was ten, he was taking to the streets to avoid their vicious beatings. Frightened by the bloodshed, he resisted joining the Latin Kings, the largest and most violent gang in the city, but by the time he was 13, Sanchez was drinking and getting high and training himself to suppress his compassion and embrace the very brutality he had suffered. Initiated into sex by a woman nearly three times his age, he became a sexual predator and soon felt no compunction about shooting his rivals. A survivor who turned his life around, Sanchez writes plainly and powerfully, and what is shocking about his tragic tale is not the barbaric actions of young gangbangers but the appalling collusion of adults, from criminally abusive parents to mercenary gun dealers and immoral cops. (Reviewed July 2000)

Chicago in the 1980s provides the setting for this extremely disturbing and raw account of a Puerto Rican teenager who lost himself to violent gang activity. Now repentant, Sanchez (a pseudonym) writes in a voluble voice, replete with operatic asides declaiming the immorality of his actions. But he offers a forceful and unusual perspective on Chicago--in Sanchez's telling, it's a place of territorial graffiti and racist cops, in which a slow-motion riot of drugs, sex and gunplay constantly unfolds. Sanchez recounts his family's arrival in Chicago's Northwest Side in the late 1970s, when he was a small boy; he describes the beatings his grifter stepfather regularly doled out; and he portrays the allure of the mysterious and ritual-bound lives of tough, teenaged gangsters. When his family returned to Puerto Rico, he stayed behind. Soon, he joined the fearsome Latin Kings, and his given street name """"Lil Loco"""" attested to his youth and ferocity. While graphically describing what he witnessed as a gang member--senseless killings, inter-ethnic hatreds and sexual abuse of gang-affiliated women--Sanchez also pursues harder truths, arguing that it is a minority of promiscuous drug-users accompanied by community-wide silence that keeps the gangs in business. In the end, he condemns his former gang for masquerading as a Latino """"public service"""" organization while high-ranking members become rich from their youthful recruits' drug dealing. And he scoffs at their reliance on conformist rituals and violence (violations of the rituals were punished with full body beatings). Offering very little hope, this book captures the dark, self-destructive lot of countless urban teens. Like other gangland memoirs (such as Monster and Always Running), it is significant because it takes the reader deep inside a secretive and brutal ethnic gang subculture. (Aug.)

A sad, sanguinary, and clumsy account of life and death among Chicago's Puerto Rican street gangs. Sanchez uses a pen name in this horrifying memoir to protect others, he claims, but since he admits to multiple felonies, including murder (no statute of limitations), it's obviously for self-protection as well. Sanchez wishes to "provide some explanations for why kids join gangs" and hopes his efforts "can save the life of at least one kid." He was born in Puerto Rico into an abusive home; his 74-year-old father did not last long, and his 16-year-old mother lived with a succession of monstrous men. Raped as a child by a male relative, Sanchez found life only worse after the "family" moved to Chicago when he was seven. His mother married Pedro ("fat, toothless, stinky, and loud"), and soon the boy was receiving regular beatings from both parents. As he grew older, he drifted into street life, had his initial sexual experience at 13 with a 35-year-old, began using drugs, and before long adopted the street code: "You have to learn to hurt people before they have a chance to hurt you." Throughout, Sanchez relates events in remarkable detail, recalling names, dates, locations, and dialogue with a felicity that belies his repeated statements that he was high most of the time. (Was he keeping a diary?) The artless prose is rife with cliches (things hit him "like a ton of bricks"), usage errors ("between him and I" is a favorite locution), and inaccurate allusions (he thinks Frankenstein is the creature, not the creator). Far more serious than these stylistic flaws is the author's failure to substantively reflect on his experience. His observations range from patent to ludicrous—after raping a girl, he concludes, "It seemed as if I was becoming coldhearted"—and he closes with the perfunctory advice that we must "take responsibility for our own neighborhoods." A crude cautionary tale that lacks redemptive power.