Me and Julio down by the crack house
Here’s an excerpt from the fascinating Gang Leader for a Day, the Chicago version of Maximum City. In ‘89, economist Sudhir Venkatesh went out for his first thesis survey in a ponytail and tie-dye. He was held captive all night by a crack-dealing gang called the Black Kings:
‘Nigger, what the fuck are you doing here? … C’mon, Julio, where you live? … You flip right or left [bandanna]? Five or six [pointed stars]? You run with the Kings, right?’ …
‘How does it feel to be black and poor?’ I read [from my clipboard]. ‘Very bad, somewhat bad…’
The guy with the too-big hat began to laugh…. ‘Fuck you!’ …
[J.T. the leader] asked me where I was from.
‘California… Born in India…’
‘So you don’t speak Spanish.’
‘Actually, I do.’
‘See! I told you this nigger was a Mexican!’ said one young gangster…
‘I had a few sociology classes,’ [J.T.] said. ‘In college. Hated that shit…
‘Get back to where you came from… and be more careful when you walk around the city.’
The ambiguity of being desi in America is like a costume you never take off. In Seattle, I scanned as Italian; in New York, Puerto Rican; in Barcelona, South American, because of my high school Spanish teacher’s accent; with a Jewish electrical engineering prof, the specificity of ‘Punjabi, right?’
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