friends and family, stories of drug and alcohol use, stories of not knowing whether, when one left their home in the morning, he would live to return home at the end of the day.
Carlos told me about his role in the gang as a “tagger,” the one who painted graffiti either honoring one of his friends who had been killed or warning an enemy gang of retribution. Carlos was a beefy young man who wore the uniform of his neighborhood of beige chino pants, a white tee-shirt, and a plaid, long-sleeved cotton shirt completely buttoned up to his neck. His taupe-colored skin was interrupted by a few blue-inked tattoos on his neck. I smiled as his face lit up when he told me about his real passion of painting graffiti art, noting that he had photos of his work.
“Oh, I’d like to see your photos,” I said.
He gave me a small smile and said, “Okay, yeah.”
The next day he brought his portfolio—a photo album with the sticky pages and mylar covers that allowed for positioning and repositioning of the film photos. Carlos had pages filled with his vibrantly colored artwork. He shyly handed the book to me.
I slowly paged through the portfolio, studying each piece yet understanding very little. He generously answered my questions about the images. And, just as he entrusted me with his artwork, he entrusted me with a portion of his story.
“I did this wall the night before my little brother was shot and killed,” he said
“I’m sorry,” I responded.
He looked out the window while I resisted the urge to probe for details and sat in silence with him. A few minutes later, he returned to me and began talking about the next photograph.
I wondered how these youth endured all the losses in their lives.
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