The Compton Story

I’m afraid that putting this story in writing for all to see will only lead to disappointment and dismay. Be forewarned, this story only barely qualifies as interesting, and even barelier qualifies as funny, despite what past and present members of the CTK youth group might tell you. And now our story.

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It is a well-known fact, and obvious to everyone who meets her, that my mother is street. She’s ghetto. She’s got mad street cred, yo. That all stems from the fact that as a young girl, she lived for several years in Compton, California. That’s right—she’s straight outta Compton.

When I was in high school, my family took a vacation over winter break to visit my mom’s cousin, who lives in California. We all loaded up in two brand new Winnebago motor homes, to be delivered to motor home dealerships in the greater Los Angeles area, and headed west.

While we were in California, my mom decided that it would be a really good idea to show us all where she’d lived when she was a girl. I, having not considered the fact that my mom’s street cred would protect us from harm, thought that was an exceedingly bad idea, as I did not want to spend any time at all in Compton. But my mother insisted. “Yo, get in the ride and I’ll show you my ‘hood,” she told us.

So all six of us—my parents, my three sisters and I—all piled into my mom’s cousin’s car—er, ride—and headed for Compton.

Once we reached Compton, it became obvious to all of us that my mom did not remember exactly where her house had been. The natural solution, of course, was to drive slowly up and down the streets of Compton, looking for this house she only vaguely remembered. So we rolled, windows down, bass thumpin’ (probably to either Miami Sound Machine or Manheim Steamroller—street, yo!), air jacks lifting our ride up and dropping it back down, slowly through the streets of my mom’s old ‘hood.

“Oh, I think this might be—no, that’s not it,” she’d say. “Oh, here it is! I see—no, that’s not it, either… [pause] There it—nope, I guess not…” Meanwhile, I was sinking lower and lower into the back seat, trying to make myself as invisible as possible, for fear that a stray bullet—or one meant for us—might find me.

Finally we turned onto a street that she seemed to legitimately recognize. She pointed at a small, ranch style home with bars on the windows and two kids playing in the front yard and said that that was where she’d lived. She said, “Phil,” that’s my dad, “pull over to the curb!” Phil did so. My mom leaned out the window and said to the kids, “I used to live in your house when I was a little girl!” The two kids got up and ran inside, and after looking at the house—or “crib”—where my mom had once lived, we drove away and eventually out of Compton, much to my relief.

To this day, my mom occasionally gets calls from Snoop, Dre, and some of her other old homeys. They drop by now and then and they all roll, sippin’ on gin ‘n’ juice (laid back), with their minds on their money and their money on their minds, as you might expect.

That, my friends, is the Compton story.

Matt