By Amy Silverman
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Monica Alonzo and Stephen Lemons
By Chris Parker
By Michael Lacey
By Weston Phippen
It's too nice, they say. The trees and flowers she's planted in the front are an affront to their vision of Latino culture.
"You're trying to be like white people," David yells.
Maria says she stopped beating David and Michael about four years ago. She says her decision has consigned her and her boys to a different kind of hell. She's turned them loose to the discipline of the streets.
She knows most of the kids her boys run with in the Milpas. Once they played softball and soccer in the afternoon.
"Now they are like homeboys. It means everything," Maria says.
"They put them over everything and everybody. You know?" she says.
She knows loyalty to the homeboys means trouble.
"I'm not the type of mom that says, 'Oh my boys, no.' No. I know what I have sitting over there," she says, gesturing toward the living room. "I don't like it."
She's certain that the eventual outcome will be more sorrow.
"Any mother whose kids hang around with gangs or wanna be a badass or be in a gang has to look at things realistically because they are going to end up dead, paralyzed or in jail," she says.
"I know that the only way they are going to survive is if they do get locked up."
Maria grew up in the Los Cuatro Milpas neighborhood near 16th Street and Buckeye Road in a home built by her grandfather. Most of her relatives still live in the area. She moved from the neighborhood two years ago, after getting off welfare, keeping a steady job and qualifying for a low-income mortgage.
Maria says she wanted her family to escape from the gunfire, violence, drugs and drinking that dominate life in the Milpas. But the new home is nothing more than a closet and a fast-food stop for her sons.
"It's just like a freight train," she says, describing her sons' determination to run with their homies in the Milpas.
"They will come home for a while and then, boom, before you know it, they are right back over there. They are like little boomerangs. They come over here to change, shower, get dressed, maybe eat something and then they are right there again. I don't like it," she says.
Stopping the boys is too much for Maria.
"I tell them they don't have no business out there. And I could go in front of them and stop them, and kick them in the ass, but you know that's bullshit. . . . It's not that it's not worth it. But it's just so emotional. Then it turns into a fight. Then it turns into a physical, verbal thing, so I say okay."
So the boys run free. They go to school when they want, for as long as they want. Michael is sticking closer to home in recent weeks, Maria says, but only because he's on probation for joy riding and wrecking a car. Maria must cover the $1,500 in damages.
The last time she thought that David was safe was a couple of years ago when he was sent to the Arizona Boys Ranch by the juvenile court after repeatedly being caught shoplifting, she says.
"He spent a year there," says Maria. "I thought it was great. I thought it was outstanding. They were strict."
David thrived at the Boys Ranch, she says.
"He was supposed to go into eighth grade. He advanced so that he [went] into ninth. He's a good kid," she says. "He's a smart kid. Mathematical like boom, boom," she says, snapping her fingers.
Maria knows the boys need strict discipline, but she has no one to help her. Her husband died in November from complications stemming from heroin and alcohol addictions.
She says her husband "never worked a day in his life. Since he was 16 or 17 years old, he was in and out of jail, prison. He ran drugs, was a thief. I finally threw him out of the house.
"He died because of his own doing."
Maria says David refused to visit his father when he was dying.
"David said, 'I don't care if he dies. I hate him anyways,'" she says.
With no father and an exhausted mother, David intends to live life day by day.
"He's told me, 'I don't plan to live past 25 years old,'" Maria says.
As the interview draws to a close, the front door slams as David takes off down the street.
"Fuck you, white boy," he yells to the reporter.
Maria sits in silence at the table for a moment, her eyes looking away.
"I hate that," she says. "God, I hate that. I don't like that. You know what? I'm not disrespectful. I apologize."
Maria is asked what kind of help she would choose, if given a choice.
"I wish I had a stronger male role model for them," she says. "I think [what] has probably been the hardest thing, is no man."
Monday, October 18
After the June interview, Maria declined to return subsequent calls and requests for additional interviews left at her work and home. On several occasions, her sons hung up the phone when they learned a reporter was calling. Last week, one of her daughters told New Times that Maria, David and Michael all are doing well.