For many Cambodians, America was the dream they had sought. Freed from the violence and chaos that had befallen their homeland, Cambodian immigrants began opening shops in and around Argyle Street, Chicago's second Chinatown in the district known as Uptown. Many went to college and entered the job market as engineers, computer specialists, and professionals. As these Cambodians began to leave their pasts behind, many moved to the suburbs or to small towns in Wisconsin and Michigan. But as Cambodian professionals and merchants moved out of the city, they left behind many countrymen unable to move beyond the refugee experience. In Uptown, 1991, many Cambodians did not have the skills to succeed in America. Many had been farmers in Cambodia and could barely read and write their own language, let alone English. For some, welfare became the only source of income. Others worked in factories, earning the minimum wage, hardly enough to support an individual, let alone a family. Uptown and America were hard on these families. Teenage sons took to the streets and attended Chicago's notoriously violent public schools, where shootings are common and metal detectors serve as "greeters" at school entrances. On the streets, young Cambodians have had to confront a culture of guns and street gangs, and many have opted to assimilate into that culture. For social worker Arn Shorn, it fits a pattern. "They have the Khmer Rouge poison now," he says. That "poison" uses guns to solve problems, and violence and intimidation to overturn the traditional order - it represents an existence these gang members' parents thought they had left behind. In Chicago, among, the hundreds of well-established white, African-American can, and Hispanic gangs, there are now Cambodian gangs, a Laotian gang, and Vietnamese and Filipino gangs. The Cambodian gangs have earned the worst reputation for violence. Raised in Pol Pot's Kampuchea and surrounded by violence and mayhem in the Thai refugee camps, many of these boys understand little else. The gang members have rejected much of their own culture and the stability, structure, and discipline it could have offered. As early as 1981, Cambodian teenagers had formed a gang, the "Black Cambodian Killers," or BCK. One of the first gang members was an uncle of Gino's who had helped carry him as an infant during their escape from Cambodia. "I joined the BCK to protect myself and my people," he says. "Others were fighting with us, and we fought back. In 1982, we had 20 people - they were my friends, and we were alone." Gino joined the BCK in 1985, when he was 10, and dropped his Cambodian name. Pressure from peers had forced him to seek the protection a gang offered him. He found the lure of the streets - the cars, fancy clothing, and expensive jewelry - far more appealing than his parents, humble rural ways. For the next six years, Gino would live the life of a "gangbanger." "In 1989, I bought a gun from some other gang," he recalls. "I only carried it when I wanted protection. Everybody called me the `Outlaw.'" Soon, Gino was arrested for attempted murder. During a fight with another gang, a friend had pulled a gun and shot add wounded a rival. Both boys were sentenced to six months in a youth boot camp for their crime Gino recognizes the parallels between his troubles in the U.S. and the war in his homeland. Much as the Khmer Rouge had put guns into the hands of children, bestowing upon them a new kind of respect - a new status in society and the power to kill others - the gangs also were using guns in search of power and respect. "People want to have power, they want to be tougher than everyone else," Gino says. "Nobody has any respect; we just want to be tougher than them." By 18 or 19, members find that gang life begins to lose its appeal. Gang members are no longer juveniles and can receive much stiffer sentences. In 1991, it was time for Gino to move on. But he faced an uncertain future shaped by a troubled past and few new opportunities. He has since moved from job to job, but he has found little satisfaction in the work. His pessimism has prevented him from moving much beyond gang life, and he rarely sees any hope in his future. Gino looks to his seven- and two-year-old nephews and says that he doesn't want them to be in gangs: "It is a dead end. I never finished high school. I've got no education. They have to get an education, respect people, and take care of my sister when she is old. I don't know if I will be able to take care of my mother and father." Today, he is dating a 17-year-old Laotian girl and talks about getting married and moving out of Chicago. But he recently had to pawn a gold Buddhist amulet, an object he greatly revered, to pay court fines. The amulet made him feel secure, and he respected its protective powers. Since losing it, he has stayed at home, rarely venturing out. He has given up looking for work. Although he is not active in his community's Buddhist temples and traditions, Gino is religious and believes his actions in this life and previous incarnations have cursed him. "I respect the monks at the temple, but I cannot talk to them," he says. "I don't know the words in Cambodian that show respect. I don't want any more trouble. I'm tired." One afternoon, as Gino and I returned from a northside coffeehouse, we passed a group of young teenage Cambodian and Laotian boys. Called the "Loco Boyz," they were beginning to replace Gino and his friends as the new gang in the neighborhood and were inheriting the "Khmer Rouge poison." When the boys spotted Gino, they flashed their gang signs. Gino did not return the gesture. He was too tired and wanted to go home and call his girlfriend. By Stuart H. Isett; from the independent "Bangkok Post." -- End -- Thank you for visiting my page at Angelfire. Please come back and visit again! This site is under construction so please excuse the mess! SIncerely, Jack
