1991, Los Angeles

“Yo, bitch, where you at?” asked the gruff man, who sat on his couch wearing a red shirt and red bandana. True to form, the LA Bloods gang member was living his best life as a homie in Compton.

He lifted the blunt to his mouth and pulled in a deep breath of smoke while watching a music video on MTV.

As he exhaled, his face became annoyed at the lack of answer. Sweat dripped down his cheek, which was a direct result of the air conditioner dying months ago.

“Yo! Where my sandwich!?”

Cupboards could be heard noisily opening and closing for a moment, and a few seconds later a young black woman walked out from the kitchen into the living room with a plain sandwich on cheap white bread.

“Here you are, my big man,” she said as she sat down next to him on the couch.

The living room of the ghetto house was decrepit. Their couch was torn around the edges, the television was small and barely working, the window shutters were crooked, and the carpet was darkened with stains and well-worn traffic patterns.

This was just another house in the “hood.”

The man grabbed the sandwich out of her hand and took a bite and then made a sound of satisfaction with the simple meal. The woman took the smoldering blunt out of his hands, for which he gave her a sideways look.

After taking a deep inhale of the marijuana mixed with tobacco, she began to cough while placing her free hand over her pregnant stomach.

She handed back the blunt to the man and patted her baby bump.

“Ya know baby, I’m so glad we bringin’ dis little blood drop into da world.”

“Mhmm,” the man replied while the girl continued.

“He gonna be the next shot caller dat run dese streets. You gonna teach him everything he needs to know, and he gonna have all da money he wants.”

“Mhmm,” he replied again. “I wanna ‘nother sandwich. Go make it.”

“K baby,” she answered before heading back to the kitchen.