The Forgotten Crip

Preface

In September 1987, I was walking into my first classes at Stanford, the first in my hometown to be accepted and attend this university.

In September 1987, Duane Fitzpatrick was sentenced to 27 years to life in prison for first-degree homicide, a crime he didn’t commit.

We both grew up in the Low End of Duarte, California, five blocks from each other.

The Forgotten Crip is Duane’s autobiography, written over the course of 20 of his 33 years of incarceration.

To be sure, Duane was no stranger to crime. Some of the not-so-distant sounds of gunfire and sirens that frightened me at night were very likely the result of a gang he was part of. He’s honest about and shares incidents from his teenage years involving drugs, theft, assault, and illegal guns. And, for all of the important efforts and activism around changing the system—of either undoing or redoing laws that demonize and dehumanize Black and Brown people—Duane’s assessment of his own life is sobering and honest:

Throughout my story, you’ll see instances of injustice and corruption, of which I was sometimes the victim. However, I do not want this book to be about pitying me or blaming ‘the system.’ It’s true that there’s much brokenness in our American justice system, and justice often goes awry, especially when it comes to young Black men. But I made the choices that landed me behind bars. I had options, I was shown a better way, and I chose to become a violent gang member, so immersed in a sociopathic group mindset that I couldn’t see the evil I was doing.

It’s this candor that immediately drew me to Duane’s story—and to Duane himself, as I found myself identifying the common ground we shared growing up in the same community and responding to adverse childhood experiences. The fight reaction of Duane’s gang life—compounded by the conditions of Los Angeles County in the 1980s, and the social realities of living while Black in America in any decade—led him to prison. My flight reaction to a household that often felt like a psychiatric ward led me down a different path.

Our journeys may seem like extreme opposites. But there’s a thread that ties them together: hope.

In the same vein as Viktor Frankl looking beyond the barbed wire of a concentration camp or centering his thoughts on his beloved wife, so does Duane muster every ounce of fortitude and resilience to single-mindedly focus on his daughter, Destiny. Still a small child when Duane was convicted, her periodic visits, letters, and phone calls over the years fuel his continued strength in the middle of extremely difficult circumstances. Among many other trauma-inducing experiences, Duane is under constant threat of death or violence from inmates and prison guards; spends soul-crushing time in ‘the hole’; loses close family members during a time when he’s unable to receive solace, empathy, or hugs; and silently faces the anxieties of continually not knowing what the future will hold.

And yet, against many odds, Duane makes it out alive.

He enrolls in a typing class, and learns how to type well enough before the program is relocated. He becomes a voracious reader, going through many titles that include Malcolm X’s autobiography, Carter G. Woodson’s The Mis-Education of the Negro, and Lerone Bennett Jr.’s Before the Mayflower. These books not only expand Duane’s mind, but give him a sense of Black history, understanding, and pride he’d never encountered before.

Almost miraculously, he manages to find peace and a sense of self, all while within prison walls.

Despite how hard it may be to get through the details of Duane’s crimes, these were vital parts of his story, and they provide an important starting point for his later awakening. Without revisiting those transgressions, we can’t fully understand the young man he was and the current man he is. He uses his hard-earned insights to offer a warning to youth who may be making similar choices in the 21st century: don’t do what I did. Or, you’ll seal your fate.

As Duane writes, All the thugs I knew growing up are either dead or locked up.

Duane was released in January 2020. His parole ended in April 2022.

Now, in 2023, I know Duane, myself, and so many others want the same things in our lives: love, peace, joy, stability, and relief from trauma—in whatever form that takes.

Those things are all present when Duane delivers a final acknowledgment to his daughter: You are the reason I am alive to tell this story.

Maria Breaux, Editor

San Francisco, California

August 2023

This story is dedicated to family and true friends, and to David Breaux, the Compassion Guy who lost his life in Davis, California on April 27, 2023. Forgive.

Introduction

I started writing my story in the summer of 1994. At the time, I was assigned as Lead Cook in the dining hall of New Folsom State Prison, located just outside Sacramento. 

I embarked on this journey down memory lane after reading an autobiography written by a fellow Crip, Monster Kody. I felt Monster’s book glorified gang-banging and sent all the wrong messages to all the wrong people. It seemed to me that the value of a life had reached an all-time low, not only on the streets of Los Angeles County where I grew up but in low-income communities all over the nation. While Monster’s book may have been true to his experience, my own experiences reflected a different truth—one I felt needed to be told. 

My story details growing up in a two-parent household in a decent neighborhood in Southern California’s San Gabriel Valley. During my upbringing, I was presented with many choices and had a lot of positive role models I could’ve chosen to emulate. Instead, I chose the wrong road, the street life, and made decisions I’ve long since regretted. Those choices all played significant roles in my spending over three decades behind prison walls, where through trials and tribulations, I’ve now evolved into a man I can be proud of. 

Throughout my story, you’ll see instances of injustice and corruption, of which I was sometimes the victim. However, I do not want this book to be about pitying me or blaming the system. It’s true that there’s much brokenness in our American justice system, and justice often goes awry, especially when it comes to young Black men. But I made the choices that landed me behind bars. I had options, I was shown a better way, and I chose to become a violent gang member, so immersed in a sociopathic group mindset that I couldn’t see the evil I was doing. The truth is, if I hadn’t been put away for the crime I was convicted of, I would have gone on to commit more, and worse, crimes. Such was the lifestyle I’d chosen. True justice is rarely cut and dry; my story is an example of that. I’ve chosen to tell my story now and to offer some possible solutions which I sincerely hope will (at the very least), spark real discussions. This is not done to gain any kind of fame or fortune, but to hopefully be a part of that group of fighters who are desperately trying to change the direction that a lot of our young people seem to be heading. Some people might find my story to be very entertaining, although it wasn’t written for entertainment purposes. It was extremely difficult to write because it forced me to revisit a lot of painful memories and to confront my own personal inner demons while coping with life inside of a human warehouse, which housed some of the most vicious and cold-hearted people known to mankind. 

Ultimately, my personal story is one of triumph. There is triumph over my extensive incarceration, which was designed to break me down, not to rehabilitate me in any constructive ways. There is triumph over my old gang-banging mentality, which was very counterproductive. And lastly, there is triumph over SELF! Which, as it turned out, was one of my biggest obstacles. 

I became The Forgotten Crip during my tour of duty behind prison walls. But although I felt forgotten, I still managed to evolve into a good man as a result of this experience, and for that, I give thanks to God. My hope is that telling my story will pass on what I learned to those who need to hear it most: the teachers, counselors, coaches, and parents who are influential in the lives of young people, and the kids growing up as I did, in places like Monrovia, California, who still have a chance to make better choices.

CHAPTER 1

Humble Beginnings 

I was raised in a Protestant Christian household, with decent neighbors and an extended family that was spread out throughout the San Gabriel Valley area of Southern California. 

Though my pops was no saint, he was a good man at heart. He smoked cigarettes. He drank on weekends to wind down with his drinking buddies. But despite his faults, he was a hard worker and a disciplinarian who instilled many of his beliefs and wisdom in me. I’ll be forever grateful to him for this. 

My mother, on the other hand, was a true, firm believer in her religion. As far back as I can remember, she never knowingly committed a sin. She was attentive and loving, and had a heart that was as warm as her personality. 

In our home, I was brought up to believe in Jesus Christ and our creator God. I was taught that God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whomsoever believeth in him would not perish, but have everlasting life. My parents’ faith was vital to the way we children were raised. 

Every New Year’s Eve around 9 pm, my parents would insist that we attend the church prayer gathering service—a service thanking God for the past year, and expressing gratitude for allowing us to live to see the new one. 

There we’d sit, the Fitzpatrick family: my parents William and Martha, older brothers Michael and Darryl, myself, and my younger brothers Anthony and Arnold. My older sister Mira would be there, along with my oldest sibling Deborah and her two children Laurence, who we called Tinker, and Laura Bourne. 

Although I was a quiet kid and not very social, I used to really enjoy Sunday school. There were many other kids my age who went to the church. We’d have a good time on Sundays goofing off together until we’d all fall asleep in our mothers’ arms and wake up in our beds at home. 

In the neighborhood outside the church, the Fitzpatrick boys were generally disliked for one reason or another. We didn’t tend to hang out with the neighborhood boys after school, and I learned later from one of them in prison that they’d thought we were rich because our house looked a little nicer than some others. The word on the streets was that if you could capture one of the Fitzpatrick brothers (namely Darryl, Duane, or Anthony) and hold us for the mob to catch up, then you’d be hero for the day! It was damn near impossible to catch one of us, though, because we could all run like jackrabbits. Our natural speed, coupled with our fear of getting caught, made our pursuers’ work cut out for them. 

The main pursuers were the Jacksons, the Lees, and twin brothers named Ronald and Donald. However, every month it seemed like somebody new got recruited to participate in harassing us at every opportunity. Most of the time, the chase would not end just because we made it to the front of our house. Oh no! We had to be all the way inside the house with the front door locked to be out of harm’s way. Looking back, I realize that those early childhood experiences probably contributed to my antisocial behavior problems growing up. 

It was in 1976 that I was first introduced to the game of baseball. That October, I watched the World Series on television with my pops and got hooked on the game. The Cincinnati Reds were facing off against the New York Yankees, but at the time the teams weren’t really of that much importance to me; I was just elated to be discovering something so exciting for the first time. 

I had a friend named Fred McDonald who lived around the corner. We went to different elementary schools, but after school, we started to meet up in the middle of the street to play catch with an old baseball.

When I’d pitch to him and he’d catch, I’d imagine I was Tommy John of the Yankees, and Fred would pretend he was Johnny Bench of the Cincinnati Reds. I couldn’t throw the ball very fast, but I did throw strikes consistently. 

Fred was already on a Little League Baseball team called Myrtle Avenue Lumber. On the weekend, usually Saturdays during the summer, his baseball team would have a game at the local Little League Diamond Baseball Field in Monrovia, which was less than two miles from my family’s home. 

One Saturday my pops allowed me to attend one of my friend’s games, and I fell in love with the sport! When I returned home that afternoon, I begged my pops to sign me up so I could play, even though I wasn’t old enough to play organized team sports at the time. 

I could see in my father’s eyes how proud he was that I wanted to get involved in a team sport, so before the following season, when I was old enough, he signed me up to play. He also requested that I be placed on Myrtle Avenue Lumber, the same team that my friend Fred was already assigned to. 

Since I was left-handed, our team manager didn’t think it was a good idea for me to play third base. But I wanted to emulate my idol Craig Nettles of the Yankees, who rarely let a ball get past him. Once I convinced our manager I could handle the hot corner, he allowed me to play the position. 

My first season playing organized baseball was a good one. It was an added bonus to have found a safe haven outside the crosshairs of the neighborhood bullies. 

The following summer, 1978, my younger brother Anthony was able to join us on the team, and I loved playing alongside him and Fred. Anthony was both bigger and stronger than I, and he seemed to naturally excel right away in sports. This was true for him in many things, as I’d later find out—things both good and bad. 

In an attempt to get better, my younger brother and I would regularly practice in the backyard of our parents’ home, using a crushed soda pop can as the ball if we couldn’t locate a tennis ball to abuse.

The first season we all played together, we finished second in our division to a team that was named after the local Police Department, receiving two trophy’s each: one for second place, and one for making the All-Star Team. One of the best players on the winning team that year was a kid named Darryl Henley, who made it all the way to the National Football League after attending UCLA in the late 1980s. 

Although baseball was my first love, I’d earned a reputation for being a pretty good street football player as well. My brothers and I, along with my nephew Tinker, used to dominate the other kids on our block who wanted to challenge us. We met our match, however, when we ventured further up the block to play the Henley brothers for King of the Street status, and the games weren’t even close. It wasn’t that they were bigger or faster than we were, they were just very well-schooled on the fundamentals of the game by their father, a high school football coach in the area. 

It was mandatory in our house that we attended Sunday school, but as I got older, staying for church services became optional. With the choice in my hands, I took full advantage of my newfound freedom, and left as early as I could to race home and watch a sporting event on television; it didn’t matter whether it was the NFL, the NBA, or Major League Baseball. I was a sports fanatic. 

Around this time, I met a young White kid, one of only a few in the neighborhood. He and I instantly became best friends. We’d ride our bikes all over town. My friend always had money in his pocket, so whenever the neighborhood bullies were around, I’d do my best to steer us clear of them. 

I’d been to his house several times without incident, until one Saturday morning, when I rode my bike to his house to get him for the opening game of our Little League baseball season. What transpired came as a complete shock to me! 

Like everyone else in my neighborhood, I’d watched Roots by Alex Haley in 1977. It was a show that opened the eyes of Black America to our true history here on American soil. Up until that point, I knew very little about the institution of slavery—how our African names had been changed, how most of our great-great-grandmothers were descendants of women who were raped by their slave masters, and how most, if not all slave women were literally forced to breed with other slaves to produce more slaves.

Watching Roots as an eleven-year-old was very revealing. I learned about many atrocious acts of violence perpetrated by Europeans against Africans, but I didn’t allow that history lesson to interfere with my relationship with my White friend. 

After the very first episode aired, there were many White boys and a lot of White men in my neighborhood who suffered vicious beatings due to the anger over what my ancestors had endured. I personally witnessed many of them get beat beyond consciousness. The racial tensions in my neighborhood, and the lessons I learned about my history, awakened me to the cold hard reality that, in America, a Black person was a nobody in the eyes of some, if not most, White folks. 

Anyhow, several months had gone by since the final episode of Roots had aired, so I wasn’t even thinking about it by the time our Little League baseball season was set to begin. That particular morning, my friend and I had pre-arranged to ride our bikes to the baseball diamond together. 

I remember waking up that morning feeling special. I ate a bowl of Fruit Loops for breakfast and carefully got dressed in my brand-new uniform. I was proud of the fact that I was important to my team’s success, so looking good in my uniform was important to me. 

I hopped on my bike, rode over to my friend’s house, and knocked on the front door like I’d done many times before. My friend answered the door excitedly and asked me to get his bike out of their garage (something I’d also done many times), while he went to change into his uniform. 

When I headed for the garage, his father (whom I’d never met), came out of the house and asked me, What do you think you’re doing? I explained to him that I was getting my friend’s bike out of the garage for him. He gave me a strange look like I was from another planet. Then he spoke and said, Go on and get away from here, nigger, and stay away from my son!

I called out my friend’s name and he came running out of the house, asking his dad to stop! But his father physically restrained him, and continued yelling at me to Get the hell out of his yard. 

I slowly trudged over to where my bike was lying on the grass in front of their house, picked it up, and began walking it out of his driveway. My friend was crying. I had tears running down the side of my face. His father threatened to do me bodily harm if I ever came around there again. 

When I reached the street, I yelled something unintelligible back at him, hopped on my bike real fast, and started pedaling. After I rounded the first corner I came to, the reality of what just took place hitting me like a sledgehammer. Although I had no visible scars, I was hurt. 

Later that morning I saw my friend at the baseball diamond but we didn’t talk to each other. We weren’t going to the same school, but on many occasions after that day, I’d intentionally ride my bike past his house hoping to catch him in the front yard playing. I never did. 

The last time that I can remember seeing him was in high school years later, and we were like strangers. I didn’t know what to say to him, so I just watched him for a couple of minutes from across the room at Monrovia High School. He had on one of those letterman jackets that high school jocks wear, and by that time I was wearing 501 Levi’s and had a blue bandana hanging out of my back pocket. No one would have ever guessed we were best friends. 

Baseball continued to be the love of my life in my pre-teen years, and I was an All-Star for three straight years. Some of the kids I remember playing with were a guy named John Baber who everybody called John John, a White kid named Chris, a girl named Etalyia, and a guy named Elgin Ball. 

After the final game of the regular season, there was always an All-Star game. From that team, the kids who’d represent the city of Monrovia on one of the two tournament teams would be selected. 

In my first year in the Bronco League for eleven- and twelve-year-olds, I started the All-Star game in Left Field and made a few routine catches in the first couple of innings. My first time up to bat I hit a ground ball to the second baseman. He bobbled it, and I beat the throw to first; I stole second and scored our first run on a base hit to center field. 

In the final inning, with our team clinging to a one-run lead, I was switched over to Right Field, which was a position I had never played before, but I handled it. With the American League team up to bat and the tying run at third base with two outs, the batter blooped one over the second baseman’s head. I initially took a step backward (like I was taught) so I could accurately judge the flight of the ball. 

When I realized that it was sinking fast I came in on it, and was able to make a shoestring catch right before I fell to the ground and landed on my stomach. I was still down on the ground when I heard the umpire call the batter out! The other team protested, claiming that I’d trapped the ball, but to no avail. The game was officially over and we’d won. 

My teammates congratulated me on making the game-saving catch, but little did I know that the real drama was about to unfold. A loudspeaker came on, and a man’s voice said, Listen up everyone, we’re about to announce the names of the players who’ll be on the two tournament teams to represent the city of Monrovia at this year’s section tournament. 

When the guy on the loudspeaker quieted down, another man walked out to the pitcher’s mound with a box of hats. The hats would be distributed to each player as he walked out to shake hands with this older White guy who looked important. 

My friend Chris Spears just talked and talked as the first couple of names were announced. Chris wasn’t expecting to make any of the two teams, but I was growing impatient as name after name was called. I saw my teammate John Baber out there smiling with Fred McDonald, Larry Crowl, Willie Griffen, Andy Ball, Kendrick Bourne... The names went on and on until the only two people on either team’s bench who hadn’t been selected were Chris and me. 

After a pause that seemed like half an hour, Chris’ name was called over the speaker, and what happened next is something I will never forget. The person on the loudspeaker said, That concludes the names of the players that will represent the city of Monrovia, at the 1978 section tournament. Give them a hand, everybody! There I was sitting in that empty dugout, feeling like the whole world had done me wrong, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I picked up my glove and attempted to leave before anyone noticed that I was the only person on either bench who didn’t get picked. 

I was all set to vanish when someone called my name. When I turned around, I saw my friend Chris emerging from the crowd with his hat in one hand. He ran over and asked me (like I knew), How come you didn’t get picked? I didn’t want to appear disappointed, so I just said to him, Man I don’t know! Then he said apologetically, That’s messed up, your name should’ve been called before mine was. 

I caught myself before I said what I was thinking, which was, You damn right! Everyone knows you’re one of the sorriest players in the league! But I didn’t want to take my anger out on him, so I told him good luck. Then I walked away, dragging my baseball bat and my glove behind me, shaking my head in disgust. Though it brought me no comfort at the time, I did have an idea why I’d been the only one left on the field that day. I knew for a fact that my brother Darryl had started a fire at the field that had cost them a lot to fix, and though there was no proof of it, the rumor mill had been doing its work. I was furious with my brother for costing me this chance, and also with the baseball organizers for punishing me for something he did. It wasn’t fair, I thought bitterly as I stalked away, and after that, my faith in authority figures was tainted. I was so full of disappointment at the time that I didn’t want anything else to do with baseball. Deep down inside I still loved the sport, but on the inside, I was changing. And I knew it.

CHAPTER 2

Hello, World 

The day before my eleventh birthday, I committed my first crime. The previous day, my mother had brought home a box of Trix cereal for all the kids in the house to enjoy at breakfast time. My mother had emptied the contents of her shopping spree onto the dining room table. I’d watched as my brothers made plans to try and capture the prize inside of the box, arguing about who’d claim it. But I had