Nola is standing behind bars at the LA County jail. (Alright, alright, there aren’t actually bars at LA County, but Nola is in charge here and she’s imagining a dirty Brazilian prison with cockroaches the size of her head.) A group of Bridge Elementary fourth graders are touring the jail as part of the city’s program “Gangs are not off the chain”. They are all lined up outside of Nola’s cell– all except for five little cholos who are exchanging kites, or correspondence from outside gang members, in the form of stories they have written with gang members from their neighborhoods. At press time, members from the Latin Kings, five percenters and the 18th street gang all cited ‘Gangs are not off the chain’ as the most reliable way to correspond with fellow incarcerated gang members.
NOLA: (to the fourth graders) hey, pee wees. I want to tell you all a little story about Nola ‘The Chola’ Shumway. It seems like just yesterday I was a sweet, pretty, young girl just dancing and skipping around… a black ribbon in my hair, skipping down the street-
CELLMATE: –yo girl, you just got here yesterday.
NOLA: (turns to cellmate) Ay! Werota! Shut your dirty mouth, Baboso! Tu madre es una puta! I love you girl! (Back to kids) Anyway, putas, there I was skipping down the street minding my own business when I noticed two sloppily written and grossly misspelled words shading my favorite neighborhood wall from the early afternoon sunshine:
CELLMATE: Yo, girl, who did that shi-
NOLA: –ay, chinga tu madre! Hueless a mierda you smell like a dirty see you next Tuesday. If you don’t stop interrupting me I’m going to slice your face up with a dull razor… Thanks girl, I love you. (Back to kids) I was outraged! Who would do such a thing? I’ll admit, PiRo wasn’t the kind of neighborhood to be a braggart about, but it was my hood, that I repped, and I wasn’t about to allow any outside riff raff to invade it. I adored my place in my orthodox Jewish neighborhood, enjoyed the power I was granted just by the simple fact that I was the only non Jew. How I enjoyed the ability to literally give heat to those who could not flip switches on Friday nights. I ran this neighborhood! Who was it? Who was battling me? Who wanted my neighborhood and all the power that came with it? I was outraged! Indignant! I was—
(FROM OFF): Chowtime!
NOLA: I’ll be back in twenty. (To cellmate) vamanos culo puta pupusa!
……..TWENTY MINUTES LATER……
NOLA: I was indignant!
CELLMATE: Yo, girl you already said that…
(Nola pulls out a dull razor from her black ribbon and proceeds to slice up cellmate’s face)
NOLA: (to the kids- all crying) Yo, baby gangsters, I told her to shut her mouth! My own sister! Look what she made me do! So, anyways, I decided to take action! I called up a one Mrs. Ghanghi, head of the anti gang department in Los Angeles.
-LET US CUT TO THAT PHONE CALL-
NOLA: Hi, Mrs. Ghanghi? Nola Shumway here, ready, eager and available after school Monday through Friday to help solve the gang problem. I’ve got ropes, concrete and detailed maps of all suspected gang members’ homes. I even know when they aren’t at home, so getting to their children won’t be a problem.
Mrs Ghanghi: (laughing uncomfortably) Whoa, Nola, hold on dear, you don’t sound much older than a child yourself.
NOLA: I’m eight years old ma’am and fully capable of tying up riff raff and dumping them in the ocean. My father and my father’s father were longshoremen… and Italian. And short.
Mrs. Ghanghi: Well… um. Thank you Nola. We certainly appreciate all the help we can get but first of all I need to ask a few things.
Nola: I’ve never killed anyone and I never do drugs that the president himself hasn’t tried.
Mrs. Ghanghi: No, no, no… (Very uncomfortable now) um, what I was going to ask about was what you saw in your neighborhood that prompted this call.
Nola: Grossly misspelled words sloppily written across my favorite wall.
Mrs.Ghanghi: Oh, well Nola, we have a program for graffiti artists: From Cans to Canvas. We-
Nola: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! You’re joking?
Mrs.Ghanghi: Many of these young and adult men are very talented artists. With the proper encouragement we think they can grow into–
Nola: -HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! You’re still joking. You’re very funny Mrs. Ghanghi. Hey, I’ve got one! A tagger is to a gang as a blank is to a blank.
Mrs. Ghanghi: Now Nola, I’m perfectly serious and I want you to be serious too. Where is your mother?
Nola: Teaching a meat carving class to serial killers. Give up? Okay- A tagger is to a gang as a kicker is to a football team! HAHA ha-ha ha-ha HAHA! Thanks for your time Mrs. Ghanghi; I’m going to go it alone. I’m going to find these little rascals, and when I find them I’m going to slice them open and finger paint with their blood all over their neighborhoods. Good day to you.
…….LET US CUT BACK TO THE JAIL………
Nola: So Mrs. Ghanghi wasn’t going to help me. Art huh? It got me thinking. They were bringing their art into my neighborhood and here I was being selfish with my own.
…….CUT TO FRONT LAWN OF A HOUSE IN THE PICO UNION NEIGHBORHOOD…….. (18th street gang stand up!)
NOLA: (Singing- terribly. Dancing- terribly.)
OHHHHHHH-K-Lahoma!
where the winds come sweepin’ down the plain!
And the wavin wheat,
can sure smell sweet,
when the wind comes right behind the rain!
A boy of about eight rushes outside. He is wearing a black doo-rag and is covered in large black tattoos; a cross, I heart mi madre, 18th street, and a full color portrait of Rey Mysterio.
NOLA: (still singing and dancing terribly)
Oklahoma!
Ev’ry night my honey lamb and I,
Sit alone and talk and watch a hawk,
makin’ lazy circles in the sky.
NOLO: Ay, Kieta el stupido elephante! Get off my lawn you stupid little—
hilarious!!!!!
I am Nola.
Does Nola know any other tunes from “Oklahoma”?