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I had no idea just how bad things were going to get. The word on the street was at least eight people died because of their involvement in American Me , maybe ten. Four outside and four to six inside. One of the guys murdered was a Mexican Mafia member named Charlie Manriquez who had fallen into disrepute because of his drug use. Another guy was shot seven times just for being in the deep background of a scene where he sits in a car. A community gang liaison named Ana Lizarraga, the top consultant on American Me, was executed outside her home in front of her son.
Besides being warned about not getting involved in the project, like Olmos, Lizarraga falsely claimed that she, too, had met. Olmos was like a kid playing with a grenade, thinking the whole time it was a sparkler. The violent aftershocks rumbled for years. Southern vatos I knew, who were in prison in the years that followed, hated the fact hits were out on Surefios who'd been involved in the production.
A lot of these men were simply drug addicts who needed money for a fix when they agreed to be extras or do bit parts in the film. I do not condone the violence. The American Me saga brought my past life as a convict front and center. Edward James Olmos had just come off an Oscar nomination; his star was in the ascendant. I think that might have blinded him to what otherwise might have been more obvious.
Those of us who had done serious time on the streets and in prisons knew threats from prominent gangs could and should never be dismissed, but not everyone has that background. I will never discount the contribution Edward James Olmos has made to Hollywood and his constant advocacy for Latinos, but the whole episode was, in my view, unnecessarily reckless. If Edward James Olmos had studied Cheyenne a little more, maybe he could have told a deeper story while still not glorifying violence and crime.
That might be my biggest problem with American Me. While the producers said they wanted the film to encourage kids not to follow that path, the movie made a California prison gang known only to prison insiders into an entity with worldwide fame. The train had left the station, and I'd said all I could say. While I was comfortable with the script, I found myself still walking the line between my two worlds—my past as a convicted felon and my new vocation as an actor.
Maybe because of my conversations with Olmos, I was feeling sensitive to the differences between my background and the way I became involved in the film industry. I know this was more my issue than theirs, but it seemed to me that the other actors in Blood In, Blood Out spent a lot of time in rehearsal talking about where they had studied, what school of acting they came from—Stanislavski, the Method, the Actors Studio, whatever. They talked a lot about Shakespeare.
I think they were doing it with each other to establish who had more cred in that world and to remind me that, in their world, I had no cred. I talked about it with my friend George.
He joked that I was the greatest agent in the world. Taking the van to San Quentin brought me emotionally back to where I was in , more than twenty-five years earlier.
Give me the fucking knife. When we stepped onto the Yard, everything was quiet at first until a massive noise erupted. Danny, move into my cell! You look better now! The effect on my fellow actors was obvious. They fell into step behind me as if by staying close, they'd be safe. Right off the bat, we were all handed safety vests to wear when we weren't filming.
Some actors refused to wear them—they said it disrupted their ability to stay in character. We were climbing the stairs to the set and with every step, my heart pounded harder. At the top of the steps we hung a right, and the assistant director led us to the block of cells where we were going to rehearse.
The production had the cells C to C blocked off for filming. My former cell. I glanced at George. He looked like he was going to cry.
He pointed to the heavens. After rehearsing the scene, when the actors broke off for wardrobe and hair and makeup, George suggested we pray. We went into my old cell and got down on our knees and thanked God for our freedom from drugs and alcohol, our freedom from prisons, and we thanked Him for our kids and our lives.
I'd come full circle. Printed by permission. I knew just how serious and deadly La Eme was. I'd come up with the. I was impressed when i saw your profile today at and i will like to establish a long lasting relationship with you.
In addition,i will like you to reply me through this my private e-mail box queensamale46 yahoo. Cholo or chola is a Creole term to describe people of predominantly indigenous descent in Latin America. Its meaning now varies depending on the context and countries of South America. If you are referring to cholla, which has a completely different pronunciation, then see the following definition.
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