Dondi CIA Kings

In the early seventies, around 1973 we lived on Belmont Ave in East New York Brooklyn. Donald was his given name. To his friends, he was known as Don. To his four other brothers, he was Dondi and to our parents he was always Donald. I was in high school at this time but Dondi was still under the “street light” rule. When the street lights came on in the evening you better be upstairs. Our older brother Robert used to draw and was the family “artist” so to see Dondi drawing was nothing new. One of us was always putting something on paper.

Dondi was running through the neighbor hood, flying pigeons and riding scooters. He was always under the watchful eye of a family member, even though he didn’t know it. Word came back that he and his friends were raiding pigeon coups. Robert who flown pigeons, was friends with the coup owners that Dondi was raiding. He was told to stop and out of respect for Robert wasn’t thrown off a roof.  By late ’74 I started noticing Dondi’s name written on lamp posts in the neighborhood. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Dondi was finishing up elementary school and in 1975 started high school. My mother kept him close; she did not want to lose her youngest son to the streets.

By 1977, 78 riding the “J” train I start noticing something that look liked his work on the outside of trains. The inside of trains were so marked up you wouldn’t pick any thing out unless you wrote it yourself. I get a phone call from Mom saying your brother is going out late at night, has a new girl friend. Dondi says I staying out of trouble, I will be Okay. But he wasn’t okay and in 1979 he got into a Co- op program. Started working one week and going to school one, completed his GED moving on.

Fame is seductive; doing something you like became Graffiti. For me when he started again it was never the same but what are you going to do. I prefer to remember the beginning, a child drawing at the kitchen table and the end, years later the young man drawing at his art table. Both of them with a smile on his face, saying “hey Dee Dee, look at what I drew.” What happened in the middle is the other people’s story.

By Michael White