Dreams

Hello my name is Peter Anthony Cano. I am currently serving a 25-to-life sentence with the possibility of parole in the Arizona Department of Corrections. On December 23, 1990 I was arrested for one count of second degree murder, three counts of aggravated assaults, and one count of grand theft auto.

Before 1990, I was a gang member/drug dealer out of San Diego California. At that time I knew no other way of living. Some people go to work, I sold drugs. That was the norm for people like me. I was born in Tucson Arizona; moved to California at a young age, and there I was raised in the East Side of San Diego. I never knew my biological father, when he found out my mother was pregnant with me, he left. All I know about him is that he was attending the University of Arizona. I had a relatively normal childhood, playing football, baseball in the street/alley with neighborhood friends, venturing of into canyons and so forth. I grew older; my stepdad would take me out and about with him alone. He would tell my mom that he was taking me somewhere to get out of the house. After leaving the house, my stepdad would drive around picking up his buddies to score some heroin. After they would score, they would all go inside a house and leave me alone in the car for hours. Sometimes night would fall (I didn’t know what they were doing until I got much older, and then I put the pieces together). After they were done doing whatever they were doing, they would all come out and my stepdad would drop them off where he had picked them up at. As we were heading back home, we would stop at a store and my stepdad would purchase me a treat. He would tell me, “If your mother asks you where we went this is what you say to her.” I would agree, not knowing the damage I would cause by lying to my mother. My stepdad’s addiction spiraled out of control and I was the only recipient of his physical abuse. He started to steal from my mom and other family members. He beat me with his fist as though I was a grown man, making it appear as if I was the one doing the stealing. That’s where I think I lost it, all of those beatings. My stepdad would set me up where I was by myself so he could best me. One particular day my stepdad asked me to take out the trash; as I was out on the side of the house putting the trash in the trashcan, he shows up and beat me to the ground. My sisters and my cousin ran out of the house and jumped on his back to pull him off of me.

I ran away from home at the age of fourteen, I was looking for love, peace, or something besides being used as a punching bag. I couldn’t take it anymore. It was there in the streets that I became acquainted with a street gang and started to smoke marijuana. I no longer endured the beatings, and the drugs seemed to take all the pain away. At least that is what I thought at the time. The drugs would eventually wear off and bring back my longing for my family. Everyday this would increase. The void I had for my family was replaced with the thug life and drugs. Shortly after running away from home, I was caught by my stepdad and I thought my life was to end that day. Instead he brought me back home safely only because my mother. I believe intervened. My mother was torn between her husband and her son. I spent more time on the streets then I did at home because of the physical abuse at the hands of my stepfather. I had built up a mind of criminal behavior with the gang I was hanging around with. My education went out the window, or should I say, I threw it out the window because of my choices. School was no longer a place of education; it became a warzone for me! I went to school to fight a predominantly African-American gang called P.B.I. (PlayBoys Inc.). They were attempting to claim a piece of territory in our neighborhood and we were not allowing for that to occur. Everyday we would get into fights with them. At times, we would have riots on school campus or near school property. It was in those times I developed a seed of racism towards African-Americans which sprouted into a bushel of thorns choking the life out of me.

My criminal activity increased and I was in and out of juvenile hall. I thought about murdering my stepdad many times. My rage for this man drove me crazy, but I could not bring myself to do it. I fought with myself over these thoughts and could not see my mother living without him, or me in prison.

At seventeen years old; everything came to a head with my stepdad and I said,
“That’s it, no more! You are not going to hit me anymore. Come on; let’s go outside you and me?”
He said, “You f _ _ _ _ n cholos are not worth it!”
I Said, “You are not worth it.”

At that point I was kicked out of the house by him. My mother came up to me and basically said, “Nobody kicks you out of this house. This is my house, just leave and cool down. I left home and started selling drugs that became my occupation. I thought I was doing well because I was no longer going in and out of jail. I was only fooling myself, getting caught up in a web of lies leading up to my own demise. With selling drugs came doing them. I used to love smoking weed, but that’s not what I was selling. I was selling crystal meth and occasionally PCP, The PCP became enslaving and destructive. I was my own worst night-mare. My pot smoking lead to using PCP. Then I was introduced to crack cocaine and that controlled my being. Now I was selling to pay my bills. Then to support my crack addiction which became second in my priority list. I lost total focus of my goals, to being controlled by a substance that turned me into a monster. A monster to those who loved and cared for me. I knew I was in bad shape, but I didn’t know how to cry out or whom to for help. I was ashamed of myself, I had stopped to a level I never imagined existed. One night in 1989 I was walking across a vacant lot and I looked up to the dark sky and cried out to God. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I do know it was a cry for help.

In December of 1990, I was visiting my mother and family in Tucson to sober up. On the 23rd of that same month, I had been sober for about a week, hanging out and babysitting my nephews. I had cooked them some tuna casserole, and we began to wrestle and play Nintendo. My younger brother drove up with a friend and asked if I would like to go out with them. We took off that night and stopped at a liquor store. My brother and his friend had purchased some club cocktails and I purchased a twelve pack of Budweiser with a pack of camel filters. We drove around smoking weed, drinking, checking out the scene before we finally ended up at the nightclub. There at the nightclub we ran into a lot of friends who sold drugs, and they were dragging a friend of mine out because he was drunk and couldn’t walk on his own. He had driven up to the club in a convertible corvette with the top down. I reached into the back of the corvette and grabbed a brand new bottle of tequila and I said, “You will not be needing this anymore.” I opened the cap and guzzled down half the bottle. We all decided to go to another club, so we all jumped into our rides took off. My brother had asked me to roll a joint and I did. As I lit it, I took a hit and passed it to my brother. My brother rolled down the window to dump the ashes. The breeze that came in, hit me in the face and my head started to spin. I couldn’t open my eyes. After drinking a twelve pack of Budweiser, a half a quart of Tequila and smoking weed all night, I was left incoherent. I began to vomit in the backseat of my brother’s car. I told my brother to drop me off at this dope house we had at the U of A. When we arrived there, I took off my jacket to clean up the vomit and tossed it in the middle of the street. My brother took off and I proceeded up towards the house with no keys. I went to the side of the house and kicked the door down to the kitchen. As I walked in I picked up the door and leaned it against the wall. I went into the bedroom in hopes of sleeping it off, but my head kept spinning. I went around the corner to the 7-eleven and got something to eat to try and sober me up. Needless to say, it didn’t work. I staggered down the street heading to my mother’s house. My mother only lived approximately a mile and a half from our dope house. On my way there I got into a truck, found the keys in the ash tray, and stole it. As I drove off, I blacked out behind the wheel and then I crashed into another vehicle, T-boning it. I didn’t know what had happened until I became sober. My face was plastered to the windshield, my right hand was in the dashboard, and the steering wheel had crushed my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I opened the door and fell to the ground holding my right hand to my chest trying to gasp for air, an individual stopped to assist and asked me if I was alright? I couldn’t answer him because I had no breath. I was completely disoriented, stumbling around trying to breathe until I got to the railing of the Santa Cruz River. I fell over the railing 15-20 feet down into the riverbed landing on my back. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and all I remember is looking up to the dark sky hearing sirens and seeing flashing lights. Everything seemed surreal looking up to the sky.

Once I was released from the hospital, I was booked into the Pima County Jail. The sheriff pointed to my cell and on the side of it was a bookshelf with only one book, The Bible. I grabbed it and went inside my cell crying out to God, “Please don’t let anyone die?” I knew the condition I was in after the accident and I knew there had to be someone else in a worse state than I was. On December 25, Darrin Joslyns passed away; he was only 23 years old, the same age as I. How do you tell a mother on Christmas Day that her son is dead? How?

Darrin and I were two complete opposites. Darrin was a college student with a dream, and I took that from him because of my selfish and irresponsible actions.

I didn’t go out that night to hurt anyone, but I did. I took a life. I took Darrin’s life. Hurt his friends who were in the vehicle with him, their families, and the community because I choose to steal a truck and drive under the influence. I affected a lot of lives that night and I live with it everyday looking at the barb wire that surrounds me as a reminder of what I’ve done. I deserve to be behind these fences, but if I could just help one of you to think before you make any of the mistakes that I have made, you might just save a life. Whether it be your life or the life of someone else.

Closure? There is none! The Joslyn’s lost a son. Brother, uncle, grandson, friend and future dad. Darrin is in their hearts as well as their minds and they will forever miss him. Everyone has a memory and mine is of Darrin, whom I never met but would love to have met him.

Whoever is reading this, remember this one thing, a man’s actions always has its consequences. “a victim.” Think about them before you act. Don’t crush other people’s dreams and destroy your own life.
LIFE IS TOO FRAGILE!