All I Need Is One Mic:
Welcome to L.A. Where you can see the whole city burning. Cause the cops got oozies and the dealers keep serving and your kids ain’t learning shit, except this sex, power, and wealth, fuck everything else. Trying to survive, Los Angeles Times. –XZIBIT
The smell of smoke permeates the air. Soldiers walk the streets armed and ready to shoot. The atmosphere is chaotic. People are being beaten because of the color of their skin. By day, total outrage, chaos, and confusion, by night, the streets are empty, dark, and gray. Mothers are afraid for their children, fathers stand guard to protect their family. People are forced to change the way they live. Is this Mobile Alabama in the 1960’s or Nazi Germany? No, this is South Central, Los Angeles on April 29, 1992. The 1992 Los Angeles Riots, started in an outrage once the verdict announcing four white LAPD officers were acquitted for the beating of Rodney King (a black man who was almost beaten to death, after excessive police force was taken during a routine traffic stop).
Hugs, kisses, and conversation were the actions that went on at my house on Wednesday April 29, 1992. We were having a family birthday party, family and friends enjoying a delicious dinner. Later that evening we turned on the local news. We see about 10 minutes away from our house at the intersection of Florence and Normandie, war in the streets is beginning. A white man is dragged out of his 18-wheeler and beaten. Young black men beat Asian storeowners. A Hispanic man was stripped of his clothes, his genitals spray-painted with racial slurs. A priest walks the streets, Bible in hand, condemning all the sin and hate.
The media and government recently reflected on the 10th anniversary of the Los Angeles riots. Newspapers reported their “10 year anniversary.” However, they only showed half of the story. What they did not show was the way I saw the riots. I was 9 years old in the 3rd grade, living in South Central Los Angeles, living through history, and not even knowing it.
Looking back, I see at the age of 9 my priorities were different from what they are today. With time we are supposed to grow and mature, right? The sun retrieves home; the hand of darkness blankets the sky, no streetlights, and no electricity, due to a blackout in the city. A total blackout except for the occasional flames rising as building after building was looted and then burned. That first night, all I could think of was how long would this last? I was hoping it would go on longer and longer, preventing me from going to school the next day. I guess my hoping and wishing paid off, because I did not return to school until that Monday.
“Kids pack up your most important valuables, because we may have to leave our house, the building around the corner is on fire and it could spread to our home.” That is what I remember my mom frantically screaming as she saw from our back porch a meatpacking building on fire. Immediately I grabbed a bag and the most important thing to me, my baseball card collection. My line of thought was so naive. Fortunately, unlike many of my friends, we did not have to leave the city. My dad did not want to go, he wanted to stay and make sure our house was safe. He did not want to take the risk of our neighbors looting our house like they did the liquor store on the corner, which ultimately burned to the ground.
Remembering what took place the days following, I recall young men on my block passing out “free purses” they “found” to all the ladies on the block. I remember them carrying slabs of meat in shopping carts stolen from the meat packing building that was on fire. I remember my neighbor; we called Nana, (a senior citizen) watering her house, as if she were watering her garden. She was taking precautions to protect her house. There was a power outage that lasted a few days and the stores were either closed or looted. Luckily because of my Uncle’s birthday party we had plenty of leftovers. Everyone was scared and so the party ended as soon as the sirens blared and the smoke went up. For the next few days all I ate were leftover ham sandwiches, and they were the best, or so it seemed. One of the most comforting things I remember is my dad hooking up his 13” color TV to the family’s mini van so my sisters and I could watch the series finale of The Cosby Show. On the other hand, the most disturbing image that remains in my head is standing on my front porch, looking to the corner and watching National Guards walking the street of Western Avenue, with rifles to their side. We were forced to drive to Culver City (about 15 minutes), to go grocery shopping. I remember the shelves being so barren. I have never seen a store so empty of food yet so full of customers.
Days after the riots, I saw my city in so much pain. Stores where we once shopped were no longer standing. Asian storeowners painted the words “BLACKA OWNED” on their doors. Now ten years later, I still live in South Central and I finally see some effort to rebuild LA: Operation Hope, Magic Johnson, Keeshawn Johnson, and local churches have invested a lot of money and time to make South Central, Los Angeles a better place. On the other hand I drive by many corners and see many lots that are still empty as a result of the riots. On the 10th year anniversary, President Bush made his “historical trip to the hood.” I guess better late than never. I try to see the glass as half full and hope that we as a community can come together and fix this problem. The riots provoked a response, everyone was affected, some directly and others indirectly.
When most cities expect to have grocery stores, home improvement stores and fast food restaurants, we get excited when they build us a new Food 4 Less, Home Depot, or McDonalds. Is that supposed to smooth things over? They give us a few stores and we are supposed to dance? What about putting money into the inner city educational programs, after school programs, anti drug and gang programs? As long as we are able to drink a Mocha Latte from the new StarBucks in the new complex at the corner of Slauson and Western we must be doing ok. Give us a Trader Joe’s or a Jamba Juice, no telling what we would do.
Commentary: This essay really means a lot to me For those that did not live through the riots it was not a pretty site For those that do not live in South Central it is not a pretty site It may not be as bad as people have seen in movies or on TV but it is bad, trust me, I have personal experience to some of its high crime rate This essay was supposed to be published in my school's Black Student Union's (BSU) newspaper, but it never materialized
| My Poems | My Short Stories | My Essays | My Photographs | Other People's Art |