It Came As No Surprise (to an L.A. Native) The L.A. Riots '92: 25th Anniversary
An installment in the “I Remember When” series.
The memories, moments, and icons I’ll never forget…
2016 Los Angeles is totally different from 80's, 90's L.A. The city the way I knew it and grew up in is unrecognizable.
Hipsters were nonexistent. Skinny jeans were unheard of unless you were a rock star. You either wore your jeans tapered or creased. Your closet had a limit on what was red and what was blue; always mindful of what you could and couldn't wear. D.A.R.E. was a program that I had to sit through in junior high, not a T-shirt sold in Urban Outfitters.
There was no rail system -- only the bus. It was the RTD, but it's street name was the "Rough, Tough, and Dangerous" 'cause you never knew what might pop off. "Showtime" at the Great Western Forum was the hottest ticket in town. A club on a Friday or Saturday night wasn't diverse and they sure in the hell weren't playing hip-hop. While we're talking about hip-hop, it was still pure, untainted and the furthest thing from mainstream. And the stereotype was actually kinda true...you could drive nearly anywhere in the city and get there in twenty minutes.
L.A. wasn't kumbaya (and still isn't). Racial tensions ran rampant throughout the city.
It hung over the Black community like the smog. You didn't just feel it, you carried the weight of it in your neck, your shoulders. The heaviness came from every direction -- a multiple choice quiz that wasn't "choose one" instead it was "D" check all of the above:
LAPD's Daryl Gates, the Sheriff's Sherman Block, and their badge-holding goons were notorious for beating mutchafcukas asses and 'errbody black and brown knew; the hardships of Reaganomics; the multi-tier effects of the Crips and the Bloods; crack had saturated the city like L.A. transplants; Asian merchants got rich within our communities but didn't respect the people of the community; the Westside was beyond fearful of South Central and thought every person that lived there was a drug dealer or gang banged. Venture over to Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, Culver City, Century City, or Westwood and it was guaranteed you were going to get the "you're not supposed to be over here" harassment and stopped by the police. You'd see young Black men sitting on curbs with their hands locked behind their heads or spread on hot car hoods as often as you hear Drake on the radio.
It was San Andreas fault line build-up. The killing of LaTasha Harlins (the Trayvon Martin of my generation) and the Rodney King beating (most of us didn't even know where Lake View Terrace was) confirmed what we already knew. It just was finally on tape. The not-guilty verdict sent tensions over the ledge. So when it all popped off, it came as no surprise. Not to me or people that looked like me. The only ones shocked were those of a certain privilege.
Pressure either makes diamonds or bursts pipes. L.A. pipes were gushing. You can't keep treating a certain group of people with a lack of respect, regard, or worth and think it's not going to have consequences.
Although I knew what was coming, I wasn't here when it happened. I was in Atlanta enjoying my freshman year of college. But being away didn't keep me safe. Atlanta had its own uprising in reaction to the verdict and my university's campus didn't come away unscathed. The police shot tear gas into our buildings, and surrounded our campus in full riot gear. I watched what was happening in front of me and the powder keg of my adolescent years had exploded in a red clay state that was foreign to me.
I was concerned for my family, especially my mom. Her foresight led her to leave her job in Huntington Park early. The route home would have had her in the heart of the chaos, but her safety wasn't guaranteed since some of the lootin' and burnin' was less than five minutes from my house. Moms gave me the play-by-play - the sight and smell of smoke, the sounds of sirens I could hear in the background on the phone, and the gratitude she had because I was not home. We both knew if I was there what I would've been doing.
My mother had now lived through her second L.A. riot. She'd accomplished more than her parents (a homemaker and a city street paver) who migrated here from Mississippi. She was born here, went to nursing school, moved on up from the Eastside (not to be confused with East L.A.) to a nice side of town, and became middle class, which afforded me privileges that she could have never imagined growing up as one of nine kids. Still, although the clock had been moved forward, time stood still --- the "here's what we think about you" hadn't changed. And there was nothing she could do to protect herself or me from that.
Los Angeles still has the same issues that made '65 and '92 ripe for the happenin'. Folks are angry and have the right to their anger. People are on the edge (literally and figuratively). All this "make America great again" could lead to a 3rd "burn, baby, burn." Something's gotta give...
I watched all (4) documentaries that aired over the last few weeks. Here's how I rank 'em.
1) "L.A. 92" (National Geographic)
2) "Burn, Motherfucker, Burn" (Showtime)
"L.A. Burning: 25 Years Later" (A&E)
4) "Let It Fall" (ABC)
*Also check out "Rodney King" on Netflix (I saw it when it was a one-man play by Roger Guenveur Smith.) #LDRapproved
