The social problems internally in this country are still falling upon deaf ears as our youth seek ways to avenge attrocities perpetuated against their friends and loved ones. Their situation, anger and grief, build to a capacity our inner cities and barriors cannot contain. I recall a time in 1972 when conditions down in Watts, California had quieted on the surface because of heavy policing but built beneath the surface, fear, anger, and the call for either obedience or revenge.
I was fourteen then and had gone on a search for Nachos--a new bag of chips from Frito Lay. Up north we had them in all our stores, but in Southern California, they could barely be found. I left a gathering to go jogging with the intent of stopping at every opened liquor store until I came upon them. I ended up 45 minutes later in a liquor store in Watts. There they were on a huge display near the door. Delighted, I screamed, "Nachos!" Everyone inside turned to me, mouth agape. I made my purchase, hung out with them and used their restroom. I asked them how to get back to Long Beach on foot as I wasn't from the area. They were quite concerned and insisted they buy me a cab ride back to my destination. Stubbornly I refused the collection they had taken up for me. I said, "Just point me in the right direction. I'll get there." What I didn't know is that I was a white girl with long blonde hair in a black city where there were heavy racial problems. I'm a northern gal and grew up in a mixed society where things of a racial nature were not addressed openly. We got along because we had found some common ground. Back then, children like myself did not buy into the reasons for racial strife. They existed, but we simply responded differently than the bulk of our country and differently than we do now.
By the time I was eighteen, I found myself walking in an area of Los Angelos where many ethnicities were present. The only white folks I did see were alcoholics lying in their own vomit--bums. I was just strolling along when I came upon two groups of young men with their guns drawn. Suddenly I realized it was just they and me. Everyone else, whores and drug-dealers seemed so far away. These guys were happy to see me and called me racial names and told me to prepare to die. How does one prepare to do such a thing? I sat down and they ordered me to stand to which I remember replying, "I'm about to die. I'd prefer to do so sitting down." I asked them if they would allow me to take time to think of my family and wish them well as I would never see them again. They joked, said I was one brave honky slut. I looked up to a dude whom they called Snippy. He was the one who would be issuing me a bullet. We had gone from brass-knuckles and knives to guns in such a short time, I remember thinking.
Snippy said to me, "We scored big time, you dumb honkey." He also said other stuff to which both factions began a line of dialog I tried not to pay attention to. I was scared and sad, more sad than scared.
I said in kind of a question, "You have some kind of message. If this is what you must do to make people aware, I hope my death won't be in vain. I hope this time you will be heard so that others don't have to die." I was shocked at my words. Where did they come from, I had wondered.
More chattering in both Spanish and ghetto rhetoric. One of the hispanic guys pulled my hair back and looked down into my eyes forcing me to look in his. He said they were going to do things to me before they killed me. I'll save you the details. "What do you have to say to that puta?"
Never breaking eye contact I said, "If this will help your sisters, daughters and mothers get through the things they suffer and get their message out, then you must do what you must do. I only ask that you allow me to pray in silence for a moment. I'll be quick."--something like that. Time stood still and as I sat "indian-style" on the stinky asphalt; I prayed. I can remember hearing some commotion and when I finished praying, no one was around. I got up and slowly walked to the corner of the nearest building, peeked around the corner and nobody looked at me. I walked and kept walking until I came upon a cleaner, tidier phone booth. I made a call and was picked up by my family. I was delivered out of their pain, their suffering; and what became clear to me was that I had to get their story out.
Their story still isn't being heard and one reason is that our voice has become a partison skirmish, pale in comparison to the plight of our people. I found over the years that children raise guns in anger, in desperation, and have become so inflamed they haven't got time to think things through. My rescue that day was one that was borne by a simple maneuver. They were heard. Someone heard them. Now, I find myself yearning to do more than just listen. What I'll do, how I'll do it, I don't know. I only know, I must start somewhere. Pray for them folks. Pray for me as I attempt to get out their message. Pray for us all. Thank you. --chelle aka lana
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