Fear And Stoking In Los Angeles

Twenty years ago, on April 29, 1992, the Los Angeles Riots shook and sooted a portion of LA to its core. Furious citizens of all colours were ready for revenge when the previously charged LAPD officers were acquitted of unnecessarily beating the hell out of Rodney King following a heated car chase.

At the time of the crisis, my car was in the shop. I worked miles and miles away in the other country known as West Los Angeles (NOT West Hollywood - different from each other in every way) and none of my co-workers lived near my abode to share a ride, so, for the first time in my life I rode a public bus - for a week - from my Miracle Mile/Bev Hills-Adjacent neighborhood all the way out to West LA. I took a cab a few times but the expense in LA for such is absurd.

At first I was in a small form of culture shock. From the age of 16 I'd always had my own cars. My freedom. But, the riders weren't as threatening or hostile as many in LA would imagine. Everyone on my route were professionals and students. Dressed well, polite, or simply bored. After a  day or two, a few regulars and I even smiled at each other.

However, I was among a small group of Whites who rode The Big Blue Bus (that went from Santa Monica to downtown LA and vice versa). It was not a problem for me to be a minority for a change as I've often been the only Caucasian in a group of ethnically diverse peoples and had never been hassled or concerned for my safety. I'm one who prefers to think well of everyone until proven otherwise, and, to be truthful, I find some white men and women to be far more menacing that the stereotypical image of African-Americans and Hispanics tossed-about in the media and our culture in general.

But, the riots were race-related. An ire that still exists to this day was simmering over this particular trial. The city and the world were watching.

Following the NOT GUILTY verdicts, news of the beginning of the riots began to trickle in to our office. News reports screamed of fires breaking-out in South Central LA. Several employees who lived in that area or nearby asked if they could leave early to gather their children from school. Our completely out-of-touch Brentwood-Based Bosses didn't want to give-in to the concerns of their vulnerable employees, causing chaos with worried parents.

When it finally seeped through the thick heads of the entitled bosses that something BIG was happening, one-by-one certain employees were given the "okay" to leave, while the rest of us (not considered to be in any danger) were forced to remain.

Hours later, everyone was told to go home ASAP. Warned by co-workers not to take a bus with the final destination landing at the heart of the riots, I made calls to several cab companies to ensure my ride home to a neighborhood that is considered upscale/safe (now an official historical "untouchable" part of LA's tendency to ruin history via dismantling classic architecture).

Not one cab company would take my request despite my address. The neighborhood was, in their words, "too close" to a demarcation line between "Safe" and "Unsafe."

In the end, I chose to ride the bus rather than strong-arm co-workers who lived in the opposite direction or in our office's neighborhood. At this point, it became "everyone for themselves or their families" so I didn't expect further assistance/guidance/concern.

The second I stepped on to the bus, the driver (a kind African-American woman) told me to sit behind her in the front seat. Gulp. I knew what she was doing. Making sure no one tried to strangle or hurt me until I got off the bus...which she knew would be a while. I looked around and discovered that I was the only White Woman there.

Tension filled the bus at each new stop where a very different group of passengers stormed up the steps. This time they weren't professionals or students. They were people ready to riot. Everyone glared at each other and hate filled the air. Of course I was growing uncomfortable. Serious stuff was going down. It was worse as we moved south-east and began to see the smoke rising in the sky from what was only the beginning of the fires.

One stop prior to my exit, a grungy man sat down in the seat across the aisle from me, pulled out a knife, held it lovingly in his hand, and muttered to no one in particular, "I'm ready!" So was I. To leave. And quick I did when my time was up on the bus. I nodded to the driver and wished her luck on my dash down the steps. As I hurried away I heard her tell the man, "Put that thing away or I'll pull mine on you!"

Hours later, on top of the Hollywood Hills with a friend and hundreds of others gathering around an outlook area off of Mulholland Drive, we watched as the city burst into flames. We could see that Hollywood was also a target, and then, seeing new flames erupt off in the distance, and hearing that fires were moving toward Beverly Hills, I lifted my binoculars and realized that part of my "nice" neighborhood was on fire!

I called my landlady (I was living in her Guest House) to check on her and the neighborhood's condition. No answer. I later learned she had gone to her son's home in the Valley. The next day I also learned that all of the homes in my area were safe, but the little pharmacy, pet shop, hair salon and coffee shop at the corner a few blocks from my home where I would often walk for exercise and to enjoy the flowers on my neighbors' lawn, had been burned to ashes. Down the nearby mainline street, one of my (and LA's) most authentic and popular Indian restaurants was half-charred and ruined.

There is no clever end to this tale. No moral to my story. Just a small slice of life when seeming injustice and race come together in a classic clash. When it does, at the very least, expect implosions, if not the horrific chaos of tangible and emotional explosions.
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