By midnight, no one phoning long-distance bothers with hello. Instead, they just ask, ‘Is it as crazy as it looks?’ I want to say, ‘It started long before all this . . .’ Long before this afternoon’s bewildering decision left me less astonished than strangely numb. Long before George Holliday ran tape capturing Rodney G. King’s struggle and submission. Long before Latasha Harlins, Eulia Love and Marquette Frye became cautionary symbols. Long before Watts shouted its existence into the sky in ’65, sending up searchlights in the form of flames.footnote＊
They want me to make sense of footage I’m mesmerized by, of the faces that register anger giving way to elation. Sirens. Police in riot gear. Familiar landscape altered by skewed aerial views and flame. I try to put into simple words what I’ve seen and heard in the last few hours of this day. Until I can see it up close, with my own eyes, I’m relying on sound- and video-bites as if they were air: first the radio reports of an ‘intentional’ accident at Florence and Normandie; 100 to 140 people sprinting through intersections at rush hour; the new, bloody chaos at Normandie and 70th. Mayor Tom Bradley, whose face doesn’t seem able to accommodate any more fatigue, standing solemn at the pulpit at First African Methodist Episcopal Church, tries not to flinch when pelted with boos. Local ministers use their melodious baritones frantically to implement ‘Operation Cool Head’. Too late. By sundown rocks and bottles sail toward the windshields of passing cars, through store windows, at nothing in particular. Random debris jams the city works.
I’m in a press of traffic motoring east on Washington. It thins dramatically when I swing south on La Brea to Adams. My wide stretch of boulevard, gateway to black LA’s Sugar Hill of the 1940s. Old churches, big trees, even bigger houses. A place that seldom before surfaced for the world as representative of Black LA. But no doubt the world will see it now. At Crenshaw, I see what has been sketchily described on the radio for the last couple of hours: figures rendered to silhouettes, occupying the street, advancing randomly. Shouting, laughing, they drift on foot into traffic, into the beams of headlights, as if they are truly invincible. My tyres eat glass, trundle over big,
As a reflex, I’m already speedily taking notes, as if the act of writing down what I see and what I hear will bring about some sense of order. Clarity. But my handwriting turns out looking like angry, spiky hieroglyphics. Automatic writing. Subjects without predicates. Issues without resolution. I don’t head towards First AME for answers. I know that right now there are none to be had. Maybe the warmth of others equally confused, or moving toward sadness or rage will thaw my numbness. When the decision was passed down, I wasn’t sure how to process the information; I didn’t now how to respond to Powell’s smile, to interpret Daryl Gates’s barely suppressed grin; to understand my own emptiness.
Closer to the church, spectators have left cars all over, along red painted curbsides, in driveways, in loading zones, abandoned at the centre of the road. Those of us circling for parking places are told to move on. Since the streets have quickly heated up, the 24-hour vigil has been cancelled. Praying in public tonight is too dangerous. I smell alcohol in the air, strong, oozing out of broken glass that has hit the pavement. Then come the stones. Random. They thud against the thin metal of my car. Random, I slowly understand, we’re in the heat of chaos.