Culture at its finest

The African American experience has been vastly different from what I am currently reading or what I have viewed on social media. My parents, for the most part, have shielded the pain, complaints, and issues of everyday black folks; in fact, my parents' friends continue to tease them regarding revoking their black card due to their lack of knowledge about various black social events, so this assignment is troubling. The events of the past 60 years are not the issue; rather, it is the ages of my parents. They remember Thurgood Marshall as a Supreme Court Justice. The assassination of Martin Luther King Jr in 1968, Arthur Ashe winning at Wimbledon in men's tennis, watching Roots on television, John Hope Franklin, who is a distant relative of mine, Robert Johnson of Black Entertainment Television, Ronald Regan signing the King Holiday bill, Rodney King, and the 1992 riots. These events are still fresh memories; however, at the risk of not following the instructions given, nothing is as essential to my father as racism. 

The definition of racism is arrogance and ignorance projected onto a person, family, and race, or perhaps the lack of qualities found in different cultures and ethnicities. I also believe it means discrimination from others, as African Americans have been scrutinized and chastised for many generations, and mine is no exception. My father, on the other hand, thinks racism is a continuous event marked by public recognition of various injustices. For example, enslaved people were brought over from Ghana, Mali, and Songhai due to cheap labor for the southern states' cash crops of cotton, tobacco, and sugar. These very same enslaved people were treated as property according to the United States Constitution.

Injustice, according to my father. The public recognition is both the passing of the 13th and 14th amendments by both houses of Congress and Abraham Lincoln's signing them into law, which declared slavery illegal and made enslaved people born in the United States naturalized citizens. I asked my father to share a couple of historical events and how he felt when they happened. What I found interesting was that my father was an activist. He began his activism by accident during his senior year of high school in Bakersfield, California, near Kevin McCarthy's hometown. He was the president of the Black Student Union and was planning events for Black History Month. One day, he was summoned to the athletic director's office and informed that, due to some unfavorable press, they would be skipping the celebration of Black History this year. My father could not understand why the athletic director was involved and how he came to this decision.

My father argued but did not make any headway. It was lunchtime, so he told his fellow students and advisor. There was a lot of anger, crying, and protest, but it looked as though the athletic director was going to get his way. My father told me he did not return to class after lunch but sat on the curb for a couple of hours, distraught, wondering how to solve an unforeseen error. He finally got up and started walking. He had no direction; he was walking to calm himself down. Here is where a magical moment of activism was born. My father, by chance, walked into the district office of the Bakersfield, California, school board. He just stood there, not knowing what he could do. He was confronted by an administrator, who happened to be black, who walked up to him and said, 'Can I help you, young man?' My father was so mad he could hardly speak. She then stated, Step into my office. He sat down and began explaining the situation. She did not say much, he finished, and she told him to go back to school. She would take care of it.

A week later, he was walking to one of his classes when he heard his name called by the athletic director. He stopped, and the athletic director told him, 'I don't like what my father did, but you can continue to plan and have your celebration.' Injustice, recognition. My father didn't stop; while attending Bakersfield College, he organized a symposium on race and racism.

The guest speaker was Reverend Ralph Abernathy. According to my father, this was Dr. King's right-hand man, so I asked, What was it like to hold a conversation with a great civil rights leader. "There are people who will put roadblocks in the way because change is an adjustment they are not willing to make, and you are obligated to prove you have the intelligence to think, handle adversity, and ignore the doubters. Doubters are like crabs in a bucket, and they can be any color."

My father showed me a piece of paper with this quote written by Mr. Abernathy. All I could say was, Wow! At this point, it seems like black history ran through my father's veins. I then asked him, 'What happened to that fiery person?' He replied, 'Politics.' To this day, my father is a political junkie. MSNBC, CNN, and yes, Fox News. He is constantly flipping through channels, watching different news programs. I said, How did politics affect your thought process.

In 1983, my father organized a student march in Sacramento to protest President Reagan's imposition of tuition fees at community colleges. He was given the rare opportunity to speak before the California State Legislature, where he aired his grievances. He only talked for one minute; however, he, along with 30 other students, met with Speaker Willie Brown and Assemblywoman Maxine Waters. My father thought this was it; all you had to do was organize and protest, and things would happen. As he was speaking, he was interrupted by Mr. Brown, who said, "Do you know how many students attend colleges in California?"

It's enough to get me elected governor. If you get organized, I can get elected. My father continued speaking; he looked at the faces of both Mr. Brown and Ms. Waters; they seemed bored. My father was devastated. He thanked them for their time. Mr. Brown stated, "Get organized and get me elected."

This is when my father felt he was no longer of any help. He thought that two black people with power would recognize the benefits of free college tuition, but he realized they had a different agenda and were not considering the students. My father was never the same. For the first time in his life, he felt black folks could not help him, and only he could be a difference-maker, but he would have to take a different approach by understanding his white counterparts and why they seemed to get things done. My father's final thoughts were, "Get on the inside, this is the only way to effect change truly."  My mother, on the other hand, gave me her impressions of what led to the 1992 riots in Los Angeles. In 1991, two racially charged events took place.

The shooting of Latasha Harlin in a convenience store by a Korean woman at the age of 15 on March 16, 1991, and the beating of Rodney King. Four officers brutally used force on an African American resisting arrest. A white male recorded the event and then broadcast it on television, which happened on March 3, 1991. My mother was 33 at the time and was living with my father in Lomita, California. My mother witnessed injustice by the courts regarding an incorrect verdict on the news. She could not understand why the Korean women were not incarcerated for the crime of murder. Secondly, she was distraught when it took nearly a full year for the final verdict of not guilty in Rodney King's case. The officers didn't get to go to jail for police brutality. White people in the court thought the officer's actions were justified.

My mother recalls the riots held mass destruction, civil unrest, burning buildings, businesses destroyed, and frequent shoplifting, all happening in South Central Los Angeles, Florence, Slauson, and Manchester. The event was televised from both the air and the ground for five days, from Monday, April 29, to May 4, 1992. She had also recalled that during the five days of rioting, no one could enter these areas, and it was primarily young African Americans doing the damage. At night, there was a curfew in those areas, and residents had to remain indoors at 11:00 pm for safety from the riot and police officers. She had also seen the National Guard being dispatched to those areas to disperse the riots in the last couple of days. A week after the riots, residents were allowed to return to those communities.

Two weeks after my mom went to see her Grandmother, who lives near South Central, and she told me, "she had never seen so much destruction from a riot before, the Watts Riot in 1960 couldn't compare to the damage of the 1992 riots". My Godmother, who was 34 back then, also remembers the 1992 riots as her house was in Ladera Heights; she was a little closer to the action. My Godmother, as well, saw Latasha Harlan's incident on the news and Rodney King's beating, as well as the final verdict. Her Grandmother had owned the first-ever private African American school in South Central Los Angeles, named Marie Fegan Schools Inc., Which Was Built on July 1, 1980. She recalls how quickly things escalated. A couple of days before the riots, a few African Americans showed up at the school.

They warned her to close the school and put a sign outside that said 'Black-owned business' so nothing would happen to it, as she served as both the administrator and principal of the school at the time. They said, "Slauson was not safe, and most likely civil unrest and upheaval will erupt in the upcoming days." For the duration of the riot, my Godmother and her family stayed indoors. They couldn't get food, gas, or money, and the school was also in the middle of where rioters were burning down buildings and looting stores, but due to that sign being on the school, it was not burned or looted. She also recalls Reginald Denny, a white man driving down Slauson, being dragged out of a truck and beaten nearly to death. This event also occurred near my Grandmother's school when it happened.

My Godmother felt anguish and disgust. Segregation was very transparent in the courtroom during Rodney King's final verdict, leading to the destruction of the riots. She had returned to work at the school several days after it was over, and she told me that the "post destruction was devastating, as almost all buildings on Slauson were reduced to rubble and ash." About a week later, classes resumed at the school. Wow, history is enlightening; however, in many ways, we have not moved forward.

Finding a reason why is hidden. There are roadblocks; more importantly, whoever is guiding this ship called the United States does not like the direction, and I now understand the importance of involvement. It keeps those who want control in check, allowing others to work toward a balance.