I Came From the Ghetto Too
The flames licked at the big blue letters on the side of the building — “Empire Liquor Market”. The frenzied looters dashed in and out of the nearby stores trying to get their own taste. One man ran by with a grocery cart full of Huggies. Another juggled a child and a VHS player.
In all this commotion, he was unflinching watching the inferno consume Empire Liquor. He was the only deterministic agent in this chaos. In his left hand was another bottle filled with liquid and a rag dangling from the opening. In his right hand he gripped a lighter with his fist. He was dressed for war — Space Jams, black jeans, black hoodie, black heart. His fire continued to rage, consuming the oxygen they all took for granted.
“It’s the oldest story in the books man.” Officer Francisco Chavez and the ride-a-long reporter from the LA Times veered off to take exit 5 onto Crenshaw. Chavez continued as the reporter scribbled notes, “Us vs Them. Division.” The flames kissed the sky off in the distance as the undulating sirens played the score for the night.
“You see around the way they call me Paco. Guys on the force they call me Frank. Some guys on the block call me Frank too. Sarcastically. But that’s okay. I’m both those guys — Paco and Frank. I’m not trying to say I got a split personality or nothing like that. What I’m trying to say is what they try to do to me is what we try to do to this community. Split us up. But when I put on these navy blues and holster my gun. That’s not Paco turning into Frank. That’s Frank putting on the armor to save Paco.”
“So you’re a neighborhood kid who grew up to save the community?”
“I ain’t saying nothing like that man. I’m just doing my part. Like it says on my ride. Protect and Serve.”
“TWENTY TWO YEARS DOWN THE DRAIN!” She was sobbing furiously looking at the mangled gate that had failed to protect her shop. The broken glass reflected her spirit. A lifetime of work evaporated. She fell to her knees sobbing amidst the chaos. Her husband, who had been rummaging about in the store came to her. He embraced her, still clutching a Rosary in one hand and a Beretta M9 in the other.
As he held her, he looked at the property damage around them. The Shoes Warehouse was burnt to the ground, the Video Rental destroyed, the Electronics Store ransacked. He wanted to cry too. He had met his wife at the convenience store, the loss of which they now lamented. They were teens then. He was a family friend. She was the daughter of the shop owners, the gyopo, who themselves were the descendants of plantation laborers in Hawaii. This shop was to be a gift handed down to their children and their children’s children. And now, their infant son wouldn’t even get to work a day in the shop as they once did.
“Are you folks okay?” Officer Frank Chavez asked approaching the grieving couple slowly. The ride-along reporter was a few steps behind him scribbling his notes. “Is this your shop?”
“Is this my shop?” she snarled. “Is this my shop? Yes! And where were you?” She was standing now. “What were you doing? Who were you protecting? who were you serving?” She was sobbing again, now furiously, “Twenty two years gone. Because you couldn’t make the time.”
Back in the patrol car, Chavez and the reporter were quiet. The chatter over the police radio periodically broke the silence. “We’ve got a 451 at E 22nd and Griffith.” Eager to be useful, Chavez picked up the transceiver. “10–4. This is Officer Chavez. I’m on W 90th and Crenshaw. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.” Chavez turned on the siren and pressed on the accelerator.
The man in all black was empty handed now. The second bottle had served it’s purpose. In his mind the flames seemed to dance more intensely as the sirens approached. He placed his hands behind his head and turned to face his executioners. An older man, wearing a yellow shirt and khaki pants, was charging towards him.
“What the hell you doing boy?” The man in the yellow demanded. Noticing the flames ripping through his shop, “What the hell you done?”
“I’m doing what we should’ve done when they murdered Latasha and they gave her murderer 400 hours of community service and a $500 fine.”
“I know what they did to Latasha wasn’t right. But what you’re doing to me ain’t right either. IT’S NOT RIGHT! IT’S NOT RIGHT!” the man in the yellow was getting histrionic now, “It’s not right what you’re doing.You burned down my store. I worked too hard for this. It’s not right what you’re doing. I came from the ghetto too. Same as you did. I tried to make it. I TRIED to MAKE IT. Can you understand that?”
The man in the black chuckled in the back of the black and white Ford Crown Victoria. Chavez looked at him in the rear view mirror. The reporter was now sitting shotgun for the return ride to the station.
“LAPD and the LA Times. I thought y’all hated each. I guess that’s what y’all wanted us to think. Pigs in the PD bust us up for nothing. Times stooges write it up talking about how the savages deserved it. And y’all would have done the same to Rodney and Latasha, but the camcorder gave us justice. Y’all are supposed to protect us. But you failed us and this is what you get. These riots. This is the madness that you sparked up.”
