My First-hand Experience of the "Rodney King" Riots

Source: CBS news

In April of 1992 I was working as an instructor for a federally funded job training program, teaching computer keyboarding skills, basic business writing, and other courses at a technical college in South Central Los Angeles at the corner of Wilshire and Vermont. It was my first teaching job fresh out of grad school. I was 26, and close to the same age if not younger than many of my students.

My students were super diverse, mostly Black, some from the Philipines or South America, a couple from the Middle East. The characters in my story at that time were very real – many larger than life. Eugene, the lanky Snoop-Dog protégé who was constantly stoned and constantly scored perfect marks on his keyboarding exams. Renee, the beautiful busty bride of Roland, a (former?) petty criminal who loved her fiercely. Renee took flack from her classmate Tanya because she voluntarily cut down her trophy nails so she could type faster. Jose, from Colombia, supporting his young family on nothing but the meager check from his participation in class every week. Mohammed, who struggled with his mental health and had random outbursts during class. Funny, kind, struggling, normal everyday people. Everyone was there for a reason – to learn something new and get a better job. They were paid to train and guaranteed interviews for placement at the end of the process. It was a good program.

At first they did not accept me or take me seriously. But it didn’t take long to develop a rapport. I was the only instructor for all 7 subjects. I just did what I was there to do and had no choice but to talk to them like the peers they were. Every day, all day, for a year we ran typing drills, learned punctuation, wrote memos. I asked them to keep a journal so they could practice their writing, and in some cases, their English. They trusted me with their personal stories and I learned the often intimate details of their lives.

In April they were a month away from graduation. The topic of the Rodney King trial had been a frequent subject of conversation in class, for assignments, in journal entries. I lived that time through their eyes, sick and sad and helpless but somehow hopeful that justice would be done.

There was a small bodega run by a Korean man named Johnny on our floor of the building. On Wednesday the 29th I was there after work as per usual, waiting for traffic to die down. I lived in Pomona, about 30 miles away, which made for a long commute. On the TV in the corner of the room was the trial. It was the day of the verdict, and many were gathered there waiting to celebrate the good news. Or so we thought.

After the initial shock and angry outbursts there was a strange and lengthy silence in the room. Johnny rolled down the metal partition behind the counter, closing early without notice. Several left, and I thought of my students, none of whom were in the room, and decided to go ahead and get on the road. As I stood to gather my things, there was a small group of young black men left, talking quietly around a table. We had seen each other many times before at Johnny’s, exchanging waves or chat while waiting in line. One of them stood as I did and said to me: “Wait.” He conferred with his friends who all stood, and he said “We’ll go with you.” “Okay,” I said, staring blankly.

The five of us rode down the elevator in silence, and the doors opened. The sidewalks were much more full than usual for that time of day, I thought. I could hear the sounds of people shouting. We walked through the lobby to the exterior doors, and without a word the four of them flanked me, two at my sides, two close behind. It was early still, but the unrest grew quickly around us. It was two city blocks to the parking garage.

I remember a small group of people walking quickly, chanting with their arms in the air. I remember people at a bus stop waiting impatiently. I remember music, being shocked by the sight of smoke, and hearing glass break. But mostly I remember those guys, talking to me calmly as we briskly strode. They were a fortress, and I was safe. I remember the sidewalk in front of me, step by step. And I remember the feeling of deep relief when we got to my car. There, one of them gently put his hand on my back as I fumbled for my keys. I turned inside the open car door and looked at them each. I said “thank you.” I was crying. One of them looked right at me and said “drive safe.” I smiled and nodded, they watched me get in my car, and walked back as I drove away.

I only saw those guys a couple of times after that. When things calmed down I’d see one of them in the hallway, or at Johnny’s. We’d say “hi” or just smile. I remember watching them graduate. Proud young Black men with their friends or families, smiling for photos with their certificates in hand. I never knew their names, or I just don’t remember. I’ve always regretted not hugging them.

Today, 29 years later, I pay tribute to those four Black men, whose lives matter, as do all Black lives. I thank them for their spontaneous generosity, their immediate understanding of what was coming, and their selfless and swift impulse to protect me. Today I pay tribute to Rodney King, the first domino. To George Floyd, Michael Ramos and countless others. I was 26 years old in April of 1992. I am now 53. I have had a full career, a long and happy marriage, and two almost-grown children. And here we are.