Twenty years later: Rodney King, the Lakers, and Los Angeles
1 May 2012
Shortly after the verdict was announced at the end of April, 1992, my mother and I were headed to the Fabulous Forum for a Lakers’ playoff game. The two of us weren’t focused on Rodney King inside the arena and, this being before cell phones, no one was texting or tweeting on what was happening outside. I distinctly remember an exciting, close game against Portland, singing and dancing among thousands to the Isley Brothers’ “Shout” as the home team pulled it out. “You know you make me wanna Shout! Kick my heels up and Shout! Throw my hands up and Shout!” Who knew Los Angeles was burning?
Great seats, right?
In a perfect case of ‘ignorance is bliss’, we walked to our car after the game and thought nothing of driving through the side streets of Inglewood headed for the freeway. Noticing hastily painted protest signs and some unusual activity, we turned on the radio to discover all was not right in our fair city but by then, we were out of harm’s way. Discovering a few phone messages after arriving home in the San Fernando Valley, I was touched by my sister’s concern – she knew of our whereabouts – but assured her Mom and I were just fine.
I headed to work the next day in a building at the edge of Beverly Hills. We’d all seen the videotape of Rodney King getting the crap beaten out of him and everyone I knew thought the cops involved were, if not entirely criminal, at least guilty of being thoughtlessly, horribly violent. When the jury of twelve decided otherwise and acquitted the four officers of using excessive force, those of us working at a television movie company directly above Islands Restaurant at Beverly and Olympic thought there’d be trouble and saw what had gone throughout the night but feared little for our personal safety. Even after one of the assistant producers announced there were gangs headed our way, destroying everything in their path, we barely flinched. She was a high-strung, egocentric alarmist. Still, we casually turned on television sets and gradually came to the conclusion that perhaps we should head home sooner rather than later after all. When fires were set a mile or so south and smoke was visible in the sky outside our windows, I did just that.
So did everyone else.
I drove a stick shift at the time and inched my little red Toyoto Tercel through Benedict Canyon, cursing myself for 1) not having an automatic transmission, and 2) not visiting the Ladies Room before leaving the office. Pre-motherhood, there were no diapers in the car. I discovered later this was the solution my sister-in-law had arrived at when she got stuck heading over the Sepulveda Pass that same day. I considered pulling over and knocking on someone’s door but was afraid, judging by the abnormal traffic jam at three in the afternoon, that everyone already home had thrown the locks, turned off the lights, and were huddled in corners. It appeared the city had gone mad and a jury of twelve idiots was going to be responsible for my urinary tract infection.
When I finally arrived home to Sherman Oaks two hours later, from a journey that normally took thirty minutes, the relief I felt emptying my bladder was tremendous. I was also grateful to live far from the madding crowd. With my newfound sobriety, the concept of my place at the center of the universe had thankfully eroded and I was aware that Rodney King, police brutality, race relations, and oppressed minorities were the stories of the day, and not my safety. I was comfortably ensconced in my apartment when I decided to head down the street for groceries to cook for dinner.
When I arrived at the clumsy local market (years later, it would become Whole Foods), I was confused by the crowd buying water. Apparently, people were stocking up lest the riots came to our door. Ridiculous! I thought. Why is water being sold in plastic bottles?! People, it comes right out of the tap for free! I also wanted to grab someone and ask them to seriously consider the scenario: “Gangs and looters are going to make their way to Sherman Oaks, to our lovely little tree-lined street twenty miles from South Central? For what?”
Upon deciding there was pasta in the cupboard, I forsook the long lines of people hoarding canned goods and batteries, and headed back to my apartment. Conversation with friends evolved over the next few days, while the violence and thievery escalated, then waned. We spoke of sadness, outrage, concern. We debated what stores we’d loot if we were looters (Target was high on the list) and what we’d most like for free – mattresses, television sets, a lifetime supply of toilet paper. We agreed that trying the case in lily-white Simi Valley was a boneheaded move and that ‘a jury of your peers’ was a well-intentioned and mostly unrealistic aspect of the law. I came up with the concept of ‘riot babies’ and wondered how I’d get statistics for children born forty or so weeks after the trouble began in 1992. A dawn-to-dusk curfew had been imposed on the city. Surely carnal relations had increased.
More than a week later, my cousin asked if I’d like to join her heading down to Slauson and Vermont to help clean up the mess left after six days of rioting. Helping out this way was all the rage among bored, suburban whites left out of the excitement and I, being one of them, happily went along for the ride. Upon arriving at the church where we were instructed to check in, we stood around like idiots with Justine Bateman, still famous from “Family Ties”, and eventually drove the streets looking to get our hands dirty, to no avail. The area needed heavy equipment to move and dispose of already gathered piles of debris. I barely remember donning gloves and throwing a piece of twisted metal before silliness set in. We headed back to the valley without those prized feelings of usefulness and righteous activism. The riots had truly passed us by.
Twenty years later, I’m left to contemplate the lessons of Rodney King and the verdict, while still living in the segregated city of Los Angeles. We’ve never quite figured it out here. Blacks and whites, for the most part, lead separate lives, live in separate neighborhoods. Unlike New York, D.C., Chicago, and other U.S. cities, public transportation is not our great equalizer. Most of us are alone in our cars. There’s not much, really, that brings us together.
Largely, we handle and experience each other as individuals, in situations and circumstances as they arise. Isn’t that how we all relate anyway? Unfortunately, there’s little organic opportunity for integration in Los Angeles and forcing the issue (misguided school busing in the late 1970s) is foolhardy. There’s some diversity at my daughters’ school, on the girls’ sports teams, at the stores I frequent – but it’s hardly a rainbow. I wish it were different. I like a mix.
The Lakers played tonight down at the Staples Center. The husband and I took the subway to the game. Settling into my seat on the Metro Red Line, it was oddly comforting to see different people – black, Latino, Asian, old, young, couples, groups of friends – all getting somewhere together. Can we all get along?
Shortly after the verdict was announced at the end of April, 1992, my mother and I were headed to the Fabulous Forum for a Lakers’ playoff game. The two of us weren’t focused on Rodney King inside the arena and, this being before cell phones, no one was texting or tweeting on what was happening outside. I distinctly remember an exciting, close game against Portland, singing and dancing among thousands to the Isley Brothers’ “Shout” as the home team pulled it out. “You know you make me wanna Shout! Kick my heels up and Shout! Throw my hands up and Shout!” Who knew Los Angeles was burning?
Great seats, right?
In a perfect case of ‘ignorance is bliss’, we walked to our car after the game and thought nothing of driving through the side streets of Inglewood headed for the freeway. Noticing hastily painted protest signs and some unusual activity, we turned on the radio to discover all was not right in our fair city but by then, we were out of harm’s way. Discovering a few phone messages after arriving home in the San Fernando Valley, I was touched by my sister’s concern – she knew of our whereabouts – but assured her Mom and I were just fine.
I headed to work the next day in a building at the edge of Beverly Hills. We’d all seen the videotape of Rodney King getting the crap beaten out of him and everyone I knew thought the cops involved were, if not entirely criminal, at least guilty of being thoughtlessly, horribly violent. When the jury of twelve decided otherwise and acquitted the four officers of using excessive force, those of us working at a television movie company directly above Islands Restaurant at Beverly and Olympic thought there’d be trouble and saw what had gone throughout the night but feared little for our personal safety. Even after one of the assistant producers announced there were gangs headed our way, destroying everything in their path, we barely flinched. She was a high-strung, egocentric alarmist. Still, we casually turned on television sets and gradually came to the conclusion that perhaps we should head home sooner rather than later after all. When fires were set a mile or so south and smoke was visible in the sky outside our windows, I did just that.
So did everyone else.
I drove a stick shift at the time and inched my little red Toyoto Tercel through Benedict Canyon, cursing myself for 1) not having an automatic transmission, and 2) not visiting the Ladies Room before leaving the office. Pre-motherhood, there were no diapers in the car. I discovered later this was the solution my sister-in-law had arrived at when she got stuck heading over the Sepulveda Pass that same day. I considered pulling over and knocking on someone’s door but was afraid, judging by the abnormal traffic jam at three in the afternoon, that everyone already home had thrown the locks, turned off the lights, and were huddled in corners. It appeared the city had gone mad and a jury of twelve idiots was going to be responsible for my urinary tract infection.
When I finally arrived home to Sherman Oaks two hours later, from a journey that normally took thirty minutes, the relief I felt emptying my bladder was tremendous. I was also grateful to live far from the madding crowd. With my newfound sobriety, the concept of my place at the center of the universe had thankfully eroded and I was aware that Rodney King, police brutality, race relations, and oppressed minorities were the stories of the day, and not my safety. I was comfortably ensconced in my apartment when I decided to head down the street for groceries to cook for dinner.
When I arrived at the clumsy local market (years later, it would become Whole Foods), I was confused by the crowd buying water. Apparently, people were stocking up lest the riots came to our door. Ridiculous! I thought. Why is water being sold in plastic bottles?! People, it comes right out of the tap for free! I also wanted to grab someone and ask them to seriously consider the scenario: “Gangs and looters are going to make their way to Sherman Oaks, to our lovely little tree-lined street twenty miles from South Central? For what?”
Upon deciding there was pasta in the cupboard, I forsook the long lines of people hoarding canned goods and batteries, and headed back to my apartment. Conversation with friends evolved over the next few days, while the violence and thievery escalated, then waned. We spoke of sadness, outrage, concern. We debated what stores we’d loot if we were looters (Target was high on the list) and what we’d most like for free – mattresses, television sets, a lifetime supply of toilet paper. We agreed that trying the case in lily-white Simi Valley was a boneheaded move and that ‘a jury of your peers’ was a well-intentioned and mostly unrealistic aspect of the law. I came up with the concept of ‘riot babies’ and wondered how I’d get statistics for children born forty or so weeks after the trouble began in 1992. A dawn-to-dusk curfew had been imposed on the city. Surely carnal relations had increased.
More than a week later, my cousin asked if I’d like to join her heading down to Slauson and Vermont to help clean up the mess left after six days of rioting. Helping out this way was all the rage among bored, suburban whites left out of the excitement and I, being one of them, happily went along for the ride. Upon arriving at the church where we were instructed to check in, we stood around like idiots with Justine Bateman, still famous from “Family Ties”, and eventually drove the streets looking to get our hands dirty, to no avail. The area needed heavy equipment to move and dispose of already gathered piles of debris. I barely remember donning gloves and throwing a piece of twisted metal before silliness set in. We headed back to the valley without those prized feelings of usefulness and righteous activism. The riots had truly passed us by.
Twenty years later, I’m left to contemplate the lessons of Rodney King and the verdict, while still living in the segregated city of Los Angeles. We’ve never quite figured it out here. Blacks and whites, for the most part, lead separate lives, live in separate neighborhoods. Unlike New York, D.C., Chicago, and other U.S. cities, public transportation is not our great equalizer. Most of us are alone in our cars. There’s not much, really, that brings us together.
Largely, we handle and experience each other as individuals, in situations and circumstances as they arise. Isn’t that how we all relate anyway? Unfortunately, there’s little organic opportunity for integration in Los Angeles and forcing the issue (misguided school busing in the late 1970s) is foolhardy. There’s some diversity at my daughters’ school, on the girls’ sports teams, at the stores I frequent – but it’s hardly a rainbow. I wish it were different. I like a mix.
The Lakers played tonight down at the Staples Center. The husband and I took the subway to the game. Settling into my seat on the Metro Red Line, it was oddly comforting to see different people – black, Latino, Asian, old, young, couples, groups of friends – all getting somewhere together. Can we all get along?
Great article and a lot of food for thought. Come and visit me in the real Rainbow Nation!!