A Retro and Introspection on the 1992 Civil Unrest

By Kaia Niambi Shivers

The crossroads of my life are at Florence and Normandie. That intersection made me consciously see Los Angeles, the African American community and my position in this society from freshly opened eyes which peer over the city with a slightly more mature and informed view years later.

In some instances, the burning of the buildings provided fertile ground for development and growth, yet for most, the smoke from racism, gross economic disparity, unstable educational system, police corruption, political games and the many ills that have not been adequately addressed in Los Angeles still blinds our realties and blocks the clarity that is desperately needed for real inner-city development. However, somehow in this valley of so many fallen angels, there are those that ascend like the rising smoke.

Up In Smoke

To say April 29, 1992 was a vivid memory is beyond an understatement. For four days, my imaginary world stopped and the harsh truth of being young, black and growing up in a politically, racially and so-called criminally charged and targeted neighborhood, known as South Central awakened survival tools, raw emotions and deep psychological scars that are still healing.

Then, I was a very active 16-year-old eleventh grader at Washington Preparatory High School. I was in a host of school and community activities that kept me optimistic an busy, but nothing prepared me for April 29, 1992.

The not guilty verdict of the four white officers for the brutal beating of black motorist Rodney King was on every television and radio station. I recall reporters saying how one female juror described Rodney King as an animal to justify her decision. I recall thinking blacks were still the beasts of this country. I reflected on all the things my parents and older relatives would tell me of the treatment and perspective of blacks in this so-called land of the free, and for me, this showed that many things have remained the same, but the faces just change.

As a youth looking at the situation, the words of rapper Ice Cube rang in my mind. In one of his songs he talks about the police oath being “to serve protect and break a nigga’s neck.” The result of the trial was proving Cube’s statement as the most accurate explanation for the dismissal of a savage act. I felt powerless.

Frustration and anger are two emotional memories that stand out. I hated Semi Valley. I hated the police. I hated this system. And I wanted change now.

I began calling my peers telling them to wear black to school the next day in protest. I called my best friend Selma Augustine who lived on 71st and Normandie, just one block north of Normandie. She told me that a group of young men in her neighborhood began throwing bottles and rocks at passing cars with white passengers. They were kicking the cars, trying to break their windows and yelling, “Fuck the police.”

I wanted her to give me more information, but I had to go to church that night. So spoke to her when I came home.

When I phoned Selma again she told me that more people from the neighborhood began assaulting police cars, fire trucks and any motorist that resembled a white person, even Latinos. The growing group already attacked the Korean-owned liquor store. They looted the goods and set it on fire and were moving down the street to other Asian-owned businesses. There were news helicopters everywhere, and not a police car in sight.

Selma’s Belizean family grew nervous. Her grandmother and great-grandmother walked to St. Raphael up the street to pray, but their fair complexions and Spanish dialect could have gotten them attacked. However, they made the 15 minute walk anyway and came back unscathed.

Everyone was calling their families to ensure their safety, but after a while the telephone lines gave busy signals, and in some places, became dead. The television reports showed that the area of Florence and Normandie was on fire. Businesses were up in smoke and the police, fire department and ambulance would not come to that area, or any area in South Central.

As the night went on, more buildings burned and stores were looted. The heat of the fires ignited a sweltering high temperature even in the cool night. The smoke blocked out the moon, and when daybreak came, the sun barely shone. People were calling me telling me how they looted the shoe store, the grocery store, beauty salons, swap meets, electronic outlets and furniture places.

On television I saw four young men pull out a white trucker and take out their frustration on him. Later, four men were called the L.A. four, and the main one apprehended was Damien “Football” Williams, a former Washington peer, and ironically the first guy I ever kissed.

I wanted to see the lootings, and perhaps take part in it. However, my father would not let me leave the house. By then there was a curfew. One of the profound things he told me was that once the materials that were looted were useless what was the community going to do?

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