A cry for help amidst the inescapable heat

A cry for help amidst the inescapable heat

Aaron Howard

As I cross the boundaries of time and space, I once again find
myself a senior at University High. I’m angry, rebellious and
militant. I see myself as a little Malcolm X, so much so that my
friend tagged me Lil ‘X’ and it has been my name ever since.

I see myself on the bus arguing with a 10th grader named Dawn
about interracial marriages and relationships. She’s not
understanding, but not too many people do.

With ruthless abandon I hurt feelings and I make enemies. I
don’t care about white people ­ I don’t like them. Every day I
go to a school where I’m the only African American in most of my
honors and AP classes. Like the snake and mongoose crouched for
battle, each day I feel myself participating in an ongoing
struggle. These white folks no more want me at their school than at
their churches or in their prestigious neighborhoods. But I’m here
… and I don’t care about nothin’ but God, my family, being black
and staying strong.

My 5-foot-7-inch body is the representation of rage and
conflict. Why? Because although I attend school in West L.A., I
live on 52nd and Crenshaw. And it’s hot here on the other side. And
even though the sun may not be shining, each day gets hotter and
hotter.

As I ride down Slauson on my way to school each day, I see my
people downtrodden, downcast and in despair. I see them crying
silent tears of bitterness and sadness. Their tears are the same
tears our ancestors cried beneath the torture of the mighty whip,
the same tears my mother and father cried back in the ’50s as a boy
named Till was brutally murdered. They did him worse then they
would’ve done a dog. The tears my people inwardly cry are the same
tears I see Harlem cried as Malcolm X was blasted off the scene.
Theirs are the same tears cried by Panthers after Fred Hampton was
shot full of holes by the pigs.

These tears ­ the tears of pain and struggle ­ are the
same tears my people now cry because nothing’s changed. And not
only that, but things just keep getting worse.

And it’s hot here. The heat we feel comes from being shrouded in
an inescapable cloak of rage and hostility. I can feel South
Central being trapped by this heat.

This is the heat no air conditioner or fan can cure. A hell on
earth exists. It’s so hot here I fear spontaneous combustion. You
can see it in their eyes. Like little flames, if you look closely,
you can see it. My brothers and sisters are tired of losing. The
whites and Koreans are undefeated and black folks just can’t
win.

Something’s about to happen.

You can only keep a man against the ropes for so long before he
comes back swinging like an angry Ali against Foreman. Because
losing gets tiresome. And when Latasha Harlins is shot in the back
of the head by a Korean storeowner who only gets probation, we lose
again. When my brothers are constantly harassed by police, we lose
again. When inner-city schools suffer from inadequate supplies and
facilities, we lose again. When you can find a bottle of Old
English easier than you can find necessary groceries, we’re still
losing. Get those stupid liquor stores out of our neighborhoods and
take your fonky attitudes with you.

You know who I’m talking to. I’m telling you, we’re about tired
of always being defeated. Black folks are tired of being treated
like the Washington Generals. The Globetrotters don’t play here, so
why are we always the ones biting off the short end of the stick.
With each loss comes more rage, and the heat rises …

My internal thermometer can sense the heat. In my school
newspaper, the University Warrior, I predict violence before it
ever happened. You can only step on a dog’s tail for so long before
it sinks its teeth into the flesh of your oppressive foot. And once
in there, those teeth are going to make sure you don’t get up
walking.

We’ve been beat down for 12 rounds and there’s only a minute
left in the fight. The referee is standing over us and he’s
counting to 10, but I feel a second wind coming on. From where doth
my second wind cometh? From that verdict that set free the cops
that beat Rodney King into a bloody pulp. I’ve seen rotten tomatoes
look better than Rodney King’s swollen, battered face after the
beating. And you’re gonna let them off? That’s why I say it’s hot
here, and I don’t feel a breeze nowhere.

It’s April 29, 1992. I’ve just got off the bus from school and
I’m starting to walk home. I hear my boy Duriel say, "Hey y’all,
they found them innocent! " I couldn’t believe it. If you can’t get
justice with a videotape, then I guess justice doesn’t exist for
black folks. If I can’t put your racist white butt in jail after
the world’s seen you beat my brother, then I guess justice is like
a cockroach in the dark. Except we don’t have no Raid. And it
always seems to escape us.

I walk into the house and turn on the TV this day ­ the
hottest day in African-American history. And there on Florence and
Normandie are some of my people finally cooling off. Except this
feeling is the cool feeling that comes only from a release.
Remember that spontaneous combustion? It’s in effect and providing
relief. They’re beating folks and messing cars up … it’s wrong,
but what do you expect? Hello, America!?! What do you want us to
do? Gather around, hold hands and sing "Kumbaya"? It’s too late for
all that. I only wish we went to your neighborhoods and tore your
stuff up. Maybe then you would’ve listened.

Because, surprisingly enough, as I jump back into 1995 I realize
nobody’s listened to us yet. I’ve matured since 1992. And maybe I
no longer feel we should’ve gone into the white neighborhoods. Why?
Because if we had, then we wouldn’t have had to worry about the
police being inactive and passive during the uprising. They
would’ve gotten active, all right. And there would’ve been a bunch
of bloody dead niggas lying in the street as white folks breathed a
collective sigh of relief. But I am scared, because it’s starting
to warm up again. And once again, my people are beginning to
cry.

How long must we cry the same tears? How long must we exist as
second-class citizens in a land of supposed equality? How long must
we plead with you to listen? I heard Dr. King say, "How long? Not
long." But as Dr. King’s body lays resting in Atlanta, our change
is yet a long time coming. My people are hurting and yet stupidity
and ignorance are the Band-Aids applied to our deep and festering
wounds.

How long must we argue for affirmative action before all these
knuckleheads get the picture? How long must we debate whether the
uprising achieved anything before someone responds to our
disastrous plight? If you don’t know what our plight is, you’re
already a part of the problem. The issue isn’t whether something
came from the uprising. Listen to it for what it was. It was a cry
for help. And it’s another cry that has gone unanswered.

So here I sit, just Wonderin. And this time Stevie Wonder is
saying, "Heaven help the black man if he struggles one more day/
Heaven help the white man if he turns his back away/Lord hear our
call when we fall/ Heaven help us all."

And like the Clark Sisters, I’m looking for a miracle ­
because my people are suffering. And even though you may blame us
for our own problems, we need everyone’s help. America cannot stand
while some are stuck in the muck of persistent poverty and
prejudice. Don’t ignore the cries of your countrymen. Please.

Plus, it’s starting to get a little warm around here … except
this time, the heat’s already outside of South Central. I love you
all and a shout out to my favorite girl in the world, my sister
Malaika. Peace.

Howard is a third-year anthropology student. His column appears
on alternate Wednesdays.