It’s the empty lots I remember most. I would drive by these wordless gaping holes that a little thing like riots could produce. Littered with advertisements for BRAIDING: $20/hr! Call NOW and signs touting the return of Christ, these lots stood for years before the stores that they once held came gingerly back. I wasn’t in town for the riots; instead I was nestled in the sleeping community of San Luis Obispo, CA. And yet the fear even struck there, 200 miles away from the epicenter of chaos and destruction. Police cars trolled through the quiet streets, stopping anyone who was suspiciously loitering or “causing trouble”. Fortunately for the majority of S.L.O-Town’s population, they only stopped colored peoples. You see, San Luis Obispo is one of those places you can still leave the door unlocked at night and wake up to find all your stereo equipment still happily shining in its exploitive plastic packaging. The children of SLO anxiously await the results of their S.A.T.’s, and then celebrate with a tab of acid. White kids accidentally come to school with guns and threaten teachers, but only when kids of color are discovered with weapons are they expelled. Homophobia, Sexism, and Racism reign as the founding fathers ghettoize even elementary students. Most of the elementatry schools make do with nothing, while Teach School is set aside for the “cream of the crop”, which translates loosely to the richest, whitest kids in the city. Teach has field trip to all over the state, while the other schools have nothing. Special funding they say, others say segregation. S.L.O.’s got this whole village of the damned vibe, and for the most part no one seems to mind. A town of contradiction, it seems to thrive on chaos and function as a hell mouth for some of the most artificial peons the world has ever produced.
So the denizens of San Luis Obispo, weren’t too surprised that Los Angeles would riot over something so silly as a trial of 4 white officers beating a black man. They of course agreed that it seemed that the videotape showed it all. However, many pointed to the fact that Rodney King was high on PCP, this statement along with theories on Los Angeles gangs prompted some to shrug off the riots with a, “Thank God we’re 200 miles away!”. Many others in this city waited anxiously, worried perhaps that they would finally reap the whirlwind of the many years of oppressive devices many minorities in the central coast of California had endured. Illegal Immigrants working for under a dollar an hour, discriminative hiring practices against African Americans, the list could go on and on. In the entire school district of San Luis Obispo, there was not one black teacher and there had never been one. Guess what? Still aren’t any! Of course it is a small community, there’s only about 400 teachers in the district, but the school board consistently blamed lack of diversity on lack of applicants. They didn’t see why it should be the school board’s responsibility to outreach to colored teachers and administrators. They pointed to the increase of minority staff as a stepping-stone to a more multi-cultural world, “staff” meaning janitorial and secretarial of course. Indeed, the humor of the stupidly callous and bizarrely unaware community is what helped me to somewhat “enjoy the slo life”, like the town’s motto suggested.
I imagined rioting, not so much looting or bashing people’s heads in. Possibly I’d scream over my junior high’s change of the Black & White’s Ball to the Jungle Fever, or maybe I’d rant over the use of actual blackface to increase a group of white student’s “authenticity” as they performed African-American performers greatest hits in the auditorium. You didn’t get too much of that confederate flag bearing, “nigger” spewing stuff in SLO, for that was considered quite low class. Instead, loud whispers at inter-racial couples and non-invites to parties were considered the norm. There were many loving exceptions to the rule, of course. There were people who looked beyond color, but for the most part I seethed with a rage that was not appeased by the burning of Los Angeles. Many colored people, took it quietly and said nothing until others of non-white hues surrounded them. I, instead constantly challenged this “comfortable” system that all had set up. I became angry at the complacency of other black peoples, why were they not standing and fighting as well? Instead of recognizing Martin Luther King Day, I took the opportunity to introduce my class to the enlightened teachings of Malcolm X. I wanted them to understand that not all Blacks believed in that non-violent shit, and I was one of them. For a long while I stood tall in that rage, consumed by its cold chill and bitterness. Its anger fueled me, and I brashly rejected much of the tenets of anything that was not “by any means necessary”. Then on a trip to Los Angeles one summer, I noticed the lots. Every summer and holiday we journeyed to visit family that resided in Inglewood, and I had noticed the large graffiti X’s and burnt remains years ago. I didn’t however notice for a while how long these monuments to rage stood. On many a corner in “south” Los Angeles there were hulks of the stores that were reminders of another dream Los Angeles found a way to consume. Everyone came to Los Angeles for a better life, but for many the emptiness of these lots signified all that could ever be. The anger that it takes to destroy your own community is a final one, it’s saying, there’s nothing left for you to take. I’ll take this away before you can take it from me. I’ll make myself empty before you can suck what’s left out of this already half empty shell. With that understanding, I quenched my fire, understanding that instead of complacency or rage I would have to find another road.
In my Jr. year of high school I began recognizing that my ideals, the ones I had grown up with and rejected in my own ways; they still hung on piece by piece.
I wished I could find a way to believe in my Christian faith while rejecting the violent ways I had been taught it must be. Luckily, I met a great group of college students who were on that very mission. Running a off-campus high school group called Young Life, these college students lived in my area and took me under their wing. Teaching from Christ's words but singing u2 songs while they did it. This seemed like a revelation and I fell deeply into the YL culture, attending summer camp and becoming a Jr. Leader. If I hadn't had the support of Young Life, I would be a very different person. I would love to see a program like that for people regardless of religion. I finally began to speak about the abuse that had followed me my all my young life, my leaders were horrified but comforted me by letting me know I wasn't alone. I was careful to never suggest that violence still took place at home, knowing that they would be obligated to report it. Later in the year I applied for a prestigious position in my high school. Peer Helper. I applied because when I was in 5th grade a high school student named Stacy was mine. The small amount of time she spent with me then, taking me to ice cream and inviting me to watch videos at her house were some of the best moments of my childhood. Ever. I desperately wanted to join the program so that I could help other students like me.
INT. FAITH’S GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE – DAY, 2000
FAITH shows Vincent all of her pictures, trophies from high
school games and newspaper clippings. Vince picks up a framed
article of Hope embracing a towheaded child.
The caption reads:
"SAN LUIS OBISPO HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT OF THE YEAR"
FAITH
I almost didn't get to kick it with
that kid.
VINCE
Oh, yeah?
FAITH
To mentor little kids you had to be
accepted into the peer helping
program first.
VINCE
I think my school had something
like that too, but you just signed
up. No one really wanted to do it.
FAITH
It was funny, because you had to
get a letter of support from a
teacher AND you had to do this
harsh group interview. Where you
sat in the middle of the circle.
CUT TO:
INT. FAITH'S HIGH SCHOOL CLASSROOM – DAY
FAITH is in middle of a school desk circle. Theater geeks,
sports stars, comedians, and high achievers all face her.
VINCE (V.O.)
And they all grilled you?
Girl with beaded hair flips it over her hair and raises her
hand. FAITH wipes sweat from her brow and acknowledges her.
BACK TO:
INT. FAITH’S GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE
FAITH takes article and squints at it smiling.
FAITH
Yup, harsh too. I was great at it,
but I thought I wouldn't get
picked because it was such a
prestige thing. Mostly the popular
kids, prom kings and shit.
VINCE
But they picked you even though you
weren't popular? Maybe 'cause you
were black?
(both laugh)
FAITH
Exactly! I mean I almost didn't
get picked because people thought I
had beat up a retard.
VINCE
What?
FAITH
Well, special. You know what I
mean. It was so fucked up because
yeah I yelled at the kid and I
think I threw a bagel at him, but
he had been tormenting me for
years!
VINCE
For real? A retard, Er, special
needs child?
FAITH
Makes it sound so neat and not as
horny as this poor bastard prolly
was.
CUT TO:
EXT. HOPE'S HIGH SCHOOL – LUNCH QUAD – DAY
FAITH bends over to tie her shoe at the drinking fountain.
Her ass is slapped hard by the boy behind her who wears a
Goofy hat and matching Pooh Bear fanny pack. Smoking boys
whoot and holla in appreciation.
SMOKING BOY
There you go, Raffi!
FAITH (V.O.)
Used to fondle me or try to at
least. Called me-
RAFFI
Faith FAT WATER!
(giggles)
FAITH removes bagel from her bag.
CLOSE ON FAITH's fingers digging into the bagel.
BACK TO:
FAITH’S GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE – KITCHEN – DAY
FAITH and Vince sit at the kitchen table with lemonade. FAITH
heaps spoon after spoon of Splenda in hers.
VINCE
Maybe he needed SOMEONE to make fun
off, shift the attention and all…
(sips)
FAITH
What does that say? When the
handicapped can crack jokes at ya?
VINCE
That you're probably VERY
special…
(BOTH LAUGH)
In this day and age, abuse is still so prevalent. Teachers, Neighbors and passerby can call the police and report abuse. Still, there is an amazing amount of children still in need. When there are multiple siblings in the home, like my situation the greatest fear a kid has is being split up. I knew the odds of all of us being placed together were non-existent. My grandparents told me they could take me but Doug would stop them from taking my siblings. They always asked me what was going on, but I did my best never to tell. Never to say the right thing, that would end the wrongness. It wasn't my job to be responsible, I know this now. I wish with all my heart that was enough, for me and for all the other kids who face the same terrors.