BY MICHAEL S. JOHNSON | MAY 10, 2024
I still remember lying awake in my bed for a long time, no air conditioning, only a slight breeze coming from a small window near the ceiling on a hot August night.
But it wasn’t the heat keeping me awake. It was the pop-pop-pop of gunfire that seemed to be coming from the San Diego Freeway just a mile or so away from where I was living on Evergreen Street in Inglewood, CA.
It was 59 years ago, August of 1965. A section of Los Angeles called Watts was up in smoke.
I’ve forgotten yesterday, but I remember yesteryear.
I was a tall, skinny 18-year-old kid fresh from my first year of college and my second time that far away from the Great Plains of South Dakota. I was working as a sheet metal apprentice on construction jobs around LA that summer with my dad, who I hadn’t seen in more than a decade and didn’t really know. Much to the unspoken dismay of my mother, who had devoted her life to getting my sister, brother, and me reared and educated in his absence, I had gotten on a TWA plane and headed West, so I could get to know my dad and stepmother and the big wide world outside Sioux Falls. Continue reading
