The Race War That Wasn't
The neighborhood I grew up in was totally caucasian for most of the time I lived there. The lines were very clear. Black people lived north of Russel Ave. There was a 2 block stretch that was "mixed", and everyone who lived south of Shenandoah Ave. was white. We lived near the corner of California and Sidney. Sidney was 3 blocks south of Shenandoah.
My sister and I were hanging out on our front porch one day, and some kids we didn't know came down our street with a bike. They were telling anyone they could find about how they had stolen the bike from a black kid. The story went something like this. "We stoled a bike from a nigger! He come into our neighborhood, so we beat him up and stoled his bike." They were all flushed with their success at victimization, until my sister shot them down. She said, "You're daddy is gonna beat your ass."
Shortly afterward, we saw some teenagers driving around with the bike held up on top of their car. It became a sort of grim trophy, paraded up and down the streets. It was disgusting. The men in the neighborhood began to gather by the bar across the street. They understood what the teenagers didn't. Theft is crossing a line. Theft from someone off our turf was poking a hornet's nest. Theft from black people was likely to end in bloodshed.
The father of the boy who had been robbed walked into our neighborhood all by himself, and was met by a dozen men.
An agreement was reached. Our men would meet their men up at Fox park, in the softball field, at 7:00 that night, and the bike would be returned.
The Father then turned his back on all those hoosiers, and walked away.
As soon as he was gone, those hoosiers climbed up on the flat roof of the bar, and started tossing down weapons. There was an assortment of things tossed down to eager hands. 2x4's with big nails driven through them, baseball bats full of bb's, broken motorcycle chains, I was amazed at the wealth of weaponry I saw. Jokes were tossed around about whether or not the "niggers" would bring guns. Our side had guns, but they kept them hidden. They were for just-in-case the other side brought guns.
We sat on our porch after dinner and watched this amazing gathering. Men kissed their women good bye like they were going off to die. It was better than watching West Side Story.
Our guys carried the bike up to the park, and all the kids trailed a block behind. We all stood at the corner and watched the tense return of the bicycle, wondering when it would break out into fighting.
Our guys lined up on the south side of the park. Their guys lined up on the north side of the park. Then, from the black men's side stepped a little boy. He was maybe 9 years old. His daddy made him step forward and get his bike back from the men who held it. The children around me fell to talking, "what's wrong with them? You don't bring a kid to a race-war!" etc.
I started crying, and I went home. I wished I had a daddy like that. He was so brave. I wanted to yell at them, that our guys had guns. I didn't want to see that beautiful little boy in a race-fight. It wasn't exciting anymore. It wasn't beautiful and dramatic and tragic, like West Side Story. It was horrible.
The race war never happened. The bike was exchanged, and everybody went home. Not a single punch was thrown. Thank God.
The next day, we all knew who had stolen the bike. It was the 12 year old with bruises on his face. Stealing a bike would have earned him a blistered backside, but he got caught making us look bad to black people, so his dad beat the shit out of him.
This was the neighborhood I grew up in. It wasn't very pretty, and it wasn't very nice, and I thank the Gods that I've come a long, long way from that.