Jaci Dawn

I was a child when race riots rampaged through Los Angeles. I remember watching the riots on a black and white television with Walter Cronkite narrating. Little white girl, hiding under the sofa, watching the television, understanding more than the adults gave me credit for.

I never understood judging people by their skin color. My first best friend was Peggy Garfield, a Native American from the “Indian Village” within the city limits of Winnemucca. I wanted her to come to my 6th birthday party but between her and my mother, I was discouraged from even sending an invite. I wanted to spend the night with her or have her spend the night with me, but they both repeated words I didn’t understand. That Peggy – the same age as me – understood those words grieves me to this day. Indians and Whites don’t get along. They don’t mix. That’s why Indians live on Reservations or in segregated parts of town.

We camped with the Hortons, sort of. All the company of the Sage Stompers, a 4-Wheel Drive Club of the late 1960’s in Nevada, camped together. Except the Hortons. They camped off to the side. Mr. Horton was Black. Mrs. Horton was white. Their daughters were friends with all of us kids and we wanted the girls to spend the night with us in our tent.

My mom tried to explain to me why that couldn’t happen. Mr. Horton was Black.

My mother served on a jury in the late 1960’s. The police found seeds in a dresser drawer of a teenager my brother went to school with. Her father, Mr. W., was arrested and put on trial for drug possession. He was Black. The jury found him Not Guilty.

My mother told me later – much later – that it was a clear cut case of racism. She could not vote to have him sentenced under such conditions. Other jurors – all white – felt the same. Mr. W. was only one of a few Black citizens in a remote Nevada town.

I watched the Watts riots unfold on television.

I am not Black. I am not African American, Native American, or any race that is not pure Aryan. I am Nordic, Irish, Scottish, Welsh, British, German. I have no idea what it is to be a person of color.

But – I am the grandmother of children of color. I am the grandmother of boys who will grow up to be men of color. Boys who will have to walk, jog, and do business in the South. Boys whose skin color is clearly not as Aryan as mine. Boys with blue eyes and green eyes, with dimples, and wide smiles. Boys with fire in their hearts that comes from the seeds of their father’s fathers. Fire that comes from my side of the family. Irish and Scots. Boys whose skin is dark.

The murder of George Floyd sears a scar into this nation (and it was murder). Premeditated, cold-blooded murder caught on tape by a minority group that the perpetrator clearly didn’t think had the legal influence to put him in jail for the rest of his life for. Murder that his comrades clearly condoned. Murder that emphasized a knee to the flag during our National Anthem.

But those riots? That vandalism? The destruction of businesses, many of which are owned by African Americans? Those are Outsiders. White Supremacists trying to light the fire of division amongst us. Those are gang bangers with no allegiance to anyone but their own gang affiliation. Those are people not gifted with reason. They are not Martin Luther King Junior.

I am sick tonight, sick at heart. I am fearful for my grandsons and granddaughters, white and black. I am fearful for mixed-race relationships. I am fearful for white parents raising black children (my son is remarried and his second wife is as white as I am). I am fearful for the Blacks I knew growing up who had to deal with that shit in their lifetime and were hoping the next generation would have more sense.

I am angry at the outside inciters, most of whom are White Supremacists and some of whom are the easily persuaded members of a targeted ethnic group.

Did we learn nothing from the Second World War? Did we learn nothing from the Watts riots? Did we learn nothing from the American Civil war and the 620,000+/- soldiers who died over the issue of slavery?

Apparently not. And there I rest my case. I am sad. i m angry.

I refuse to participate in this game of skin color. And noone had better EVER touch my grandsons of color.

I will kill you. No riots necessary. I will kill you. That is not a threat to be taken lightly. You touch my babies and I am coming for you. You better fear me more than you fear law enforcement or any other entity, because I am one bad ass grandmother.