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Authors: Mike Sposs
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they were focusing on a big
PR campaign to not look like the racists they were. There was a push
put on to hire "community service" officers; not cops any
more. Those cops would of course include more people of color. It was
all the standard stuff the rest of the country did at the time; no
novel solutions there. No mention was made of the missing Sylvia
either. Kevin instinctively knew that someone could have literally
gotten away with murder during those nights of looting and burning.
It
was very depressing to read about the events, eleven years after the
fact. All the rhetoric had translated into nothing. White flight had
occurred. The police had integrated somewhat reluctantly. Some of the
worst projects were torn down. Commerce in the old neighborhood,
except the illegal kind had disappeared. At least in the South, they
are out in the open with their discrimination. Here, they cloak it in
a code that guarantees nothing will get better while giving the
appearance of being open minded, Kevin thought.
Since
he was taking a class on the subject, Kevin tended to put some of
what he saw in contrast to what he had seen in South America. For one
thing, they were more Catholic than Protestant in their outlook. More
inclusive than exclusive was perhaps a better way to put it. The only
place Kevin knew of that had significant mixing in the states was
down around New Orleans. There, they had the Creole culture.
Interestingly, the Jesuits had a big influence there too. To this
day, they have parishes, not counties. They looked at the mixing of
the races differently. Everyone was mixed in places like Brazil. They
were way ahead of the United States as far as integration was
concerned. They looked at labor, and unions differently too. They
revered education and learning more, and Capitalism less. Octavio Paz
knew what he was talking about, Kevin thought.
His
musing and reading morphed into browsing some of the local socialist
newspapers. They tended to see the riot as a class struggle. Fair
enough, Kevin thought. Everyone has a viewpoint and a lens they look
through. It caught his eye that one of the authors of one of the
articles referenced a Clarence Washington some years before. Plenty
of people named Washington he thought. But he did make a little note
to himself to see if he could find out who Clarence Washington was.
The
other item on Kevin's list was seeing if he could help Matt T. He
easily determined that he could get help for Matt at the local VA. He
went looking for Matt one morning downtown where Pat had seen him. It
took all of a couple of minutes to find him. This morning Matt was
out of it. He must have drank most of the night. His head lolled, and
he couldn't focus his eyes. He didn't seem to know Kevin when he
tried to talk to him. He reeked of urine and vomit.
All
Kevin could do was hail the police over when he saw them go by in a
squad car. They tried to talk to Matt but found him incapable of
reasoning or speech. They loaded him up and took him to the tank to
sober up. One cop was on a first name basis with Matt. Kevin thought
he would wait a day or two and come looking for him again.
As
he came back to his apartment, Kevin heard music coming from inside.
He stopped to listen, Pat was in there practicing. She was playing a
violin version of Rachmaninoff's Vocalise, Op 34, No. 14. In Kevin's
opinion, it was one of prettiest and most haunting pieces of music
ever written. The Irish, like the Russians, seemed to go for that
haunting sad brand of masochism the piece showcased. Kevin listened
to her play it over and over several times, before he came out of his
reverie and into the apartment. Pat gave him a big smile and kept
practicing. Kevin watched her play the violin. She closed her eyes
when she played, retreated to some inner place. Her hands were
delicate. Her movements were quiet, precise and rhythmic. There was a
sexiness to her that drew Kevin in.
When
she finished, she opened her eyes and saw him
PR campaign to not look like the racists they were. There was a push
put on to hire "community service" officers; not cops any
more. Those cops would of course include more people of color. It was
all the standard stuff the rest of the country did at the time; no
novel solutions there. No mention was made of the missing Sylvia
either. Kevin instinctively knew that someone could have literally
gotten away with murder during those nights of looting and burning.
It
was very depressing to read about the events, eleven years after the
fact. All the rhetoric had translated into nothing. White flight had
occurred. The police had integrated somewhat reluctantly. Some of the
worst projects were torn down. Commerce in the old neighborhood,
except the illegal kind had disappeared. At least in the South, they
are out in the open with their discrimination. Here, they cloak it in
a code that guarantees nothing will get better while giving the
appearance of being open minded, Kevin thought.
Since
he was taking a class on the subject, Kevin tended to put some of
what he saw in contrast to what he had seen in South America. For one
thing, they were more Catholic than Protestant in their outlook. More
inclusive than exclusive was perhaps a better way to put it. The only
place Kevin knew of that had significant mixing in the states was
down around New Orleans. There, they had the Creole culture.
Interestingly, the Jesuits had a big influence there too. To this
day, they have parishes, not counties. They looked at the mixing of
the races differently. Everyone was mixed in places like Brazil. They
were way ahead of the United States as far as integration was
concerned. They looked at labor, and unions differently too. They
revered education and learning more, and Capitalism less. Octavio Paz
knew what he was talking about, Kevin thought.
His
musing and reading morphed into browsing some of the local socialist
newspapers. They tended to see the riot as a class struggle. Fair
enough, Kevin thought. Everyone has a viewpoint and a lens they look
through. It caught his eye that one of the authors of one of the
articles referenced a Clarence Washington some years before. Plenty
of people named Washington he thought. But he did make a little note
to himself to see if he could find out who Clarence Washington was.
The
other item on Kevin's list was seeing if he could help Matt T. He
easily determined that he could get help for Matt at the local VA. He
went looking for Matt one morning downtown where Pat had seen him. It
took all of a couple of minutes to find him. This morning Matt was
out of it. He must have drank most of the night. His head lolled, and
he couldn't focus his eyes. He didn't seem to know Kevin when he
tried to talk to him. He reeked of urine and vomit.
All
Kevin could do was hail the police over when he saw them go by in a
squad car. They tried to talk to Matt but found him incapable of
reasoning or speech. They loaded him up and took him to the tank to
sober up. One cop was on a first name basis with Matt. Kevin thought
he would wait a day or two and come looking for him again.
As
he came back to his apartment, Kevin heard music coming from inside.
He stopped to listen, Pat was in there practicing. She was playing a
violin version of Rachmaninoff's Vocalise, Op 34, No. 14. In Kevin's
opinion, it was one of prettiest and most haunting pieces of music
ever written. The Irish, like the Russians, seemed to go for that
haunting sad brand of masochism the piece showcased. Kevin listened
to her play it over and over several times, before he came out of his
reverie and into the apartment. Pat gave him a big smile and kept
practicing. Kevin watched her play the violin. She closed her eyes
when she played, retreated to some inner place. Her hands were
delicate. Her movements were quiet, precise and rhythmic. There was a
sexiness to her that drew Kevin in.
When
she finished, she opened her eyes and saw him
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