Post Racial
I boarded the eastbound Slauson Boulevard bus on my way to City College.
On this particular day, I chose to suppress that little voice.
I went to the back of the bus to sit. I was the only Asian sitting there, amongst a group of black youths.
When Sandra Bullock’s character in the 2004 film “Crash” walked by those two black men, she too had a premonition.
I felt the burn of dark pupils. One black teen was eyeing me purposely from across the bus. I felt the gaze of another teen sitting to my left; he leaned over to yet another, whispering into his ear. I dismissed my apprehension: It was a full bus and crowded; and yes, maybe there weren’t too many people who looked like me boarding busses in South Central.
I looked down, continuing to read articles on Trayvon Martin, the seventeen-year-old who was killed by a half-white, half-Peruvian volunteer crime watchman in Florida.
Martin’s death is portrayed as a racist tragedy because he was a young black male. In the court of public opinion, most are probably on Martin’s side.
Suddenly, my reading was interrupted when my body was pulled off my seat. The guy who was eyeing me suspiciously had tugged on my purse, which pulled my wrist because the purse strap was around it. The next tug was enough to lift me like a rag doll.
As the bus stopped on Slauson and Crenshaw, I suddenly realized what was happening.
“Stop!” I shouted. I was able to get a closer look at those eyes which bore into me, surprisingly calm brown eyes, so focused. His objective was clear.
The purse snatcher pushed me out the rear doors of the bus. The exit stairs were behind me. I fell to the sidewalk. He and his friend ripped the strap from my purse and ran.
I watched in slow motion. The bystanders were thankfully not in as much of a daze as I was.
“Do you want me to call the police?” asked a woman.
“Go after them,” said a mother with a little girl dressed in pink.
My chest tightened painfully.
I couldn’t believe what was happening.
“They’re there!” the bystander pointed toward south Crenshaw Boulevard.
I had given up on my purse, but the bystanders prodded me. I walked slowly to comply with their instructions.
Moments later, a man returned on his bicycle after chasing my purse snatchers.
I recognized the small black bag, now strapless.
“Thank you,” I said to the man who returned my purse to me.
I collapsed to the ground because I was so utterly shocked. I had only $3 and a debit card that had access to the few remaining dollars in my checking account. I also had my driver’s license and a cellphone inside that purse.
“Get up,” he urged me, spurring my confidence.
I had never been a victim of a crime.
The boys who had snatched my purse resembled Trayvon Martin in appearance.
I had ignored that “little voice,” scolding myself with “Don’t be a racist.”
Here, I would like to stop my story to warn all Asians who take the bus on South Central to not sit in the back and be aware of teen black males who eye you suspiciously.
I was going to write an editorial about the plight of the young black male, including the most conspicuous statistic of how so few black men are in higher education.
“Don’t be a racist,” was the most important lesson from my memory of the Los Angeles Riots.
I want to get along. I want to live in that post-racial world.
I refused to believe that South Central was a rough neighborhood. I also wanted to do something about the prejudice toward young black males.
Now, I question myself.
The Slauson bus passes by the swapmeet where my father had worked. During the Los Angeles Riots, he was armed along with other Korean workers to guard his place of work. As the lone Asian on the Slauson bus, I am reminded just how segregated Los Angeles still is, so contrary to my idealism.
From now on, I will have an involuntary feeling of fear whenever I see a teenage black male with sagging pants. I don’t want to, but the fear will be there and that is the part I resent the most.
My story ended happily. There were people who helped me. They were all black and brown and they were all more than willing to help that lone Asian—me.
But a gnawing question persists which I want to ask the two teens who plotted to steal my purse: “Why me? Was it because of my race?”
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| Illustration by Jose Tobar |
@CollegianWired
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