Jared.H-Comply+to+Change

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Comply to Change __ The clock struck three. It was three in the afternoon, to be precise. The television was burning holes in my eyes from watching it for too long. It was now seven hours into the court case of Rodney King, and still, no progress. It was almost as if it was becoming a famous act in history, ‘the incorrect prosecution of police officers who assaulted a black man’. I can see it already. America really stuffed up this time. As I blinked again, I peered into the corner of the screen now showing the three o’clock news update. The running banner of updates caught my eye; it read “Two police officers accused of assaulting black man Rodney King last year have been let off of all charges. As recently as 10 minutes ago, riots of black people have begun in the streets of LA.” I stared. I couldn’t stop staring, despite the fact it had gone to an ad break. I did not think of what the blacks in my neighbourhood would think of me when they saw me, a white man, nor about the police men themselves. All I thought about was Jay. He is my lifelong friend, ever since elementary. I knew he was good friends with Rodney, and all I could do was sit and imagine the pain he must be feeling inside. The pain of being looked down upon by society. My god it made me feel sick. I knew I had to see him, calm him. I got up from the couch and grabbed the car keys, still thinking in disgust about the decision. “Where are you going, Lenny?” called my wife from across the room. I stalled for a fraction of a second. I replied I was going to the store to get some milk. She stared at me for a while. She doesn’t like Jay. I knew taken five minutes to walk rather than thirty seconds to drive. Jay only lived down the road, a few kilometres at the most. As I approached his door I realised it was open. Immediately I thought she knew I was going to see him, and I knew she knew we had plenty of milk, but she understands.

The drive was barely worth it. I could have just he was home, but in actual fact I was wrong. I decided to open his door. “Jay, are you there? It’s Lenny.” No reply. Not a sound but that of the wind blowing through the window across Jay’s front room. At this point I figured he wasn’t home but I walked in to see anyway. Everything was normal except no Jay, but one thing caught my eye. A letter. On the table there was a letter. It was handmade, with Jay’s cursive on the front saying “Lenny”. Dread filled my body. My heart was like a clenched fist. I expected the worse, but I guess he knew I was coming. As the hand crafter letter was addressed to me, I opened it. The page was frayed and shabby, nor was his handwriting neat. It read:

“Lenny, my friend, if you are reading this, I am at the riots. I was once a black boy in a white town, when we were children. Back then it wasn’t so bad, but now I’m a black man in a white city. How hard it is to live your life as a black man when you could turn a corner and be beaten by the white man, defenceless, witnessless, all because I am black. Lenny, you have been a great brother of mine since school, and through college. You helped me when times were rough, when my father passed, when my brother was prosecuted. I left this letter as I may never be able to see you again. Riots are no play ground; people get killed. A white man can approach a black man and do whatever he pleases and then blame the black man. Everyone will believe his story because he is white. I know the officers are guilty, Rodney wouldn’t lie to me. But they got no sentence, why, because they’re whites. They are all insiders with one another, rejecting us selfishly. They think they can do whatever they want, kill a man and get away with it, and I could rob a man and be killed. I imagine how wondrous it must feel to have this privilege, and I’m hoping the riots will give me this. Only until more whites show up though, with their riot shields and rights, and again push us back to where they think we belong; either death, or solitude. This letter leaves no burden on you, Lenny. You are the only white man I know willing to give blacks a chance in life, seeing their life and how hard and unjust it is to be myself. The way you helped me through school; if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be using such proper language or punctuation. You were all I had, my only friend who would look out for me, and keep me out of trouble, you gave me the feeling of being white, an insider on American society, until I had to come home, no one home, and be looked down on like I had been before I came. Lenny, I may see you again, I hope I will, but I do seek vengeance on whites, as they seek, for no reason, vengeance on us. I hope to be home from the riots before the fire begins at dusk if all goes well, but I may not be in the best state From Jay.”

I sat. I guess you could imagine how long I would sit there and think for. For ten whole minutes, I tried to imagine that that is how he felt, every day, at every place. It made me sad and sick inside that we white people can have that kind of effect on blacks. At this point I looked at my watch. Last I looked at the house clock it was three. My watch now said five. Maybe I was thinking about the letter for more than ten minutes, but it doesn’t matter. In a way, I really didn’t think I’d see him again, and it was hard for me. I knew I had to help him.

I got up from the table in Jays house, slowly, and swiftly, as if no one had ever been there. I knew the sun goes down at about five, and that is when riots will get messy. I was just about to turn the old chrome handle on the front door when it turned itself and swang open. It was Jay, Standing there. He looked alive. He didn’t look like the attitude his letter showed. He looked like a white man who knows he can do what he wants, like a child who had been disobedient and got away with it. One other thing though, he was red. His hands, his shirt, were covered in red. At this point I knew; he was an insider. include component="comments" page="Jared.H-Comply to Change" limit="10"