"Thank God, a day off work," I thought as I sat watching the news reports of my neighborhood going up in flames. I marveled at businesses that I frequented, as recently as that morning, being gutted of their goods like so many piñatas. For the first time, I regretted moving to my tiny apartment on Crenshaw and Florence, mere blocks away from the Reginald Denny spark that lit the fire.

The phone calls began to trickle in from family and friends who knew of my proximity to the flames of frustration that were beginning to spread to other streets, to other businesses, to other neighborhoods. One concerned caller begged me to take refuge in the bathtub and not to venture outside, since I wasn't exactly the "darkest sista in town." The flickering light of the newscasts was the only break in the shadows of my apartment. "How peculiar," I thought, "that's a live shot of the gas station on the corner engulfed in flames? That was out hours ago!"

"Doesn't anyone notice?" I wondered as the TV glared at me. "They're stealing food!" Women frantically loaded their car trunks with stolen food, while their babies sat innocently in shopping carts. Men hauled large boxes of diapers on their shoulders and cartons of milk under their arms. But that wasn't all. Trucks backed into electronic shops and gutted them, removing security gates like wrappers off candy ... televisions, CD players, electronic toys and gadgets, all the items admired but never attained, sure now to bring happiness and tranquility.

Here we are, ten years later. The food has been devoured. The diapers are now soiled and have been long discarded. The luxurious television, once prominently displayed in the front room, is now "on the blink," with no means to get it fixed. And blacks are still on the lowest rung on society's ladder, the least likely to be employed, the least healthy, the least safe in our homes, the least likely to be free from oppression and discrimination, the least likely to see our children survive, the least educated and the least likely to live the "American Dream." Nothing has changed. Numerous businesses, once vital economic contributors to the community, sit vacant on streets overrun with drugs. Larger businesses find South Central too much of a risk and refuse to reopen in the neighborhood.

Looking back on that day, I cringe at the wide-eyed faith I once had that the riots would change things. If the leveling of the financial hub of this country, the World Trade Center, didn't bring this capitalistic machine to a halt, how humorous it is that we once imagined burning a few mom-and-pop corner stores would make a difference! As affirmative action is slowly and steadily reduced to a past memory, minorities are brought to their knees, now forced to rely on the "good faith" of the economic elite to include them at the table of life. The scar of slavery is kept fresh by the culture of racism so deeply embedded in every crevice of our society. Where do we go from here?

For the first time, it is obvious to me that our fifty-year attempt at "non-biased integration" has failed. We've protested with lawyers and lawsuits. And still they don't listen. We've protested quietly while being beaten with clubs, blasted with fire hoses, and bitten by dogs. And still they don't listen. We've protested more violently, with fists and with fire. And still they don't listen. Maybe we should stop trying. Maybe we should protect our own. Maybe we should separate.

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The death of the integration dream

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