I live in Main Street, CA with my wife and child. It’s a small town 20 minutes north of downtown Los Angeles, with a mom and pop town square that has cute restaurants and unassuming shops. It’s a place where you meet other families, have dinner, and take a stroll to the ice cream parlor. They have flea markets, and craft shows, and Octoberfests, and Christmas parades. It’s as close as you get to Mayberry in 21st century Los Angeles.
Covid’s been tough on Main Street’s businesses but the town’s medical fallout was, thankfully, slight and well-managed. And, of course, the destruction and chaos from the George Floyd reaction was felt in many other parts of LA but, per usual, our little slice of heaven was small enough to go unnoticed.
But one day, that changed. A neighbor who fled with his family to Central California sent me a flier from the local police—a BLM protest was scheduled for the next day at the town square. My heart sank. Recently, a friend in Hollywood grimly reported that the riots and looting left nothing between Melrose and Santa Monica Blvd. It was shocking. I had lived in that neighborhood for for 14 years. For days, destruction and violence filled the news. I didn't know the small business owners I saw on TV, but I sure knew many here in Main Street. I wanted to call and see if I could help board-up store fronts or make other plans but the curfew had already started—it was too late to do anything that night.
Protest Day…
I’m no stranger to politics. My mother had been CIA and staffed for a Judge turned State Senator. My father lobbied legislators and addressed the general assembly more than once, in addition, to testifying before state Senate committees on numerous occasions. Still in diapers, I was in the presence of Presidents—barely walking I marched on State Houses and Federal Buildings, alike. There were petition drives, campaigns, candle light vigils, and counter demonstrations. I’ve dined with State Senators and once I even had to share a room overnight with a delegate that was running for higher office.
So, when people march I get it because I grew up in a family that lived it. Of course, the Floyd protests, like so many these days, has a component of danger. So, I prepared for battle, which just means I wore boots instead of sneakers.
9:38 AM: Off to Main Street, wearing my surgical mask. Along the way there were a couple of boarded-up businesses, but everything else seemed fairly standard. As I walked to the town square I came upon a restaurant owner I know. As she nervously shuffled towards her building’s entrance it became clear she was visibly shaken. She was worried about the protest and the potential damage it might inflict. Like so many establishments, Covid had really destroyed their sales and a smashed window would mean even more debt. I tried to assure her that she was far enough from the action, but i don’t think it helped much.
10:37AM: After a brief scout, that revealed only a few protesters staged in a parking lot, I ran into the local jeweler—John. He owns a little shop on the strip that has sold me every piece of nice jewelry I’ve ever given my wife. He leaned against a railing, talking to another local fixture—an older Armenian gentlemen named Alexander who sat on a bench nearby. The three of us discussed the protests. John said earlier he saw a woman on the street drilling a group of kids on how they should scream during the protest. He was troubled by how controlling she seemed as she got in their faces, poking her finger. Both men tended to blame the media for blowing Covid out of proportion and ginning up the Floyd response. It was typical old-man talk but I mostly had to agree. When I asked if this was more about November they smiled and nodded yes.
Suddenly, an unmarked police car pulled up to us. The officer told John that the protest was mostly young people and it looked, thus far, peaceful. It was clear the two men had spoken before. As the officer drove away, the roll-up security door at the jewelry store came up to reveal John’s business partner and two armed guards. John wasn't taking any chances. His entire financial life was in that shop and it was clear to him there was too much uncertainty with police protection lately. He was on his own.
11:48 AM: I walked back to the parking lot to see if the number of demonstrators had changed. When I turned the corner I found, what seemed like, dozens and dozens of 13 year-old girls with their moms. It looked like a Taylor Swift concert. I remember thinking to myself, “Is this really a Black Lives Matter event? A bunch of little white girls? There must be others coming.”
12:05 PM: Shake it off and enter the Valley Bar—the local gastropub. Because of Covid restrictions the staff has dwindled from ten to three. Dino, a longtime manager there, wears a lot of hats. Right now, he’s trying to work out some tech issues, as food order apps have become a cornerstone of the “no dine-in” restaurant age.
I order lunch to go and he pours me a glass while chanting protesters move up the street. He tells me his plan to run out the backdoor if the storefront gets smashed. He’s fearful. Just like the other two business operators I talked to that day. As a matter of fact, I didn’t speak to a single person that worked in the town square that wasn’t worried.
Like most people, Dino was sympathetic to the popular George Floyd cause. Conventional wisdom dictates that a growing list of well-known police victims including Mike Brown and Eric Garner proves that unarmed black Americans are more likely than whites to die in a police altercation. However, when you look at the numbers—the data simply doesn’t support this widespread assumption. Last year there were nine black deaths and 19 white deaths. And when compensating for criminal involvement by demographic it looks largely fair. Certainly, its not a monstrous institutional injustice like we’ve been led to believe for so many years.
1:35 PM: Starting to head home with my family’s lunch, I decided to go see the restaurant owner from earlier and check-in with her. I would be happy to report the march was over, without serious incident and it was unlikely there would be any violence. But as I walked down the street, a loud commotion from a nearby intersection caught my attention. As I approached, an army of fanatical tweens and parents came into view, screaming and cussing at a line of policeman on motorcycles—the same officers that had escorted them through the neighborhood earlier.
It was venomous. It was crazed. It was truly jaw-dropping. It was the level of vitriol I would expect consumes the children of militant Islamists or Neo-Nazis. The signs read “No Justice, No Peace”, “Defund”, “Blue Lives Murder”. These people, these children…were consumed by hate.
Horrifically, they were being made to imitate the very worst of adult political speech and spew it at law enforcement. They were disrespecting innocent policemen and promoting violence while parents and teachers either egged them on or stood around and said nothing. Local news reported that the protest was organized by high schoolers but I think its safe to assume they’d been coerced by activists. I’m all for civic minded youth, but if this wasn’t toxic for a child’s mental health then I don’t know what is.
There were so many things I wish I could have asked the organizers of this protest. Did these people know that local businesses were scared of them and there was an increased gun presence because of those fears? Why did no one consult with these businesses before bringing in a protest that could have started a riot? Do they know how dysfunctional it was that their children were melting down on our neighbors that make up the Main Street police force? What about the racist police narrative? Do they know science says that’s questionable? Did they know that a black cop was killed because of this movement? And another barely hangs onto life because of this movement? And dozens more were assaulted and shot and hospitalized—did they know all that? Do those black lives matter? What about the black business owners that are ruined? The black housing that’s no longer inhabitable? Do their black lives matter?
And then what about here? Are we destined just to be another catty pocket of LA’s urban landscape or are we willing to make our lives matter to defend the charm and peace that defines this place? Tell me…what will become of Main Street?
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