The verdict that landed like a slap in the face. The smoke that rose over the city in columns of protest. The rampant looting and savage beatings.
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"When the verdict came down, my phone rang off the hook," said Lawrence Tolliver, whose shop on Florence Avenue wasn't far from where Reginald Denny had his skull crushed by hooligans.
Like so many others, Tolliver was enraged by the exoneration of cops who had pummeled Rodney King. It was the latest, most graphic evidence that there were two kinds of justice in Los Angeles — one for the white man and one for everyone else. But as a hard-working citizen who had built a business and raised a family, and was proud of home and community, the physical violence against innocents and the destruction of South Los Angeles by rioters was as crushing to Tolliver as the blows to King's head and body.
"We were all angry," Tolliver said, "but not angry enough to burn our neighborhood down."
And so it goes with Mr. Tolliver, who presides over his shop with judicial fair-mindedness and ministerial grace, searching always for a thread of hope. I spent a few hours with him and his cohorts Thursday. Preacher, teacher, truck driver — they all had something to say while Tolliver snipped away in a tonsorial parlor adorned with images of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., Bobby Kennedy and Jackie Robinson sliding home safely.
Against a back wall sat Si Youngblood, grandson of a Louisiana slave, with an Obama poster draped behind him. Nearby was 18-year-old Arthur Gomez, mouth agape, as if he were in college and had never heard history come alive like this. His father is Latino, and his African American mother split when he was young, so he took it upon himself to begin hanging around the shop last summer to get to know the part of him that's black.
If there was a consensus in the room, it was this:
The year 2012 isn't what they hoped it would be.
Twenty years ago, with all the promise of change and economic investment, nobody would have predicted that the future would end up looking so much like the past. With obvious exceptions and some generalization, the Santa Monica Freeway still divides the city into two distinct hemispheres, one that climbs the hills and one that never rose up.
"You'd think that after all this time you could walk down some of these commercial corridors and see big changes," said Alvin Jenkins, who retired from the city redevelopment agency. But where "some of the businesses were burned out 20 years ago," he still sees empty lots.
What's worse, said physician James Peace, who posted "Black-Owned Business" on his Diabetic Eye Medical Clinic in 1992 to keep it from being torched or looted, is that "people who didn't even have much to begin with have gotten worse."
A lot of that can be attributed, I suggested, to two things:
First, you can't have an A-plus recovery with C-minus schools. And second, you can't have a turnaround when thousands more good-paying jobs — in aerospace and industry — have become but a memory. Target and Starbucks do what they do just fine, but they don't send your kids to college the way Firestone and Hughes Aerospace did.
These observations got nods of approval and agreement, but in true barbershop style, the challenges were swift and many.
Certainly you have to consider the macro, said the Rev. James McKnight, but we shouldn't forget that better parenting and more leadership from clergy is something that can happen today (he called on black clergy to do a better job of rebuilding relations with the Korean American community too). McKnight and his disciples began pointing out those in the room who, despite great obstacles when they were children, have risen above them as adults because of hard work and parental insistence.
As Exhibit A, they offered the case of Carter Paysinger. He and his siblings grew up near the barbershop, but their working parents made an effort to get them into Westside schools, and they prospered. Paysinger is now principal of Beverly Hills High.