PERSPECTIVE ON CHILDREN : Volcanic Stew of Youthful Emotion : Students at a South L.A. elementary school are desperate to talk about the excitement and fear of being in the middle of such unrest.

It is 8 o’clock in this classroom at an elementary school in South Los Angeles, a few days after a jittery calm has returned to the city. The children sit nervously. Only half of the class is here today. The rest are still too scared to come. Most of them have experienced a real nightmare.

These children do not know what trauma means, but they know they need to talk. As soon as the teacher calls roll, hands shoot into the air. Each of these Latino and black 8- and 9-year-olds has an unsettling adventure to relate.

--”My father took me to the liquor store, and we took many bottles of wine. I had a sip of it and I liked it. Soon afterward, the liquor (store) was burning. Later, a wounded man came into our house and the police threw in some smoke bombs. My baby brother was crying. There was too much smoke.”

--”My mother was full of tears. Our house was full of black smoke. Everything was dark, very dark. We had to get out and leave the place. We are now living with my aunt.”

--”I was in the Valley when my mum phoned me to tell me how many things my uncle had brought for me. I came back in the evening and my neighborhood was like a war zone, but there was a great scooter waiting for me in the back yard.”

Many students wear new clothes and sneakers today. One little girl says that she went looting with her older brother because she needed a new skirt.

--”It was right to get mad. The people were stealing because they were hungry. That is why they had to kill.” The anger in the black community is shared by these schoolchildren.

The kids who weren’t on the streets saw it all on television. They have a clear understanding of what happened, and it makes them fear for their futures.

--”My father lost his job in the pizzeria. He is very sad now. He does not want to go out of home. He is very depressed,” says one girl.

--”I am very worried because I have not seen my father for several days. He is a police officer,” says another girl.

The class is noisy. Only one small boy is sitting quietly, staring out the window.

At the sound of a helicopter, many of the students leap up and pretend to be soldiers firing their machine guns. The silent boy is still looking through the window.

Everyone can see a few homeless people picking at the burned remains of the supermarket across from the school building: pieces of wood, iron, bottles. Groups of students are sweeping the ashes at the front door. Others are covering graffiti on the school wall. The red script disappears as the brushes spread the paint.

These past days will not be erased so easily. The beggars were kings for one day. Being violent was an instinctive way of saying: “We are here. We have a voice. We exist.”

The school bell rings for the first recess. The children line up. Nobody is benched this morning. Talking in the line goes unpunished. Tomorrow, rules and regulations will be in effect again.