This incident, this near riot occurred years ago, but its sounds
still echo in my head. Hundreds of screaming, angry voices, hell bent on destruction
announced the mob's presence, reverberating down the concrete canyons of the
city’s buildings like a chorus of banshees. As it drew nearer sounds other than
human voices could be discerned: the repeated concussive thump of fists
pounding on car hoods and doors, the tinkling of glass as store windows were
smashed, the resounding crashes of what must have been shelving being tipped
over and smashing to the floor.
On this night, my Dad and I were leaving a hotel in New York City.
I had accompanied him to a ratification meeting for his union and we’d now head
home via mass transit. The
cold air greeted us as we walked out into the night, suggesting snow, ice and the
havoc it wreaks were about a month away. Dad and I pulled up our collars and were
on our way.
After walking only a few steps I heard the rapidly approaching
commotion. I turned to my Father and asked, "What's going on?" But he
had already evaluated the situation, took me by the hand and said in a voice
that left no question as to its meaning, "LET'S GO." And we did. At
first Dad didn't run but set a brisk pace that forced me to trot every few
paces just to keep up with him. But after the bright flash and subsequent explosion
of a car, undoubtedly the work of more malevolent members of the angry throng, run
we did.
The date was 10/24/1968 and Presidential candidate George Wallace
had just spread his racist vitriol to 16,000 wildly enthusiastic supporters at
NY’s old Madison Square Garden located on 8th Avenue. His rise to
popularity in a nation just awakening to equality standards began five years previously
when the US Supreme Court took a firm stand on desegregating schools. In
Alabama, then Governor Wallace decided he would not obey the law and blocked African
American students from entering the University of Alabama. That is, until
Federal Marshals and the National Guard persuaded him otherwise. The fallout
from Wallace’s confrontation with the government firmly crowned him as the de
facto leader of segregationists.
As was typical during the Viet Nam war era, college-aged protesters
disagreeing with Wallace’s political leanings assembled outside the Garden. Talking,
chanting and singing, they had whipped themselves into their own ideological
frenzy and now needed to express their emotions. And my Dad and I were on a
collision course with this madness.
We
needed to get to the Port Authority Bus Station about ten blocks away. As we
trotted along, we didn’t speak but I could see the concern etched on my Dad’s
face. In practically no time we and a small crowd of other people covered one,
then two, then three blocks, all without incident. Angry shouts and screams of
the mob came & went, bouncing off the building, carried by the wind so we
couldn’t tell exactly where it was at any time. Police sirens now joined in the
cacophonous symphony, a sign that at least some semblance of civilized society
existed somewhere. Perhaps because of this we all slowed to a fast walk, and
then to more of a leisurely stroll after going another two blocks.
Suddenly,
my Dad stumbled and immediately clutched his left hand and I heard a glass
bottle smash on the ground near him. Even in the poor luminescence cast by the
overhead streetlamps I could recognize the crimson color of blood as it dripped
from his hand. There, directly ahead of us, individuals were pouring into the
intersection, filling it up like ants converging on a bread crumb. “Dad,” I
screamed, “You’re bleeding!”
But he
had already taken out his handkerchief, wrapped it around his injured hand and yanked
it tight with his teeth. I was reminded this man had served in the Navy in WWII
and witnessed its horrors first hand. He wouldn’t be deterred by a cut on his
hand.
Grabbing
my left with his good right hand, we ran after the others in our group and quickly
veered into an alley. It was here, in the garbage strewn, two-car wide darkened
expanse between adjacent buildings that I realized the strongest memory of that
evening.
At one
end of the alley, our group congregated, huffing and wheezing from the sprint
we had just made. Then, at the other, members of the mob started to appear,
backlit by streetlamps, jeering, gesticulating and shouting obscenities at us. But
unnoticed in the middle of the alley until what appeared to be a flashlight
illuminated its interior was a car. No engine was running, no voices were heard;
just the light moving around inside. Then, a movement in the car drew the attention
of groups at either end of the alley. Other than noise from the mob coursing
through adjacent streets an eerie silence blanketed the little section of the
city we occupied. What was going on inside that car? A clue was revealed as one
of the doors opened slightly and the interior light went on.
A man
slowly exited the vehicle. It was a Police officer – the biggest man I have
ever seen outside of a professional athlete. There was no point of reference
but he must have been about 6’10” tall. Although dressed in riot gear: helmet, protective
vest, high leather boots and a belt with dangerous looking appurtenances,
easily the most intimidating part of his outfit was the baton he held in his
arms. This tree trunk of a weapon must have been at least 48” long; a full four
feet if an inch. And the giant brandished it with absolutely no difficulty at
all. He stood next to the car, legs slightly apart, holding the baton in his
right hand and slowly tapping it into the palm of his left, over and over. His
message was painfully clear: disband or be broken, probably in half.
A combination
of police sirens, screeching tires and crowd noise then broke the spell that
had held us all as the rest of the mob was now being round up by the
authorities. In a few short months, Wallace became a has-been, segregation
became a reality and the unrest of the 60s and 70s were relegated to the annals
of history.
In New York
City on the night of 10/24/1968, I watched with the eyes of a child but began
to understand the mind of men.
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