Becoming a Man in the Shadowlands: a Survivor's Story
Copyright© 2019 by Dennis Randall
Chapter 18: Culture Shock
Going to school in Los Angeles was a unique experience. Unlike all my previous schools which occupied a single building, Henry Clay Junior High School was a sprawling campus-style affair with scores of classroom buildings assembled in neat rows.
My other adjustment was to the incredible ethnic and cultural diversity. All my other educational experiences involved attending lily-white schools devoid of other races. Henry Clay was a blended rainbow of black, brown, white, and Asian faces. Well, we did not actually blend; we clumped together like spoiled milk.
The first thing I learned was not to talk to or associate with anyone whose skin tone did not match mine. An armed truce of sorts kept the level of tension between each group just below the boiling point. Seriously, there were kids in each cluster who carried guns to school along with an assortment of brass knuckles and switchblades.
Racism has never been a part of my upbringing but survivalism was. When in Rome, I did as the Romans did. I followed the prevailing social norm and kept on my side of the color line.
I was personally shot at was while walking home from school.
A friend and I were taking a shortcut home after classes. We were crossing a tumbleweed-filled field when a gang of six or seven Hispanic kids took exception to us walking on their dirt without their permission.
They were older kids from high school and most of what they said or yelled was lost to me since I did not speak Spanish. The hostility in their voices did not require a translation.
My friend who made up for in volume what he lacked in diplomacy yelled back something, which began with, “Fuck you!” and ended in, “Eat shit and die, mother fuckers.” His next words to me were, “Run for your life!” as the gang of Hispanic kids charged after us.
We took off across the field like scared jackrabbits. Fear and adrenaline fueled my flight and kept us about fifty yards ahead of the angry mob. Within a few minutes, we came across a massive erosion gully where rainwater runoff had carved a scaled-down version of the Grand Canyon.
The ditch was about two hundred feet across and fifty feet deep with steep, nearly vertical sides. The sun-baked soil had the consistency and texture of reinforced concrete. We raced along the edge of the cliff until we spotted a crossing point where the slope allowed a minimum of footing and a few handholds.
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