Whats Going On by Federico Martinez This song always reminds me of living in my grandma Angelita Martinezs house during the late 1960s. Dr. King had been assassinated and the repercussions could be felt even in a small town like Adrian, Michigan. Back then Mexicans and African Americans were only allowed to live downtown or in an a part of town called Sunnyside where mostly Mexicanos lived. My parents and i were sharing a house with my grandmother on down towns Erie Street. I was about 3 years old but i felt the tension in the air. We were one of two Latino families that i know lived downtown. Less than one block away were two party stores, one near a small bridge where many of the teens liked to congregate. It wasnt uncommon for the police to come by and start ordering everyone to disperse; if you didnt respond quickly they would get out of their cruisers and start beating people with their clubs. If you ran they would chase you down and beat you bloody, sometimes they would arrest you for disturbing the peace or fleeing and eluding. I would hear gunshots, but always assumed they were only warning shots shot into the air. I remember many times my grandmother and mother grabbing me from the backyard and running inside where it was safe. On one of those times we had just fled into the backdoor to the house. My mother and grandmother running around trying to shut and lock all the doors. I stood in the kitchen frozen, until a terrified young African American teenager ran to the screen door and begged me to help him. His face was a bloody pulp, tears and blood streamed down his face. We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity; the moment broken as my mother came running into the kitchen and began screaming when she saw the bloody youth. My mother, who was terrified of African Americans back then began yelling a phrase. To my young ears I thought she was screaming its a tax man, its a tax man. It wasnt until years later that i figured out that she was really screaming its a black man. Despite his pleas for help, my mother refused to open the screen door. My grandmother finally ran into the kitchen and opened the door. She ordered the young man to go into the farthest part of the basement and not make a sound or move until she fetched him. Minutes later a white cop showed up at the backdoor. He saw the blood on the window and porch and demanded entrance into the house. My grandmother refused and demanded to see a search warrant. The officer busted through the window screen and began to open the door and enter. Thats when my grandmother who had remained partially behind the inner wooden door moved directly in front if him with a shotgun and threatened to blow his head off if he stepped into the house or reached for his gun. He cursed and threatened to return with more police and she promised to shoot as many as she could before allowing them inside. Several minutes later my grandmother brought the young man upstairs and ordered him to run home as quickly as he could. The cops never returned. My mother cried for what seemed like hours. I saw my grandmother as a hero, someone who was willing to stand up to injustice even if it cost her her life. It also made me question, even at that age, all the prejudice and hate in my world and I wondered if my grandmother would be able to save my life some day.
Posted on: Sun, 11 Jan 2015 06:44:06 +0000
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