UNDERSTANDING THE RIOTS--SIX MONTHS LATER : Touched by Fire / A Legacy of Pain and Hope : THE HELPERS : Doing the Right Thing in Spite of Danger, Adversity

For many Californians, the riots were more than a momentary blip on the screen--they were a flash point for lasting and fundamental changes in their lives. The devastation left a legacy of broken dreams for many, awakened a sense of social justice in some, unleashed anger and hatred in others, and rekindled a spirit of hope among others. Six months after the riots, Times reporters visited some of the people and places touched by the extraordinary events of last spring and on these pages we tell their stories.

I went to the gym and they were talking about the Rodney (King) verdict on the television. I was . . . I don’t think angry was the word; I was disappoint ed and I was frightened. I felt a profound hurt because I had been devalued--as we all were--as a human being.

When I left the gym, I heard (on the radio) about the truck driver who had been pulled from his vehicle. And so I proceeded to Florence and Normandie because I knew that people were angry. And I knew that they were responding out of frustration. So I went to see if I could be of assistance. Because I don’t like mob violence.

And on the way there I saw a group of young African-American men chasing what appeared to be a white man down the street. So I pulled up and said “Leave him alone.” It wasn’t a white man, it was a mulatto man. These guys were chasing him and beating him and laughing. They weren’t saying “We remember Rodney King.” They weren’t saying “Power to the people.” They were laughing and they were taking joy in beating this man . . . the same joy the cops took in beating Rodney King.

Then I saw a Ford Bronco coming into the intersection. All of his windows just shattered. Somebody climbed in the passenger side, sort of beating him in the face with a bottle. I saw him lose consciousness, and they were still beating him and I couldn’t take it anymore. I pulled him from the truck and I started dragging him across the street. Somebody came up and hit him in the face with a bottle--hard. Some other man was intervening on our behalf and shielding us with his body, and they beat him. And people are saying “Ah yeah, you Korean so-and-so, we got you, didn’t we.”

At first people thought these guys who were beating these people were champions. But then when they saw the reality--we were covered with blood--oh my God. A lot of people offered to call 911, a couple of old ladies on their porches. Then a police cruiser backs up, pulls up, looks at us. I said, “Help him, he’s bleeding to death. Please help him.” They drove away. They turned around, they came back, they looked at me again. They drove away.

A brother in a van came along and said, “Want me to take him to the hospital?” I put him in the guy’s van and the guy took him, I found out later, to California Medical Center.

(Later, Williams found out the man he helped was Takao Hirata, a 47-year-old Japanese-American who subsequently recovered from his injuries except for some loss of hearing and vision on his left side. Williams was subsequently honored by a number of civic organizations for his act.)

I had turned down two talk shows before because I was afraid their set format would be confrontational or political, and I did not want what was a very personal act for me to be politicized. But the Donahue people assured me that their format was going to be a calm one dealing with the victims of the riots and people who helped. But when I got to the studio I realized that they had me on with those two gang member fellows. And I realized I had been set up.

With Mr. Donahue playing the ultra-liberal, he set me up as if I was a Nazi. Because I suggested that perhaps each individual needed to assess their own role in their own personal success or failure. He told me that what I had said would be well received in white Rotary clubs around America. But he wasn’t sure that that would go over well in black America--as if white Rotary clubs were the only people who had a sense of self-worth and values and a sense of personal responsibility. I couldn’t believe that that smarmy son of a bitch actually said that to me. See that’s what’s dangerous; it ain’t the Nazis, it’s that kind of stuff right there.

Then (the ex-gang members) started talking about the riots in L.A. as class struggle. These are young men who’ve chosen a path of violence and intimidation and terrorism now setting themselves up as leaders of a class struggle. And I said, gentlemen, with all due respect, that’s absurd.

You know, black people have come to me on the street and say--they always whisper--”Hey, it was really great what you did.” And I always find it odd that they whisper. It is still difficult for us to take individual positions on difficult issues.

(Williams was later subpoenaed by the prosecution to testify against four black youths charged in the beatings at Florence and Normandie . )

I think the prosecution was playing me. They knew that I was a survivor and that those young men were not. They knew that my hair would be trimmed and theirs would probably have chemicals in it, and because they had been incarcerated and had no way to take care of their chemically-treated hair it would be standing all over their head. They knew that I would come in in a suit and tie and they would be hunched over in chains. The prosecution says, we’re gonna put the good nigger on the stand--this is the good nigger who helped a man and these are the bad niggers. Everybody’s there playing a game.

I grew up staring racism in the face. Teachers calling me nigger. By the time I was 21 years old, I hated white folks with a passion. But that hate threatened to consume me and devour me and kill me. Now I judge each man on his merits. And so when I hear people talk about, “Oh, those poor guys, they had such a bad upbringing.” I’m kinda like, cool. All right. They had some problems in their upbringing; I had some problems; so did that white girl over there; so did that brown guy over there. But that don’t mean I’m gonna let you come in my house. That don’t mean I’m gonna let you steal from me, that I’m gonna let you hurt my family. That don’t mean that I’m gonna condone you driving by and killing some innocent people.

And the reason I knew they were knuckleheads was because I was a knucklehead. I mean that I was full of rage. We can understand his rage and his low self-esteem and self-loathing. But we cannot tolerate a knucklehead going about and destroying the community, simply because we understand. I think the compassion has to be applied to all victims--the victim and the victim of the victim. The hard edge of compassion is this: Those who have made violent choices need to be removed. Identified and removed and treated as sick people.

I think the answer is on us as a people, black men. We have to interact with these children. We have to be there for them. We may not be responsible for the problem, but we’ve got to be responsible for the solution. Because otherwise I’m nowhere. Otherwise I’m sunk. Otherwise I’m just hopeless and I’m full of hate, full of anger, full of resentment.