Impulses

The neighborhood called Watts is in the ghetto, the most distressed, depressed and underdeveloped area of south-central Los Angeles. Along with poverty, misery, and violent crime, Watts is the home of seventeen beautiful hand-made structures and towers. An Italian immigrant built the Watts Towers in his spare time over thirty years between the 1920s and 50s.

The towers have survived vandalism, abandonment, accusations of being communications relays for a Japanese invasion, neglect, demolition orders and the 1965 Watts riots.

In 1968 I was in Junior High. I joined a special class that was bussed for half the day to schools in different parts of town. The class was part of some experimental program in cross cultural sixties something-or-other. A bus picked up kids from three schools and deposited us all for classes at a fourth.
Each of the three was tougher than the last and the fourth school was toughest of all.

None of the schools were in areas as tough as Watts. I don't know if Watts even has schools. When you drive its streets children and school-aged kids wander about and play freely during the day.

I joined the program for several reasons – I'd get credits for traveling instead of sitting in a boring, mindless class. The class had the appeal of being alternative. And the magnetic Evie Paine was signed up. Evie was smart, lovely and had an innocent, intelligent curiosity. As I struggled with the end of childhood and the doubts of adolescence she offered the aspiration to something greater, something higher. Ahh, Evie Paine. I had to let her know I existed.

One day the class went on a field trip to visit the Watts Towers. Fun. Field trip.

The Towers were great. The hard material of urban decay - broken glass, scrap steel and mortar - spire into the sky. Hope and beauty rise out of waste. Thirty years of volunteer labour, using materials at hand and scavenged; they soar out of the ghetto and offer us life's eternal challenge: Can we do the right thing today with what we have today? The towers stand as proof that our answer matters.

Kids attract kids and the toughs of the neighbourhood hung around. A bit of jostling, attempts to touch the girls. I wandered a bit, away from the towers to a cross street. A couple of kids started hassling me.

Someone older got between us, someone with a name tag, telling me to go back to the group, not to fight. In fact, fighting those boys was furthest from my mind.

Things got worse and we were sent to the bus. I went to my usual spot in the very back. There sat Evie. The neighbour kids started pelting the bus with rocks. Glass was flying from broken windows. I threw Evie to the floor. Rocks were coming in.

Just as I threw myself over her I saw my mates leaping from their seats, yelling for battle, charging to the door. Every single boy, but me. The driver stumbled up the stairs, blood flowing from his face and head and just closed the door before our boys went out.

In my adrenalin rush I managed several conflicting feelings. Fear. Joy at being the protector. And amazement. I was stunned by how the other boys reacted – so instinctual, so immediate and so opposite from me. How could I be so different? Thinking back, decades passed, I am still amazed. We each reacted by programming. Is mine so different?

The driver got the bus to the Watts police station and the long process of dealing with the incident began. Evie and I untangled and climbed up to our seat. She was still shaking. I held her. We eventually got back to our school and were met by officials and the principal and more police and reporters. I held her hand til the end.

official trailer of the film "I Build the Tower" the Watts Towers by Sim...

Bus 67

Perhaps there was a strike somewhere, or perhaps it was the normal Sunday schedule. Bus number 67 was full that September afternoon. In the front row sat a lovely couple of the generation and upbringing who, you could just tell, always dressed properly for going out. Both in tan overcoats, he wore a fedora and plaid scarf. She, a wool knit beret, black gloves and proper brown ankle boots. They sat contentedly, chatting quietly, apparently immune to the fatigue and alienation that afflicts bus passengers around the world.

We climbed aboard the 67 at the Nation stop, fighting through our bags and carry-ons to swipe our tourist transit passes on the ticket scanners. The couple looked up at us with simultaneous bright smiles. He started to get up and point to his seat, but we shook our heads, no, thank-you. I threw our carry-ons onto a small rack. They couple shuffled closer against the window trying to make room for one of us.

The phrase book would be a waste, so with body language, hand signals and a few mispronounced words we tried to explain that we wanted to stand. We chose to take the bus, not the faster metro, so we could see everything, not miss a moment, a street scene or, if lucky, an encounter.

Their smiles brightened and warmed. They spoke to us and occasionally pointed out the window. We did not understand.

Later we talked about the lovely elderly couple and invented stories about where they were going. Visiting grandchildren? Were a few sweets in her handbag? They would not be going shopping as most stores closed Sundays. To or from church?

My inventions grew more elaborate. They were visiting his widowed elder sister in the 13th. His wife would make tea and clean the apartment while he'd attempt again to convince her to move somewhere she'd not be alone. “But I am alone, cher frère,” the sister always replied.

They got off the 67 just before Place d'Italie. He scampered down the stairs first, then offered his arm to help her down. We turned to look through the window. We watched, hoping to wave goodbye. A folded umbrella was in one arm; his love in the other. His chest was out, his chin was up. His step was light as he led her from the curb into the Autumn afternoon. This is how to take your girl out on a Sunday afternoon. This is how I've always taken my girl out.