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.
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