Watts Boy, late 1960s, acrylic on canvas board, 16″x20″

The Watts Riots were 50 years ago. At the time, it seemed a long way off to a kid growing up in the white suburbs of L.A. Except it wasn’t. You could catch a whiff of smoke coming through Cahuenga Pass in the mornings. And Dad’s delivery route was in East L.A. Five days a week, he delivered fresh bread to markets and restaurants in the area. During those days he came home in the afternoons complaining only of the inconvenience of having to make his way around Army check points and burned out city blocks. He’d been through the War. He’d seen worse. He had a job to do.

Before the riots, he had taken me on his route a couple times. Today, Watts is mostly Latino. Then, it was nearly all Black. My Dad greeted a lot of people on his route like old friends. Most returned the greetings. Everybody was just doing their jobs. He delivered fresh bread and sometimes people gave us things in return. The best home made vegetable soup I ever had was from the basement kitchen of what Dad called a “men’s hotel”. I thought it was exotic and exciting. But what’s a kid know?

When the riots broke out, I was curious. I didn’t understand. Everyone seemed to have an opinion. Something important was happening. But none of it made sense to me. And why should it? “Civilization,” Walter Mosley said, “was in tatters.” I saw a photo in a magazine back then telling about the riots. The riots were over but you could still smell the smoke. In the  photo there was a Black kid about my age. He was just sitting on the pavement at the base of a wall looking at something. It seemed like he was trying to figure out what he was looking at. So, I painted this picture from it.