By Scott Shaw

I was born in Hollywood, California, not far from downtown Los Angeles. I grew up during the turbulent 1960's in a portion of the city that was then known as Watts, but has more recently come to be commonly referred to as South-central L.A.

In 1965, this area exploded with the Watt's Riots. The memory of the National Guard, in their tanks and troupe carriers, patrolling the street, and watching the news reports of the carnage which was taking place is etched into my mind. It was a time of chaos when the redefinition of American society was unfolding.

Perhaps this isn't such a unique experience, as there were obviously an untold number of people living in that area of L.A. at that historic period of time. But, perhaps what is a bit more unique is the fact that I'm Caucasian with blonde hair. Whereas the average person occupying that vicinity, at that period of time, was Africa-American.

I remember my first day of first grade. I walked into the classroom, looked around, and realized that I was the only person not of color. Now, this was a shock for me because I had gone to Kindergarten at a Christian school and there were a variety of ethnic categories which had made up my peer group. But, as I had transfer to public school, I immediately found myself standing out from my surroundings.

It was not that I did not establish friendships. But, being called a, "Honky," being attacked by older children, and being challenged to fights, due to my skin's color, was almost a daily occurrence.

When I tell people about my early childhood, the question is immediately asked, "Was I from a very poor family?" In fact, I was not. It was simply that my father had grown up in Watts and for him it was the world he had always known. He had not taken notice that the area had changed.

My family and I lived in South-central, with the commonness of the previously described experiences, until the day Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. A gang from the nearby Junior High School decided that due to the fact that I was the only known white person in the vicinity, the murder of this great man had to be my fault.

So, the word was out - I was going to be killed.

My school mates continually walked up to me that day, with smiles on their faces, telling me that the gang was on its way to get me. I was going to die, like Martin Luther King Jr. had died.

I was eight years old...

That entire day, I was constantly reminded that the gang would get me as I was walking home. The fear I experienced permeated my entire being and it was devastating.

That afternoon, I began my walk home. And yes, as I looked down the street which I traveled each day, there they were. They were rapidly approaching - in quest of me - the only Caucasian that they knew of.

I ran back into the school. The police soon showed up. They must have been made privy to the rumblings of the community, as well. They were there to take me home.

And yes, as they drove me home in the back seat of their police car, we passed about twenty members of the gang yelling and screaming at me.

Upon arriving at home that day, the police officers were astounded to find that there was no one waiting for me. They found it hard to believe that each day I waited at home, by myself, until my mother arrived from work. None-the-less, using our phone, they called my mother and told her that it probably wasn't a good idea to send me back to school until things cooled down. Probably not...

Soon after that my father died. My mother and I moved to East Hollywood. From the frying pan into the fire as it were.

Though I moved frequently during my late youth and early teens, I eventually ended up in Virgil Junior high school on Vermont Ave., where the majority of the populace had changed from Black to Latino. Gangs were everywhere. And now, we were adolescents and things had gotten much more violent in the few years that had preceded my Martin Luther King Jr. experience. Again, outnumbered and hated by the masses, I was accosted on virtually a daily basis. It got so bad that I had to ditch gym class everyday due to the fact that every time I went into the locker room, I was sure to get jumped by several gang members -- as they never came at you one-on-one. Of course, I never told my aging Caucasian gym teacher of my experiences. So, he just gave me an "F" on my report card.

Failing gym class. And, they said it couldn't be done...

I'm certainly not looking for any sympathy by talking about the predicament of my early life. In fact, these experiences came to define the individual I have become. I just believe that I have a unique view into the mind of prejudice - something that the non-Caucasian races have undoubtedly experienced, to varying degrees, throughout the history of this country. But, how many white people have encountered this style of ongoing fear and confrontation, simply due to the color of their skin? Not a lot I would imagine.

Prejudice is a funny thing. It is born in a mindset of anger and rage - for what has happened, what could happen, and what may never happen. It is an emotion founded in the most animalist level of human existence - for it has no basis in fact. It is only derived from ignorance.

When I first read this monologue to a friend of mine, she said, "Nobody will want to hear this. It is too politically incorrect." Her being of Asian descent and growing up in America, however, she immediately identified with my situation.

Politically incorrect, maybe it is. But, if we can't look at our society from a realistic point of view, how can we ever overcome the lack of humanity that so many people face each day of their lives. The young African-America or Latino male who is stopped on the street by the police simply because they fit the profile of a gang member. The women who is hounded by the construction workers hanging off of their job site and yelling at her as she walks by. The elderly individual who is hounded by young hooligans as she struggle home from the supermarket attempting to carry her meager groceries. And, on yes, the young white kid who grows up in the ghetto who is hated for no other reason than the color of his skin.