I’ve Got to Stop Eating Chinese

In a week characterized by a string of peculiar but significant firsts, I once again find myself in the kind of Chinatown hole-in-the-wall noodle bar that can easily be mistaken for an abandoned shoe repair shop. Once again my friends and I are the only white people among the twenty or so tables. It is Saturday night in Oakland and business is back to usual after the Mehserle verdict mischief Thursday when darkness had fallen and the reasonable people had all gone home. Even more tiresomely repetitious, Mehserle represents the second time in the ten months I’ve lived in Oakland that I have had to cross a line of police in full riot gear to get home. I want to love Oakland but I don’t trust her. Like that crazy, Play Misty for Me nut job we’ve all dated, Oakland is always fucking up, then crying and promising to be better next time.
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Then I think maybe I’ve gone soft from my long stay in the suburbs. I run a quick mental review of the last two weeks: So I came upon an angry man in a court parking lot where he was brandishing a silver hand gun and cursing some unseen antagonist? What if the businesses along Washington were boarding up their windows in case of rioting? Yes, Jack London Square has served as a staging area for simulated riots for weeks so the OPD can be prepared to protect and serve when Mehserle hit the fan—so?
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A week ago, in anticipation of public rioting should Mehserle be acquitted, I signed up for Oakland Emergency Center alerts and, after answering a few simple questions (email address and mobile phone number) was assured of real time, breaking news bulletins as the trial went to jury. So at 4:15 p.m. on Thursday, July 8th, I was surprised when my admin slid a note in front of me as I was in my office talking on the phone, my silent and dull mobile dutifully beside me and ready to spring into action. Her note said: “verdict in Mehserle trial.” I have an hour commute home and, not knowing what was happening at Broadway and 12th (my BART stop and ground zero for agitators who had promised shattered storefronts and burning cars if Mehserle walked), grabbed my things and headed home to Oakland.
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As the train pulled into the Fruitvale stop where Oscar Grant was shot dead by BART police officer Johannes Mehserle on New Year’s Day 2009, the platform appeared normal but I could see workers boarding windows in shops on the business side of the station. TV trucks were sending antennae skyward and positioning the talent against the backdrop of the BART logo. My stop was next.
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Coming to street level at Lake Merritt I was surprised and somewhat disoriented by, first, the sound of three or four helicopters hovering above downtown and the district. Then I noticed the long lines of cars and trucks strung along every street leading to the freeway. I had never seen that much traffic in the district. I was at Oak and 5th with the entire district to cross to get home. I chose the route because it would keep me out of harm’s way if 12th & B’way was the gathering storm as it seemed to be. From Oak to B’way, young people were heading to city center; first at a trickle and then a stream. The cars, closed, locked and moving forward in either a slow roll or short bursts of small moves, were more worrisome in appearance than the smiling and laughing youths as they called their friends telling them to meet up on Broadway, between 12th and 14th. It was a double exodus of opposing values streaming past one another—a wrong move, an angry response and it would be a long, hot night.
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Once home, I watched the evening unfold from the roof of my building, a location chosen for drama rather than view. I couldn’t see past the freeway. Streaming video on my laptop, however, connected me simultaneously to LA, the location of the trial, and city center some 14 blocks away. Mayor Dellums, pale and looking tired, spoke from Oakland Emergency Center about who he’d been in touch with and who was sending additional personnel to the scene. Behind Dellums stood a short, thick woman wearing a man’s dark suit, white business shirt, no tie. Her straight, shining dark hair was cropped closely on the sides and back, then combed straight back from her forehead like Valentino except for that stubborn boyish lock that fell forward as she cocked her head to listen and nod from time-to-time, her hands folded demurely in front of her. Rebecca Kaplan, Oakland City Councilmember at Large, dyke transvestite, and not incidentally, candidate for mayor, had positioned herself to be within camera range.
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When the Mayor was finished, Kaplan spoke a few words of reassurance to the viewers and then, with the mayor hunkered down at Emergency Center to see what the evening would bring, Kaplan headed for 14th and B’way where she stayed most of the night: on the ground, in the scene, in front of the cameras, talking to the crowd, talking to the media, talking to rioters when the night finally met its destiny.
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I cannot overstate my amazement as the last few moments of the day fade into history. For the first time in our nation’s history, a white police officer had been convicted of killing a black man. On this same day, a federal district court judge in Boston struck down the 1996 federal law that defines marriage as a union exclusively between a man and a woman. And there was Kaplan—a short, squat tranny holding Oakland together; keeping it real. It was 11:45 p.m. and I felt safe. Suddenly, my cell phone sounded the digital burble that tells me I have a text message. It was from Oakland Emergency Center where Ron Dellums was last seen four hours ago. The text read: "Mehserle verdict reached 4:20 p.m."
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And now here we are, two nights later, having our supper in Chinatown. Our food is Szechwan and spicy: exploding chicken, mouth burning tofu, fire bomb beef. ESL descriptions of menu items crack me up. We are drinking beer to quench the fire on our lips, laughing and talking about the adventures the day has brought us. I have gained ten pounds since moving here largely because I cannot stop eating in Chinatown where everything is fried and delicious. I love Oakland.