The Chicago Race Riot was one of the most devastating events in my life. The streets were filled with chaos, flames l*****g the sky, and the heavy weight of hatred thickening the air. I wasn’t Black, but I had deep sympathy for them, for the injustice they suffered and the violence they endured simply because of the color of their skin.
It wasn’t their fault that they were born Black, any more than it was mine that I was born white. Yet, there we were, living in a world that wielded something as arbitrary as pigmentation as a weapon. It was hard to understand then, and it’s still hard now.
I remember reading about how the mobs stormed through the streets, the sound of shouts and breaking glass echoing like some terrible symphony of anger. I couldn’t comprehend how someone could look
