In my mind I can still see the young black man bouncing on the balls of his feet, silently taunting me to come on with it.
I assumed that he was the assailant who had sucker-punched me at the teenage dance that April night in 1968. After all, he stood small and cocky in the center of the ring of black friends after I took the shot and spun with my hands raised.
But even though I wanted to attack in self-defense, I knew better. Only a fool would have waded into that tight circle of blackness.
I could sense the raw power of the mean vengeance that took root in their eyes. I could sense that I could get hurt badly if I stepped into the madness. I sensed that it was time to get out.
So I moved quickly through the crowd that was erupting in small skirmishes here and there.
The mayhem had erupted during one of many long riotous nights following the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr.
I’m white, by the way and the brothers from Harrisburg saw me as an enemy, a member of the race that killed their hero, although I’m not sure what exactly they knew about King at the time.
All I knew was that I had been targeted because I was white.
And that wasn’t fair.
On my way out I spotted one of the few black guys I knew at the time.
“What’s going on?” I asked as people ran for exits and fights broke out in the huge hall of the old bowling alley known as the Melabaloo.
He stared and said nothing.
“I thought we were okay,” I said.
He walked away.
I called my father from a pay phone and told him that he better get to the scene before somebody got killed. My dad was working that night at the local state police barracks and hung up without saying goodbye.
The squad cars arrived like the Calvary.
A white couple had been dragged from their car and beaten in the parking lot.
I was still fuming.
And as I stood in the parking lot, I saw the little guy who had hit me.
I stared at him.
He stared at me.
And we went our separate ways.
A few years later I spotted him again.
This time he was walking down the street at Penn State where we both wound up as students.
I stared at him but he didn’t recognize me as I silently watched him pass.
As before, he was hanging with blacks.
I was hanging with whites.
I made a few black friends in college, but not without incident. It seemed as if we just weren’t meant to get along as equals. Too many hurdles existed for us to get over. Mutual respect was tougher than a fair fight in a parking lot.
I saw my attacker again a few years later on the street in Harrisburg.
Again I said nothing.
By then I was working in the city and had numerous black friends. For awhile, while working at a prison program, most of the guys I hung with were black.
Today, on the observance of King’s birthday, I’m thinking about the black guy who hit me. I wish we had talked this one out. Maybe we still can. I’ll bet he’s still in Harrisburg. Maybe I’ll see if I can find him.
After 40 years, maybe we can put the past behind us.
Michael Savage
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