Chapter 27
No one knows for sure exactly what set the whole thing off, but most historians agree that the Hough riots had something to do with the Seventy-Niners bar on East Seventy-Ninth and Hough Avenue.
In one account, a Black woman was denied the right to leave a collection box for her deceased friend’s children; another involved a sign on the door that read “No Water for N******.” Whatever went down, somebody in Hough had finally had enough.
Somebody was the first person to convince a friend to head on down there, and once a crowd of three hundred or so friends had gathered outside the Seventy-Niners, somebody threw that first rock.
And then somebody (maybe even the same somebody) lit that bar full of racist drunks on fire.
Everything that burned after—the diners, the dry cleaners, the Chevys, and the converted multifamily houses—started with a single spark of rage.
Now you’ll get mad at me for saying this—madder at me for saying this than for anything that might happen later, I’ll bet—but it is not race that interests me about the story of the Hough riots.
It is humanity, and that single moment when something ignites inside and coaxes from us—any of us—acts that we never before dreamed possible.
I’m not big on religion, but I am a believer in Free Will, and I’m fairly certain that God—or Karma or the Universe or whoever is pulling the strings—can never tell precisely when this fire will be lit, or what will draw it forth. All we can do is wait and watch for the smoke.
In other words, I never know exactly why they do it. But they almost always do.