In July 1967, when I was seven years old, I woke up on a bright summer’s day to find that the city of Detroit, just an hour’s drive from my home, was on fire. Police had raided an after-hours club where a group of African American men were celebrating the return of two GIs from Vietnam. An altercation broke out. The situation escalated. A full-scale riot ensued.
As a child I knew nothing of the causes and barely understood the events, but I saw pictures in my parents’ newspaper and on evening news. It was like watching a nightmare, black-and-white images of Black and White people killing each other. After five days there were 43 dead and some 2,000 buildings burned.
And then, thank God, it was over and life returned to normal. Or so I believed.