Editor's Note: Before I print this, I just want to let it be known that I think Douma is wrong about the date the King riots took place. Well, he has to be. I mean, April 31, 1992? Jeez. I thought the King riots took place on April 22, 1992 (just like the title of that Sublime song). Anyway, he insisted it was at the end of April. Humor him. Pretend there's 31 days in April. 

April 31, 1992: Somewhere around mid-afternoon KMEL announced to its listeners that there was a protest of the Rodney King trial verdict going on at City Hall. I grabbed a sweatshirt, put on my shoes, and got myself out the door. City Hall was about six blocks from my apartment. I took Hyde Street down to the City Hall plaza. When I got to McAllister I was somewhat surprised to see a large mob of high school aged guys, looking very ghetto, charging in my direction. I knew I was not the target but that if I reacted wrongly I could become one. So without pausing I ran nonchalantly towards the crowd which I recognized as being the remains of a peaceful protest that was turning violent before my eyes. Once inside the mass of people the world had a different look. The first target of the young crowd's wrath was this security guard at Hastings College who simply happened to be there.

It was this Mexican guy. A few people hit himand knocked him down but at that moment about twenty to thirty police officers on motorcycles arrived. The attackers fled but almost instantly the police were hit with this airborne barrage of rocks, bricks, and bottles. They had provided a newer, more official target. many of them dismounted since there was little space or time to maneuver their motorcycles. They recovered from the shock of being openly attacked in moments, and without any words or commands, charged the crowd with batons drawn. the crowd simply and intuitively receded and the police, vastly outnumbered and without a specific plan, soon returned to their mounts. By this time the front of the mess (around 2,000 people) saw something which riveted their attention. A pawn shop. What had been a quick pace became a full charge. The security guard at the pawn shop managed to get inside and lock the gate, but to no avail. In almost no time the metal bars were torn away or smashed in and the looting began.

Gold was the booty of choice. Looters robbed looters, it was like a contagion. Market Street was like a vast buffet of consumer goods. Video cameras, VCR's, clothing (especially leather clothing) stores were popular. Oh, and of course jewelry. Meanwhile, the bulk of what was now a full blown riot consisted of do-gooder protesters who continued on their quest to peacefully utilize their first amendment rights. Thereby, through sheer numbers, providing perfect cover for the looters to elude arrest. The crowd grew to maybe 5,000 and meandered through the Union Square area. The SF police were overwhelmed and helpless. For some reason hotels and art galleries were favorite targets of the violent fringe of protesters (as opposed to looters) and I must confess I did sense no small amount of schadenfreud watching the horrified sales managers of those staid art galleries on Geary and Post as street kids from the Haight and Civic Center battered on the gates, attempting to break in and vandalize the places. Eventually everyone ended up on Nob Hill and people were running through the hotels up there. Police were chasing them and it got chaotic. The police tried to cordon the area and almost succeeded, but being that the crowd was so large and the police so few, everyone got out but the main group splintered as though some sort of collective orgasm had transpired.

Sensing a break in the action, I went home. Several hours had passed. My girlfriend at the time was there (we shared the apartment). I told her what was going on, the dangers involved, and invited her to go back out with me. She was fresh from Salt Lake City, and although she wasn't a Mormon, she was still more than a little innocent and white bread. By now all the police from the entire Bay Area were in SF... thousands and thousands of police. The downtown was shut down. A smaller mass of protesters had grouped with the looters, still using them as cover. Only now entire block-long sections were filled with angry phalanxes of police in riot gear, ready to charge. It was about 7PM.

Brionna and I trailed the procession in the manner of a Sunday stroll. The police were setting up a huge box trap at 4th and Ellis at Market. Market was blocked by about five hundred police at Powell with thousands waiting around the corners on Ellis and Mission. (Ellis and Mission?--Ed.) The protesters walked into it in an appropriately lemming-like fashion. Leading them was this radical fairy-type with some banners. I told him Market was blocked and no one would be able to get through and that they would get trapped. He said something about how the pigs couldn't stop the people and continued. Brionna and I stayed at 4th and Market and watched as the crowd passed. I wanted to leave, but Brionna wanted a cigarette. I said, "Smoke and walk."

She said, "My grandmother told me it's unladylike to smoke and walk."

So we stood there.

I saw the motorcycle cops, about one hundred, racing up Market and said, "We've got to go!" She drops the cigarette casually, steps to put it out, and misses. Seconds are racing by. She finally extinguishes it. The police are only a few blocks away. I tell her we have to run, she looks at me blankly. At that moment I realize we can both get arrested or it I run I can make it and possibly make a hole in the rapidly enclosing cordon. The police are off their cycles with batons drawn. I see the radical fairy guy, sans banner, run past me. I see a gap and tell her to follow. I take two baton hits, one on the upper arm, and as I try to expand the gap, one on my lower back. I don't even feel them and as I make it out I look back and there she stands, totally confused. From the other side of the police line I yell "It's okay!"

The police, seeing me, yell, "Get him!"

So I run back twenty to thirty feet. The crowd now realizes it's trapped. Some of the looters escape by climbing the scaffolding that was at 4th and Market at the time. One of the motorcycles gets knocked down and is leaking gasoline. Somebody lights it. The crowd grows agitated, so the police threaten to use stun guns. I wasn't around for a while but eventually realize there's going to be a mass arrest, so I go home, make some calls so friends know what happened, and go back to find where they will be holding people. By this time night had set. Looterswere being arrested in droves, piles of debris burned in the streets and a state of emergency had been declared. Strategically the police had focused on arresting the protesters and so all their forces were locked on the downtown area. Meanwhile, the rest of the city was completely open. People drove down to Fisherman's Wharf and the Marina to raid sporting goods stores. Nearly every block between Van Ness and Powell had at least one place that had been attacked. I had changed clothes to look more preppy. When I got to 4th and Market I asked an officer where the police buses were taking everyone. He said, "You want to find out?" and handcuffed me with a set of plastic pull ties.

Once inside the mass of people I looked for Brionna, but couldn't find her. Some people helped me cut the plastic handcuffs off. Eventually, I was loaded on a bus. We were taken to the empty Pepsi cola bottling plant on Mission, photographed, cited, and released. By this time, it was around 3AM. I walked home. Brionna was already there. I was pissed at myself for getting arrested and at her over the cigarette delay. She said, "I thought when the cops came they were the good guys."

Epilogue: Many protesters had foolishly told the police they would be back. So when they tried to rally the next day everyone got arrested immediately and were bussed to some place in the east bay and held in jails there for three to four days. The state of emergency held for about three days.