By Charles Presti
RACE RIOT
OCTOBER 1968
July of '68 was a cauldron simmering with civil unrest and racial tension. The nation and our city were still reeling from the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr., the man who dared to dream of a different America, and Bobby Kennedy, a beacon of hope for many. It felt like the pillars of change were being knocked down one by one, and all that was left was a bubbling stew of disillusionment and anger.
That night was a long and violent night in our city. The powder keg finally exploded. Folks weren't just angry; they were desperate, feeling cornered. The clash between the cops and the Black Power group wasn't just bullets and fire; it was an outpouring of years of bottled-up frustration, now intensified by the void those two men had left behind.
At home that night, we saw things through the lens of a police officer's family. Dad stood before the full-length mirror in the hallway; his reflection caught between the light and shadow that filtered through the curtains. He adjusted the stiff collar of his dark blue uniform, its buttons fastened meticulously, each grabbing a glint of sunlight. The rustling seemed to echo a little too loudly in the silent house.
He made his way to the family room where my sisters and I were waiting. Mom appeared, her face tight and lips pressed into a thin line. She carried a thermos and a small bag, her hands trembling as she handed them to him. 'I made you some coffee...and sandwiches. Just in case.'
'Thank you,' he replied, setting the items beside his gear. He looked at Sandra, then at Sofie and Anna Marie. 'Girls, listen to your mother while I'm away.' Then he looked at me and said, 'That goes for you too, Carl.'
I nodded; my throat suddenly tight, unable to muster a word. After what seemed like hours, with fingers clenched, I dragged my feet closer to Dad. 'Is it going to be bad out there?' I asked, standing in the doorway, my eyes searching his. He paused, his hands on the helmet. 'Let's hope not,' he finally said, avoiding my gaze.
With a deep sigh and a final glance back, he reached for the white helmet resting on the table, turning it in his hands before placing it over his head. Each snap of the chin strap seemed to underscore the gravity of the situation. With the visor casting a shadow over his eyes, he stepped out, closing the door behind him with a subdued click. The house seemed to hold its breath, as if bracing for the uncertainty that awaited us all.
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Charles Presti
Charles Presti, emerging from the sun-drenched shores of Pensacola, Florida, crafts narratives that echo with the richness of his varied life. His journey from a USF College of Medicine graduate to a storyteller is as unconventional as it is inspiring. Drawing from his days as a physician and informatics specialist, Charles infuses his writing with a rare blend of scientific precision and heartfelt emotion. His debut novel, "Covered in Flour," is a vivid tapestry of his Italian-American heritage, his experiences in the whirlwind era of the 1960s, and his personal journey as a gay man. These elements converge to create stories that not only entertain but resonate deeply with themes of family, discovery, and the delicate dance of life's everyday moments.
Charles's passion for storytelling is paralleled only by his commitment to fostering diversity and inclusion. Alongside his husband, Mike Bruce, and their beloved Wheaton Terrier, Zoey, he is a vibrant force and founder of "Sunday's Child," a local charity dedicated to nurturing inclusion and empowering LGBTQ+ and other marginalized communities through grants to local charities. A pillar in the Emerald Coast Writers group, he continually explores the nuances of identity, heritage, and a sense of belonging. Discover more about Charles's captivating world and "Covered in Flour" at www.coveredinflour.com, where each story is a window into a life lived fully and authentically.
Thank you for hosting Charles Presti today.
ReplyDeleteTake care,
Cathie xx
The Coffee Pot Book Club