Another young, unarmed black man has been shot and killed by a police officer. Early New Year’s Day in Oakland, Oscar Grant, a 22 year old father, held his hands up and pleaded with the arresting officers not to hurt him because he had a daughter. But once he had been wrestled down to the ground, with one officer’s knee in Grant’s neck area, a second officer stepped back, took out his gun and shot Oscar Grant the back. And then Oscar Grant was handcuffed. And then Oscar Grant died.

Thank God it was all caught on tape. Several people knew they had better get it all on tape and used their mobile phones to do just that. Because lord knows that the eyewitness testimony of the dozens of people who witnessed this repugnant coward’s act could be discounted and distorted. And it’s kind of funny that BART authorities quickly told the public that their security cameras had not captured “a complete” sequence of the incident. But this was before anyone knew about the cellphone tapes.

Now, says BART’s representative, they are investigating everything piece by piece.

Does this all sound achingly familiar to you? It should. I was a new producer at the LA affiliate when ABC News obtained footage of the Rodney King beating.

That first time, as I watched the stark, moody, horrifying images of billy clubs raining down on Rodney King, my sadness and rage were peppered with a pinch of fear. That quiet, and on most days imperceptible current that many of us “successful” black folks ignore as often as we usually can. It’s a fear that at any time, doing anything, my life is worth less than a white person’s and therefore may be taken more easily than a white person’s and with less repercussion. It’s also the fear that because of assumptions about me, because of the color of my skin, that some of the “good guys” won’t be good for me.

“Fuck tha Police”

I’m a law and order kind of gal. I believe that thieves, thugs and other miscreant bullies suck the lifeblood out of neighborhoods, stripping them of all hope of true community. So back in early ’90 when I first arrived in Los Angeles from New York, I didn’t understand what NWA and Ice T were talking about. I mean, “what was their problem?” And then, as an adventurous producer, I violated the rule that my friends who lived on the affluent Westside warned me about: “never go east of Western or south of Pico.” If you are a Los Angeleno you will understand this, if not, well you can imagine.

On my first shoot down in “tha’ hood” I watched with my mouth gaping open as two uniformed LAPD officers, in a black and white patrol car, slowly rolled up Crenshaw Blvd. And when they spotted a very elderly black woman shuffling her way across the four lanes, they suddenly burst into an extreme acceleration heading straight for this barely mobile pedestrian, only to then slam on their breaks stopping just about 12 inches from her body if that. They did this just to taunt her. The cops then laughed uproariously and burned rubber accelerating around her to proceed on their way. They did this as I, along with a sound man, a camera man and a local anchor stood off to the side preparing to shoot a stand up for the piece I was producing. It happened so fast that we couldn’t catch it on camera. But in any case the officers didn’t care. I wish I could forget what I saw, but it changed me – shaped me. It haunts me, ever lingering in my reactions and perceptions.

Another time, I was rear ended by a young white kid. It was broad daylight. I was a practicing Buddhist at the time and I was on my way to chant. I stopped for a pedestrian crossing the street and whammo. I was heading West, over to prayers, directly from work so I was well dressed and driving my brand new Nissan 240sx convertible. The disheveled young man who ran into me was driving a beat up, old, rusting Volkswagen Rabbit. When the white officer arrived to take the report, he walked around my car, looked at both of us and then turned to me and asked me, “So, what are you doing in this neighborhood?” And do you know what burns? You know what makes me cry right now? What sickens me is that I answered him because I felt afraid.

So when I watch Oscar Grant sitting on the floor with his hands up, begging for his safety, I understand. And I am nauseated.