We've
all probably done dumb things for our jobs. Driving through a snowstorm. Flying
in bad weather. Traveling to a city ravaged by riots. I've done all three but
the last one stands out for me.
The
1980 Miami race riots started in earnest on Sunday, May 18, 1980, following the
acquittal of four Dade County Public Safety Department officers in the death of
Arthur McDuffie, a forty-something black insurance salesman and Marine.
At
that time, my job was flying around the country training people how to use
online systems. (Yes, the date is right. There were online systems
pre-Internet.) I was due in a Miami law firm on Monday but flew to Florida on
Friday to spend the weekend with a friend. As I recall we spent a few days at
a theme park. Possibly Busch Gardens. We drove from her house on the beach in
St. Augustine. On the drive back, I heard something about the verdict in Tampa
on the car radio but didn't make the connection with my business trip to Miami.
Before
cell phones, e-mails or texts, I must have given my friend's number to the
airline as a contact number. Somehow I got the message to call Eastern Airlines
and ended up listening to a tape that essentially said Eastern Airlines will
fly you to Miami but we can't guarantee your safety once you get there. In
simpler terms, it said, we'll take you if you want but don't blame us if you
get killed.
Never once did it occur
to me not to go. I had an appointment on Monday. Obviously, the world would end
if I did not arrive on time. At least that was how I saw it.
So, I boarded the plane to Miami. I recall nothing until I reached baggage claim. The area was eerily quiet with people wandering around without the usual hubbub surrounding travelers. People frantically, yet quietly, looking for someone to take them away from the airport. Cab drivers were assembling groups of passengers. I had to ask several drivers before someone assigned me to a cab with four other passengers. All four strangers.
Outside in the passenger pickup area, it was
deadly quiet. I climbed into the center of the front seat squeezed between the driver
and a man returning home to his riot-torn city. None of the passengers
spoke as we rode down empty streets through dark and silent neighborhoods. At
some point, we drove onto an expressway and I could see lights and smoke in the
distance. The troubled area seemed far away. At that point, I did not know
there were two concentrations of unrest.
One by one, the other passengers got out at their homes or hotels. At the last traveler's stop, the driver told me to come along too. He carried my bag into the hotel and spoke Spanish with the desk clerk. I couldn't help noticing my driver sounded a bit desperate. But, there was nothing he could do. The hotel was booked.
I
have to give that driver credit. He could have dumped me. He could have stuck
my suitcase inside the door and run. He could have safely driven away before
the desk clerk could break the bad news to me. But, he stayed and loaded me and
my bag back into the cab to head through the dark, silent night for my hotel. I
didn't actually know where that hotel was located, but I had figured out it was
nowhere good.
He
took me to my Holiday Inn, I think, in Coconut Grove. I remember very little
about it except that the desk clerk assigned me a room on the ground floor with
a window that opened up onto an alley. In all my years of business travel, I
had never been assigned a room with dubious security. This was not the night to
try one out. I tend to be an easy-going guest, but even I asked to move to a
second-floor room on the inside courtyard. The guy behind the desk didn't
protest at all although I wondered if he would try to pawn the first-floor room
off on some poor late arrival. If there would be any later arrivals.
I
imagine I watched television that night, which I am pretty sure would have been
full of bad news--none of which dissuaded me from keeping my
appointment the next day. I must have found a cab to take me to the office
tower where I was to work. I arrived, settled in and before long was told that
I was being sent home--and this was a first--because of snipers.
Now,
I know we were on a fairly high floor with windows on three sides, but I still
thought I had a better chance of getting shot by a sniper out on the street. It
wasn't my call. Everyone was leaving. At least, I did not have a rental car.
This was pre-GPS. That was no day to get lost in Miami.
I had
an afternoon to kill in Miami but I couldn't leave the hotel. I suspect I had
to eat from the vending machine. That happens on business travel. Maybe there
was a restaurant. I have no recollection. There was, however, a pool protected
on all sides by the hotel. I sat along the side on a bright sunny day while
National Guard helicopters flew overhead. Not very far overhead. I remember
the noise. I probably recall the choppers being lower than they were.
Maybe because I could see the guards' faces clearly. Maybe because they
had weapons in their arms and their legs were dangling over the side of the
copter. That probably wasn't the most relaxing afternoon at the pool, but what
was I going to do? Go out for a walk?
I
have no recollection if I moved on from Miami the next day. I don't know how I
got out of town. Mostly, I remember the silent streets at night and the
National Guard helicopters during the day.
Now
that I am older, I ask myself why I went to Miami. Was it simply the normal
reaction? I think so. Was it smart? I don't think so. Was it typical? Yes. I
had to support myself. So whenever needed, I climbed on a plane and flew
through a thunderstorm or continued to drive in a snowstorm when I couldn't see
the car in front of me. I'd like to think I wouldn't do it again, but I have a
feeling I would. And not just because I was on my own and needed the job. I had
both a work ethic and an exaggerated view of how important my work was. I think
a lot of us did. I used to watch all us road warriors dashing around airports
off to meetings and events that seemed so critical. If I hadn't gone to Miami,
the world would not have ended. No one would have minded if I'd called and
said, "I think I'll wait until the shooting stops." But that thought
never occurred to me.
In
the year of Covid, so many essential workers are putting themselves in danger
to keep the rest of us fed and safe. In the year of Covid, so many people are
going to work at the risk of their own health and safety. After the year of
Covid, when they look back I believe they will think it was the right thing to
do. What I was doing was not sufficiently important to risk life and limb. I
wish I had realized that then.
NOTE
TO SELF: There was a night flying into Atlanta when the co-worker with you was
gripping his seat handle. You had the window seat and were watching lightning
striking all around you. You found it exciting. What was wrong with you?
NOTE
TO SELF: Once driving to Vermont the snow was so thick on I91 that traffic was
moving slower than usual but probably ridiculously fast given the conditions.
You stayed in line and were happy to follow the leader until he turned off and
you became the leader. It was a hair-raising drive. Your then-boss would have
expected you to drive on, but your then-boss was nuts. You should have never
gone along.
NOTE TO SELF: You just remembered you climbed into the back of a laundry van in Mexico City. Perhaps this is a good candidate for the list.
© 2021 Jane Kelly
