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  Some recent news events reminded me of this story which happened while I was a freshman in high school.

   In 1967 I was a high school freshman.  Politically I considered myself somewhat educated.  but my parents had kept me away from much of the harsher side of life.  I had learned about racism; the Watts riots had been the summer before.  My parents were honest about the causes.  I listened to the stories.  The shoe repair store down the street had an older black man who helped.  The store owner had the helper stay with him during the riots.  The helper lived in Watts and his family told him not to try to come home.

   But this is about a biker funeral procession I saw when I was a freshman.  As the bell rang, dismissing us to go home, I was blissfully aware of what had happened a few miles away.  A member of a local outlaw motorcycle gang had died (stabbed to death) in a biker bar a few nights before.  In true biker fashion there had been a wake, followed the next afternoon by the funeral service and the procession to the cemetary.

   I have no idea how the procession route was chosen.  But it went right by my high school just after we had been dismissed.  It wasn't a small procession either.  First there was the hearse, followed by the funeral home family limo.  Then there were the motorcycles.  They kept coming.  Rows of them, at least 4 in a row.  And cars full of bikers who were too stoned/drunk to drive.  Looking back on it now, there had to have been over 200 people in that procession.

   What amazed me weren't the motorcycles.  It was the people.  I had never seen people like that.  Almost everyone was dressed in black.  Black leathers.  Lots of heavy make up on the women.  They were like a nightmare.  It was every motorcycle gang stereotype in real life. 
   It was scary.  I had never imagined that people like that actually existed.  Eventually the procession ended and I was able to cross the street and walk home.  No one was home for a few hours, so I had time to process the experience a bit.  I wrote in my journal, "Today I saw my first motorcycle gang funeral.  I hope I never see another one."  I haven't.  I'm ok with that.

   What triggered this memory was a police shooting in my home town.  At 4 in the morning a SWAT task force (gang, Drug Enforcement, local, SWAT) showed up to serve a warrant at a home.  I think 4 a.m. is the preferred time to catch bad guys.  The police got the screen door open when the main door opened and the suspect fired a shot gun.  The bullet hit an officer apparently in the back of his head.  He died the next day.  The suspect, realizing what he had done, immediately put the gun down and "assumed the position."  He's in jail-no bail.  No doubt he's going away for a long time.
     I found out about this from a facebook site devoted to my high school.  The media gave the wrong address at first.  The real one was probably 2 houses down from where I had lived for a while when I was 19 with my UN roommates.  Just down the road (2 long blocks) from my elementary school.  A block and a half from where my parents had their business.  A very residential street.  It was an odd feeling.
    And to make it stranger, the suspect is reported to be a member of the same outlaw motorcycle gang that I had witnessed at the funeral procession.   Sometimes the oddest things bring up memories.