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My family was one of two or three white families living in Little Rock, Arkansas, near East 6th St. in 1968 that were burned out or forced out with gun fire, and unknown people on our property. Many businesses were burned to the ground. I watched through a window fan as my father fired shots into the air at unknown black people on our property. We found a one-gallon milk jug full of gas the next day at the edge of our property. Shortly after, I watched the National Guard as they crept, guns drawn, through our back yard like they were in Vietnam. I was 11 years old. What an impression I gained about blacks because of that. Before that, I had run in the streets with other black neighborhood children. Today it's a forced mistrust of blacks that I feel, not of fellow playmates that I grew up with. And I still would like to see what my ex-playmates grew up to be, what kind of people they are now. I'm 60 now, and wiser. Some things are not meant to be, I guess?


Walter Ogden
Cabot, AR