The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) Read Free Page A

I’d taken during the production. It was during the spring of April 1992. I was twelve and we were in LA shooting on a lot in Culver Studios. A buzz spread through the crew and then the actors—something about a verdict. It seemed that a month before, at the beginning of March, an African-American man—Rodney King—had been stopped by the police, pulled out of his truck, and beaten. What the cops didn’t know at the time was that someone in that neighborhood was videotaping the whole thing from his nearby balcony.
    The incendiary verdict was announced on one of the days we were shooting the movie: The officers had been acquitted.
    Shooting on the set abruptly stopped while we watched in disbelief, on TV sets in our dressing rooms and in the makeup room, the reaction to that bogus decision. We saw huge groups of African Americans screaming into thecameras in protest, torching vehicles, and looting stores. One camera captured a white guy being pulled out of his car and beaten by four black men. It was horrible and it was happening only a few blocks away. We were stunned and, like every other American citizen, watched with horror as the real-life drama unfolded on television.
    I remember sitting in the makeup chair. All the grownups were watching the news, some crying—but mostly all anyone could say was, “oh shit—oh shit.”
    Whenever I was working on a set, there was always a strict no cursing and no smoking rule, which Mom created and enforced strictly. On that day, I remember thinking, it must be really bad, because Mom’s letting everyone curse—and not even raising her eyebrow or giving them
that look
.
    Everyone was mesmerized by what was happening. At one point a man with an armload of clothes he had just looted from a neighborhood store ran over to the camera, and, I kid you not, said, “Man, you gotta go over there and get yourself some; they got clothes in every size.” As if the store had a fantastic sale going on.
    I laughed, and in my defense, some of the members of the crew chuckled also. Mom came over to me and with one swoop lifted me out of the chair and brought me outside into the hallway.
    “Lily, this is
not
something to laugh at. What happened to that man Rodney King is a travesty of justice, and what is happening in the streets at this moment is horrendous. Do you understand that these are stores in their
own
neighborhoods, stores they shop in every day?”
    Mom went on to explain that riots were horrible and illegal but stemmed from years of frustration and rage. They lived with the history of slavery and injustice and had spent years being oppressed by ignorant bigots. This was the proverbial
straw that broke the camel’s back
. She asked me if I understood the gravity of the situation. Even though the rage and frustration were real, she emphasized that violence never solved anything. I nodded, knowing it must be serious, but not really grasping what she was saying.
    She went on to predict that before the riots were over, people would be hurt and maybe even killed. Clearly tragic acts like that are never funny.
    I was so ashamed that I had laughed. I’d never seen my mother’s face look that way—angry and sad at the same time. I was truly sorry. Mom kissed me, then went over to speak with the director and producer.
    I don’t know what she said to them, but within thirty minutes, the entire film had been shut down on a temporary hiatus. Mom and I found ourselves in the back seat of a town car speeding to LAX in order to catch a plane home to NYC.
    On the ride to the airport, I looked at the street signs—Sepulveda, Century Boulevard. Black and grey smoke billowed in the distance. The driver immediately pulled the car over and stopped. I covered my ears as, one after another, police cars and fire engines screamed past us. I held on tightly to my mother’s hand, knowing that as long as I was with Daisy Lockwood, nothing could ever happen to me.
    When we boarded the plane, the first