I lived in a D.C. neighborhood that experienced a spontaneous civilian-assisted property-redistribution episode, a.k.a. a riot. In the fall of 1991, a black female cop shot a Hispanic male, an event that must have made the editorial writers get out their moral abacuses to decide exactly which identity trumped the other in the scale of power and privilege. The locals were not interested in balancing historical grievances while being mindful of the immigrant experience, and started breaking things.
For the participants, it was grand fun. You get to smash things and help yourself to various consumer goods. The cops won’t shoot you, because that would prove the protesters’ point, wouldn’t it? There will be plenty of people in the media the next day to put your actions in context, and once you learn that riots are not only understandable but almost an obligation in this horrible society, you feel cheated for not going back for that other television set. Sure, you have two now, but what if someone broke in your house intending to steal one? Good luck calling the cops when you hear the burglar downstairs. Damned cops would never get there in time.
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