I was a young boy in 1965 when we moved into an area of Los Angeles where many New Orleans expatriates settled. I got to watch my older brothers and their friends run like rabbits when the pigs would roll by. At one point I thought that’s what you called the police, “pigs,” but Gregory, my second oldest brother said don’t you ever call them that to their faces. Once, when the police roared up on us with their high beams, Gregory dragged me like a limp doll to escape. All these well-built, tough-ass knuckleheads scattered to avoid arrest or worse. Their crime: smoking weed and drinking beer on the steps of our house. Gregory threw me down behind a hedge and covered me with his body while the police looked for someone to apprehend. They didn’t see us, but the impression stayed with me. The police were to be feared.