Remember Fidel Lopez LA Riot Victim
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My goal is to help my father, Fidel Lopez, the forgotten victim of the L.A. Riots. He needs medical help, and he is on the verge of losing his home in spite of all his hard work. I would like to get him the help he needs, and hopefully find the people who helped him and sent him cards and good wishes. Without the kindness of strangers, we would have been lost. Please help if you can. Send him a note or kind words that I will share with him. He would never think of started this campaign for himself, so I am doing it for him because I love him so much, and cannot bear to watch him suffer anymore. He is 72 years old now. He deserves some goodness in his life.
Most importantly, I want to share his story. Not one person ever was tried for the crimes against him. No justice was served. One member of the mob that was tried for other crimes, simply apologized for the beatings of Reginald Denny and my father. No police or emergency help arrived when he lay dying in the street. Please share this story everywhere you can. He is a part of American history, and I want his story heard, and for him to be remembered positively.
Fidel Lopez is an amazing man who nearly lost his life in the brutal attack he suffered on April 29th 1992. And he never recovered. Not financially, emotionally, mentally, and certainly not physically. He still has nightmares in which the mob is beating him. He never recovered from the dizzy spells and pain. He still becomes confused and stammers when he speaks, something he never did before then. Most of all, he is haunted by the memories that never leave him.
The story of my father, Fidel Lopez, is largely forgotten. As the 25th Anniversary of the L.A. Riots draws near, the clips and old footage start to make their appearance. But they don't tell the real story.
Here is his story.
************
My father was driving home on April 29th 1992 after a long day of work. He was self employed, trying to make his American dream come true. He had finally bought a run down property in Los Angeles, and was determined to flip it and sell it to pay for his family's home. He did most of the work himself, getting up before dawn and working tirelessly after most would have called it a day. He had saved enough money for building supplies he was going to buy the next day. His properly had been broken into and burglarized, so he brought his tools in his blue GMC truck. He dropped an employee off at his home and began driving home at around 7pm. He was exhausted, but happy. After all, he was working for his family.
As he made his way down Normandie, he began to hear the shouts. He saw fires burning in several businesses.
As he pulled up at the Florence and Normandie intersection, he recalls thinking that it was what hell looked like. Several people ran up to his car, throwing rocks and bottles. He tried to move his truck, but his path was blocked. A young black man opened his door and tried to drag him out of his truck. "White motherf*****r!" he shouted. "I'm not white, I'm hispanic" my father answered, startled. "Same sh*t!" the man cried and yanked him out of the truck.
Everything happened quickly then. The mob was vandalizing his truck, and dousing it with gasoline to set it on fire. Others were kicking and surrounding him. Could he make it back into his truck and get it out of the street before they caught up? He didn't think so. He chose to try to run. The helicopter news crew flying above caught everything as members of the mob from every corner ran to block him. Fidel was a great runner but there was no escape. He recalls how there were angry faces on every corner, and so many of them. He knew he would not get away.
The crowd surrounded him and began beating him. Several men kicked, punched and hurt him at the same time, dragging him by his shirt as he tried to crawl away. Someone smashed a glass bottle on his his head, and he saw lights flash in front of his eyes. Someone tried to cut his ear off and left it attached by a strip of flesh. They beat him mercilessly as frantically thought to himself: "Why? Why?"
At the same time, Rev Bennie Newton had rushed into the intersection. He had grabbed his collar and his bible and was on a mission to do some good in the midst of the chaos. He saw Fidel being beaten, and ran to try to help. He yelled at them to stop, and he was batted away like a butterfly. He tried to shield Fidel's body, but the blows were coming from all directions. Finally, someone grabbed a large stereo speaker from the shop being looted on the same street. He smashed it down on Fidel's head, and his body began to twitch. When the speaker was thrown aside, you could see the giant gash on his forehead. His body was covered in blood. Someone pulled his pants down and began spray painting his face and genitals black. On the original audio, you can hear someone laugh and say "Motherf*****r's black now!"
At the same time, his body was being doused in gasoline. Rev Newton recalls "They were going to set his body on fire! Mr. Lopez stopped breathing. His eyes rolled back in his head, and I thought he was gone." Finally, the mob started to retreat.
*Please only watch if you have a strong stomach*
https://youtu.be/Z43xrUdGSnk
On the original audio of the scene, you can hear the crowd laughing and discussing Fidel as the cameraman shoots from across the street. "He's dead," someone says. "If he's not dead now, he will be. They poured oil (the gasoline) all over him, and in his mouth," someone else replies.
Rev Newton began to pray over Fidel's body. He prayed until finally, Fidel began to breathe. His eyes opened, and he was terrified. What was happening to him? Who was this man. He struggled to sit up and fell to his knees. This is the shot you will see on the news clips. Rev Bennie Newton with his arms outstretched, standing over Fidel as the fires burn behind them.
Fidel started to panic. His family! He had to get home to his family and keep them safe! He tried to tell Rev Newton he needed to get to his family. Rev Newton's car was too far away. How would he get this man to safety? A man approached them. He would help them get away, he said. He brought his van and helped load Fidel into the back. They debated what to do. "My family" Fidel repeated over and over again. He started to panic. Where were they taking him? "Stay down!" they told him. It wasn't safe as they drove out of the intersection, and down the street. The mob had spread, and they were checking every car that went by. Somehow Fidel was able to tell them where he lived, and they knocked on the door where his wife and three daughters were waiting.
********
Watching my father walk through the door is something I will never forget. He was covered in blood. The smell of gasoline..they way his skin flapped over his eyes because of the open wound on his forehead. He sat on the couch while the men told us who they were. The man who saved my father along with Rev Newton told us he was married to a Hispanic woman, and couldn't understand the senseless attacks. He was never found, so we could thank him for saving my father.
They took my father to Daniel Freeman hospital. My sister Vanessa went along. She hid in the backseat with my father, under blankets. She remembers being stopped along the way by rioters. As they drove away, she peeked out the window and saw they had guns.
At the hospital, my father sat until 6am, throwing up and bleeding, sliding in and out of consciousness. My sister tried over and over again to get him medical help until finally she started screaming at them. He was slumped over and clearly in far worse shape than the looters coming in with scrapes and burns.
They stitched his ear, forehead, chin, and various cuts and released him. Right away. He did not receive anything resembling the medical care he should have received. He was treated worse than an animal. Instead of the tests that should have been given, he was released to our bewildered and horrified family.
He was not right. He was able to shuffle his feet to walk, but had a dazed expression on his face. His head was wrapped in gauze and he wore a blood stained hospital gown. He did not speak, but instead made incoherent grunting sounds. I remember being afraid of him, because even though I was so little, I knew that this was not my father. Something was very wrong. I watched as my mother stood behind my father in front of their closet mirror, sobbing softly as she pulled glass shards out of his back. The bruises were a rainbow of ugly colors, and he had so many cuts. He just grunted in pain, in sadness, a horrible sound I couldn't forget if I tried.
We were too scared to stay in the house. My uncle made the dangerous journey in his old van though the riots that did not end. As we drove through the streets, I stood on my tiptoes and looked through little window in the back of the van. There was trash everywhere, and there was a fire still burning in the grocery we shopped at. There were piles of melted metal where there used to be cars, and so much smoke. Worst of all were the people. Some armed. All with hatred in their eyes. They threw rocks and trash at the van as we drove by. I don't know how we made it through, but we did.
At my uncle's house, my dad laid on the couch and dozed. He would start to panic and flail his arms and groan in terror, and look at us like he didn't recognize us. My mother and uncle would try to calm him down but he was not in his right mind. He was scared. I remember my mother trying to feed him broth through a straw, and how she could barely get his jaw to unclench.
It was over a week before he spoke. He still doesn't remember much of what happened after he got to the hospital. The money he had in his pocket was gone, his tools stolen and his truck burned. But what he lost that day has no name.
Our family never recovered. As soon as he could stand my father was back at work. He constantly got so dizzy he nearly blacked out. He fell off a roof while making repairs. He ended up losing his property. Worst of all he never got the health care he needed, because he couldn't afford it. Worse, He was afraid to testify in court, because our family received threats from people like classmates at school, to anonymous calls. He did what he could, renting out a tiny apartment for us in a safer city. Even though kind souls donated to the family, he couldn't keep paying for the house that stood empty because we were too afraid to return to, the apartment, and bills. Sadly, it didn't get much better.
A couple of weeks ago he got so sick he couldn't get up off the floor. He stopped eating and is complaining of a knot and pain in his stomach.
Now, he is in danger of losing his home. He doesn't deserve it after everything he has been through. Our family never recovered after that day. My father is an amazing man, who at 72 years old still works harder than someone half his age. He has lost so much, but still he has taught us to be grateful for what we have, and how America is the greatest country in the world. I wish I could give him everything he needs, but I am not able to.
If you or someone you know could help, it would mean the world to us. But please, share his story. So we can honor the men who put their lives in danger to save him. So people remember what happened to him that day, and how in spite of it he is the most loving father and grandfather.
And so hopefully, something like this never happens to someone again, so he didn't suffer in vain.
Most importantly, I want to share his story. Not one person ever was tried for the crimes against him. No justice was served. One member of the mob that was tried for other crimes, simply apologized for the beatings of Reginald Denny and my father. No police or emergency help arrived when he lay dying in the street. Please share this story everywhere you can. He is a part of American history, and I want his story heard, and for him to be remembered positively.
Fidel Lopez is an amazing man who nearly lost his life in the brutal attack he suffered on April 29th 1992. And he never recovered. Not financially, emotionally, mentally, and certainly not physically. He still has nightmares in which the mob is beating him. He never recovered from the dizzy spells and pain. He still becomes confused and stammers when he speaks, something he never did before then. Most of all, he is haunted by the memories that never leave him.
The story of my father, Fidel Lopez, is largely forgotten. As the 25th Anniversary of the L.A. Riots draws near, the clips and old footage start to make their appearance. But they don't tell the real story.
Here is his story.
************
My father was driving home on April 29th 1992 after a long day of work. He was self employed, trying to make his American dream come true. He had finally bought a run down property in Los Angeles, and was determined to flip it and sell it to pay for his family's home. He did most of the work himself, getting up before dawn and working tirelessly after most would have called it a day. He had saved enough money for building supplies he was going to buy the next day. His properly had been broken into and burglarized, so he brought his tools in his blue GMC truck. He dropped an employee off at his home and began driving home at around 7pm. He was exhausted, but happy. After all, he was working for his family.
As he made his way down Normandie, he began to hear the shouts. He saw fires burning in several businesses.
As he pulled up at the Florence and Normandie intersection, he recalls thinking that it was what hell looked like. Several people ran up to his car, throwing rocks and bottles. He tried to move his truck, but his path was blocked. A young black man opened his door and tried to drag him out of his truck. "White motherf*****r!" he shouted. "I'm not white, I'm hispanic" my father answered, startled. "Same sh*t!" the man cried and yanked him out of the truck.
Everything happened quickly then. The mob was vandalizing his truck, and dousing it with gasoline to set it on fire. Others were kicking and surrounding him. Could he make it back into his truck and get it out of the street before they caught up? He didn't think so. He chose to try to run. The helicopter news crew flying above caught everything as members of the mob from every corner ran to block him. Fidel was a great runner but there was no escape. He recalls how there were angry faces on every corner, and so many of them. He knew he would not get away.
The crowd surrounded him and began beating him. Several men kicked, punched and hurt him at the same time, dragging him by his shirt as he tried to crawl away. Someone smashed a glass bottle on his his head, and he saw lights flash in front of his eyes. Someone tried to cut his ear off and left it attached by a strip of flesh. They beat him mercilessly as frantically thought to himself: "Why? Why?"
At the same time, Rev Bennie Newton had rushed into the intersection. He had grabbed his collar and his bible and was on a mission to do some good in the midst of the chaos. He saw Fidel being beaten, and ran to try to help. He yelled at them to stop, and he was batted away like a butterfly. He tried to shield Fidel's body, but the blows were coming from all directions. Finally, someone grabbed a large stereo speaker from the shop being looted on the same street. He smashed it down on Fidel's head, and his body began to twitch. When the speaker was thrown aside, you could see the giant gash on his forehead. His body was covered in blood. Someone pulled his pants down and began spray painting his face and genitals black. On the original audio, you can hear someone laugh and say "Motherf*****r's black now!"
At the same time, his body was being doused in gasoline. Rev Newton recalls "They were going to set his body on fire! Mr. Lopez stopped breathing. His eyes rolled back in his head, and I thought he was gone." Finally, the mob started to retreat.
*Please only watch if you have a strong stomach*
https://youtu.be/Z43xrUdGSnk
On the original audio of the scene, you can hear the crowd laughing and discussing Fidel as the cameraman shoots from across the street. "He's dead," someone says. "If he's not dead now, he will be. They poured oil (the gasoline) all over him, and in his mouth," someone else replies.
Rev Newton began to pray over Fidel's body. He prayed until finally, Fidel began to breathe. His eyes opened, and he was terrified. What was happening to him? Who was this man. He struggled to sit up and fell to his knees. This is the shot you will see on the news clips. Rev Bennie Newton with his arms outstretched, standing over Fidel as the fires burn behind them.
Fidel started to panic. His family! He had to get home to his family and keep them safe! He tried to tell Rev Newton he needed to get to his family. Rev Newton's car was too far away. How would he get this man to safety? A man approached them. He would help them get away, he said. He brought his van and helped load Fidel into the back. They debated what to do. "My family" Fidel repeated over and over again. He started to panic. Where were they taking him? "Stay down!" they told him. It wasn't safe as they drove out of the intersection, and down the street. The mob had spread, and they were checking every car that went by. Somehow Fidel was able to tell them where he lived, and they knocked on the door where his wife and three daughters were waiting.
********
Watching my father walk through the door is something I will never forget. He was covered in blood. The smell of gasoline..they way his skin flapped over his eyes because of the open wound on his forehead. He sat on the couch while the men told us who they were. The man who saved my father along with Rev Newton told us he was married to a Hispanic woman, and couldn't understand the senseless attacks. He was never found, so we could thank him for saving my father.
They took my father to Daniel Freeman hospital. My sister Vanessa went along. She hid in the backseat with my father, under blankets. She remembers being stopped along the way by rioters. As they drove away, she peeked out the window and saw they had guns.
At the hospital, my father sat until 6am, throwing up and bleeding, sliding in and out of consciousness. My sister tried over and over again to get him medical help until finally she started screaming at them. He was slumped over and clearly in far worse shape than the looters coming in with scrapes and burns.
They stitched his ear, forehead, chin, and various cuts and released him. Right away. He did not receive anything resembling the medical care he should have received. He was treated worse than an animal. Instead of the tests that should have been given, he was released to our bewildered and horrified family.
He was not right. He was able to shuffle his feet to walk, but had a dazed expression on his face. His head was wrapped in gauze and he wore a blood stained hospital gown. He did not speak, but instead made incoherent grunting sounds. I remember being afraid of him, because even though I was so little, I knew that this was not my father. Something was very wrong. I watched as my mother stood behind my father in front of their closet mirror, sobbing softly as she pulled glass shards out of his back. The bruises were a rainbow of ugly colors, and he had so many cuts. He just grunted in pain, in sadness, a horrible sound I couldn't forget if I tried.
We were too scared to stay in the house. My uncle made the dangerous journey in his old van though the riots that did not end. As we drove through the streets, I stood on my tiptoes and looked through little window in the back of the van. There was trash everywhere, and there was a fire still burning in the grocery we shopped at. There were piles of melted metal where there used to be cars, and so much smoke. Worst of all were the people. Some armed. All with hatred in their eyes. They threw rocks and trash at the van as we drove by. I don't know how we made it through, but we did.
At my uncle's house, my dad laid on the couch and dozed. He would start to panic and flail his arms and groan in terror, and look at us like he didn't recognize us. My mother and uncle would try to calm him down but he was not in his right mind. He was scared. I remember my mother trying to feed him broth through a straw, and how she could barely get his jaw to unclench.
It was over a week before he spoke. He still doesn't remember much of what happened after he got to the hospital. The money he had in his pocket was gone, his tools stolen and his truck burned. But what he lost that day has no name.
Our family never recovered. As soon as he could stand my father was back at work. He constantly got so dizzy he nearly blacked out. He fell off a roof while making repairs. He ended up losing his property. Worst of all he never got the health care he needed, because he couldn't afford it. Worse, He was afraid to testify in court, because our family received threats from people like classmates at school, to anonymous calls. He did what he could, renting out a tiny apartment for us in a safer city. Even though kind souls donated to the family, he couldn't keep paying for the house that stood empty because we were too afraid to return to, the apartment, and bills. Sadly, it didn't get much better.
A couple of weeks ago he got so sick he couldn't get up off the floor. He stopped eating and is complaining of a knot and pain in his stomach.
Now, he is in danger of losing his home. He doesn't deserve it after everything he has been through. Our family never recovered after that day. My father is an amazing man, who at 72 years old still works harder than someone half his age. He has lost so much, but still he has taught us to be grateful for what we have, and how America is the greatest country in the world. I wish I could give him everything he needs, but I am not able to.
If you or someone you know could help, it would mean the world to us. But please, share his story. So we can honor the men who put their lives in danger to save him. So people remember what happened to him that day, and how in spite of it he is the most loving father and grandfather.
And so hopefully, something like this never happens to someone again, so he didn't suffer in vain.
Organizer
Aileen Lopez
Organizer
Torrance, CA