In the summer of 1967, I was eighteen years old, just graduated from high school, and working maintenance in a housing project just outside Detroit. To meet government requirements, our crew was evenly divided—half Black, half white. The men I worked with were good men. They treated me with respect, even though I was the kid on the crew. I returned that respect. I learned from them. We worked hard, laughed when we could, and got along well.
The housing project had four hundred units. Three hundred ninety-eight were rented by Black families. One was rented by a Hispanic family, and one by a mixed couple.
Then July came.
The streets of Detroit—and some of the surrounding suburbs, including the area where I worked—erupted into rioting. There were fire bombings, looting, robberies, shootings, lawlessness, and death. For several days the city felt like it was coming apart. Men and women of different races, who had worked together for a long time, some for years, suddenly became enemies. Many businesses and factories had to shut down until things calmed down. Trust melted as suspicion rose. It was a bad time for Michigan and for the country.
On the first day of the riots, I was told not to report to work. I had no intention of going anyway. There was only one way into the development, and to get to the Office I worked out of, I had to drive the entire length of the project. The second day was the same. I was to stay home. But by the third day there was relative calm, and I was instructed to come in.
When I arrived, I was told to remain inside the main office. Management feared that, being a young white boy in that environment, I might become a target. So, I stayed put, passing the hours as best I could.
That evening, when it was time to leave, I had to drive through the entire housing complex to reach the main road. I was nearly out—just about to turn onto the street—when a car filled with Black teenagers pulled up beside me. They began getting out and walking toward my car.
They were looking for trouble. And I was him.
I thought about pulling out immediately, started to, but traffic on the main road was heavy. I was boxed in. Stuck. I started rolling up my window and scanning for an opening in traffic. Before I could close the window, a car on the main road stopped abruptly.
The biggest Black man I had ever seen stepped out.
He stood in the street—solid, steady—and with a booming voice and a heavily muscled arm pointed toward the teenagers, he ordered them back into their car. He told them to knock off their foolishness.
There was authority in his voice. And it worked. He may have been a policeman. They may have known him. I just don’t know. But they obeyed none-the-less.
Then he turned toward me.
“YOU!” he barked. Even louder than his bark toward to others.
He shook his head slightly, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—a lone white teenager sitting in a car in the middle of an all-Black neighborhood during a riot. He must have thought I was either reckless or completely out of my mind. He surely thought I was looking for trouble.
“GET THE HECK OUT OF HERE!”
“Yes, sir,” I replied with every ounce of respect I had.
A break in traffic came. I turned the corner and drove home, deeply aware that I had just been spared.
I have been thankful for that man ever since.
What I Know About Him
I don’t know his name. I don’t know what he did for a living. But I do know some things about him.
He did not approve of what was happening.
He knew right from wrong—and chose the right.
He knew those young men were wrong.
He knew I should not have been there, but since I was, he was not going to let things get worse than they already were.
In his eyes, I may have been foolish for being there. Perhaps he believed that if I got hurt, I would have only myself to blame. But he also understood something greater: my being beaten would not fix anything. It would not heal wounds. It would not bring justice. It would not make the neighborhood better.
He could have driven on. He could have ignored it. He could have gone home to supper and said nothing.
Instead, he stopped.
He inserted himself into a situation that could have cost him dearly.
It may have cost him nothing. True.
But it may have cost him everything.
He was a Black man publicly correcting Black youth to protect a white teenager. In those days, that could be misunderstood. It could be twisted. It could be labeled betrayal. He risked being seen as taking the “wrong side.” Word could have spread. His family could have paid for it.
But he was no traitor.
He was simply an honest, courageous man who refused to stand by.
He chose involvement.
So What Is the Point?
I think it’s clear.
It is time for good people to stand up. Not a handful. Not a brave minority. The majority.
It is time to take the side of what is right—even when it costs something. It is time to reclaim our neighborhoods, our streets, our schools, and our homes—not with rage, but with courage and moral clarity.
Evil flourishes when good people remain silent. We have all heard some version of that truth. And history keeps proving it.
Good intentions are not enough. Good people must act.
If wrongdoing happens before our eyes and we remain passive, we cannot honestly call ourselves good. Goodness that never moves is not goodness at all.
The man who stopped his car that night was good—not because of what he believed, but because of what he did. He acted.
I thank God for him.
I want to be like him. I want my eyes open. I want the courage to step into the moment when stepping in matters. Because I have come to believe this:
The grandest good intention shrinks into nothing beside the smallest good deed.
“Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might…”
Ecclesiastes 9:10
“The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong… but time and chance happen to them all.”
Ecclesiastes 9:11
Life brings moments to all of us.
When yours comes—stop the car.