My phone flashes. My friend Adam has just forwarded a notice to me about a gathering to be held this very night on the very corner I’m gazing upon. It’s supposed to be a memorial gathering of sorts, a prayerful time to take a stand against the violence that ravages the urban core.
Two weeks ago today, an 18-year-old black male was shot and killed in broad daylight. I remember the day clearly. It was the middle of the afternoon, and there was swarms of cops cars, loads of tape, the local news station. We could see most everything from our second story kitchen window.
It’s not that commotion is an uncommon sight. I mean, we certainly see our share of it. Last week we watched as police apprehended man outside our house. He was trying to escape after causing a car accident a few streets over, a hit-and-run situation. I don’t know if anyone was killed, but there was certainly a lot of ambulances. Before that there was a cab driver shot in front of our house. One of our roommates felt the vibrations from the gunshots in her bedroom and made the call to the police. Then there was the Christmas party we had, in which our departing guests literally had to walk through a line-up of officers who had a few troubled teenagers handcuffed on our sidewalk. We’ve had several full-blown manhunts occur on our block in the few months we’ve lived in this house. One night a house guest was not even allowed to return to our home, as an entire ten-block radius was barricaded for what turned out to be an all-night search for a guy who’d shot a cop.
And they say we live on a good street.
A good street for this side of town, that is.
Ahh. So there I am today, sitting at the table, writing my brother’s birthday card. I know as soon as I get the text from Adam that I will go tonight. My heart is heavy as I finish writing his card. Two weeks ago, my brother was an 18-year-old male. Today I celebrate his vibrant life, his bright future, and another year that he will live. He made it to 19. That’s more than Avion Williamson can say.
Evening comes, and I slip out of my house to walk soberly to the notorious corner. A huge stone church sets opposite the Metro Center, and it seems this is where the crowd is gathering. A lot of church folk, from various congregations. Avion’s family. Several policers officers. Quite a few young people - his friends maybe. Representatives from different community organizations. A guy with snapping pictures. A rickety old monitor and a microphone that cuts in and out. Mostly black folks have gathered, with just a handful of white folks sprinkled throughout the crowd.
A prayer is prayed before bishops, officers, and heads of this or that all offer their condolences and make a plea for the community to become unified in its crack down on violent crime. Tears keep flooding my eyes as the session progresses. If I gave way to my emotions I would just weep and weep. 16 people have been murdered in Kansas City since the turn of 2010. 13 of them have been black males. 5 of them have been teenagers. I guarantee that most, if not all, of those murders have occurred within a few miles of my home.
One of the speakers asks the crowd to raise their hand if they have ever had a family member murdered. Something like two-thirds of the crowd raises their hand. He then asked who had attended a funeral of someone who had been murdered in the last eighteen months. Again, much of the crowd had their hands raised. I feel like I cannot breathe.
There’s more jabbering about how if only all the organizations were more unified, the violence would never happen. All I want to do is get on my face in the asphalt church lot and start crying out for mercy. Some of what is said is good, but it seems to be mostly talk amongst people who cannot really change a thing. And barely anything at all is directed to the only One who can actually save us.
I’ve been thinking all day that I want to put words to the stirring in my heart. It’s these kinds of days that make me want to write words that provoke the human soul. It’s these kinds of days that leave me feeling raw and wanting to shake up the emotions of every heart that slumbers.
And its these same days that leave me feeling like there is nothing left to say. I want to be able to deliver some crazy powerful punch line at the end of this note. But my soul is strangely quieted. The somberness has seeped in and drowned out whatever rage was in me.
Perhaps, just perhaps, He wants this moment.
And in that case, You shall have it, Lord. Come, be present with us in our celebrating and grieving. Come, be present in our gaining and our losing. Come, when there is nothing left to say... Come, be with us.
03-08-10
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