America, you’ve convinced us that this is normal. Black and Brown boys kill each other. It’s just the way it is.
Dear America,
I’m sitting in my car while gas is pumping into it. It’s 6 p.m. and the sun’s long gone. I’m sitting in my car because it’s cold outside and the pump is literally pumping by the milliliter. The pumps at this gas station are often broken or low on gas, but it’s the closest to my house and the owners are nice. Sometimes they notice it’s pumping slow and come out and switch pumps for me. Today they haven’t. The low murmur of the gas stops. I check my surroundings and get out of the car. The pump hasn’t finished. It just needs to be adjusted and the trigger doesn’t want to hold up anymore. Great. I’m standing in the cold as the gas trickles in.
The flickering light of candles catches my peripheral view. Someone lit candles and left fresh flowers at the memorial across the street. Two kids died there. They were shot. One 18, the other 20. I can’t remember exactly when. Maybe November? I don’t remember their real names either. They went by Bucket and Bubba. They went to school with my cousins. They were the fourth and fifth minority boys killed in North Sacramento in less than three months.
The day they died, I heard the gunshots. I didn’t think much of it. It was only when I heard the sirens that I texted my brothers to make sure they were okay. My mom took it as an opportunity to lecture us on why we shouldn’t come to the gas station after the sun goes down. The next morning there was yellow tape up. By nightfall, the memorial was up. Framed photographs surrounded by dozens of candles, flower bouquets, and snacks that I presumed were their favorite, neatly rested on the sidewalk where they took their final breaths. Rest in peace, Floyd Allen. Rest in peace, Tyreke Robinson. November 3, 2019.
On Friday the 13th I was a freshman in high school. My mom dropped me off at school. Being overly religious and a tiny bit superstitious, she blessed me. The school day flew by. Excitement encompassed the community: the first round of football playoffs were tonight. Unfortunately, instead of preparing for Friday night lights, the community gathered for a vigil. Hundreds of candles lit. A somber grey fog floating around North Sacramento.
Five of our high school’s football players had were caught in a drive-by. Two injured, one dead. JJ died that day. Gunshot wound to the neck. He was 17. The thing is, while alive, JJ had been insignificant to me. I had hardly noticed him. He was a friend of my friends. He always wore a goofy grin. Despite this, his death took a toll on me. He was 17. Seventeen-year-olds weren’t supposed to die. They are supposed to graduate high school, play football, argue with their moms about curfew. Not die. Rest in peace, Jaulon Jamal Clavo. November 13, 2015.
I was in fifth period, frustrated, trying to summon the memory of what the hell the quadratic formula was when I heard that John died. He had left during lunch to get something to eat off-campus. He had decided to rob the mini-mart too. It was fast money, wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before. He was cocky. Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Dead at the scene. I was more pissed than sad. How could he be so stupid?
He should have been in class. It was his fault he was dead. His fault. His fault. He was a star basketball player, an AVID, and an honor roll student. He wanted to be a thug so bad. He had turned into a sheep. He was gone way before he had passed, we just hadn’t noticed. I wish someone had noticed. Rest in peace, John McGee. April 24, 2018.
A Halloween party. Way too many bodies packed into the backyard of some girl’s house. Gunshots. Everyone ducks. The DJ cuts the music. One dead. Gunshot wound to the head. Kids running out, trying to escape before the police arrive. Kids recording. Picking up his still-warm head to show the bullet entry and exit. Disrespectful.
I never found out his name. I searched the internet for news articles, nothing. Americans die every single day because of senseless gun violence but not every story makes the headlines. Thousands of deaths go unnoticed. The word was he wasn’t from the area; he simply resembled the person the bullet was intended for. Rest in peace, John Doe. October 31, 2019.
Death is complicated. Gun control too. JJ’s killer was 15 when he shot him. He was sentenced to eight years in prison. He’ll be out when he’s 23. My first instinct was to be mad. How could they only give him eight years? Is that what JJ’s life was worth? Eight years? But we have to remember when someone’s shot and killed, it creates a domino effect of people who are affected. It’s obvious: the murder victim’s family and friends are devastated. But what about the murderer’s? We overlook the fact that their family also loses a member. What do we gain from incarcerating someone for life? That’s yet another wasted life. Keymontae Lindsey. Imprisoned: November 2015. To be released: 2023.
America, you’ve convinced us that this is normal. Black and Brown boys kill each other. It’s just the way it is. It’s the lifestyle they choose. It’s normal that my 20-year-old brother’s lost 20 friends, classmates, and coworkers to gun violence. That my oldest brother’s lost count. That my youngest brother at 13 has lost two.
America, you do not value life. You spend $81 billion a year on mass incarceration. According to the Sentencing Project, “African-American adults are 5.9 times as likely to be incarcerated than whites and Hispanics are 3.1 times as likely. As of 2001, one of every three Black boys born in that year could expect to go to prison in his lifetime, as could one of every six Latinos—compared to one of every 17 white boys.”
How is anything supposed to change if you’ve already decided we are a lost cause?
Gun violence is the leading cause of death for Black children and teens in America and the second leading cause of death for Hispanic/Latino children and teens. You turn a blind eye to all the death in your streets. You call our boys thugs so you don’t have to feel guilty when they die.
You poison our schools with policemen. Our streets turn into war zones because your policies allow for thousands of guns to infiltrate them. You systematically beat these boys down and convince them that they won’t ever amount to anything. They’re nothing more than Thugs right?
The nozzle clicks. My tank is full. I drive home and with a weary heart, hug my three brothers.
America, I am tired of lighting candles.
Kimberly Sanchez
North Sacramento
Kimberly Sanchez is a recent graduate from the University of California, Davis where she earned her BA in Political Science. Kimberly lives in North Sacramento and is beginning a career in public service. She enjoys hiking, cooking, and spending time with her big family. This is her first publication.
Header photo by Danie Blind, courtesy Pixabay.
