Five weeks ago, one of my students was murdered. Shot in the head by supposed friends. Last week, the local police chief was quoted in a newspaper article as saying, “Now, things are back to normal.”
They are not. And I don’t think they should be. We lost Shamar. He was bright, hilarious, and caring. He had made some poor decisions as a young teenager – who hasn’t – but was turning his life around. The teenagers who killed him went to our school. Some of the active participants in Shamar’s death are my students as well. There are other students in my classes who have family on the same block where Shamar died; it could have been them. It still could be. It could be me next.
But last month it was Shamar. In going through some files of writing samples, I found his folder yesterday. One of the essays was about B.B. King’s visit to Rochester, which Shamar began by writing, “How are you? I hope you’re fine. But if you’re not, here’s something to cheer you up! B.B. King is coming to town!” That made me smile. Another essay was a memoir about significant events in his life. Shamar talked about his mother’s decision to move him from an urban setting to a suburban one. He said that he was proud of himself for becoming someone who respected himself and others, who enjoyed life, who could still make changes after being a “disrespective kid,” who could have integrity without being unduly influenced by his friends. He mentioned his plans for college. He said how much he loved and appreciated his mother for sticking with him. That made me cry.
I must confess that every headline I read about violent crime in the paper does not affect me. I think, “Oh, how sad,” and move on. But I am beginning to change. Now that I know what it is like to lose someone violently. Now that I understand the grief does not end with the closure of a funeral service. That the wounds are reopened with every news article about the teens who killed him. That each day I am reminded of his smile when he is not in the hall as usual. And as much as I wish Shamar were still here, I do not want to dishonor his memory by getting back to normal.
I want change to happen. I want the kids I walk by at their lockers to understand that they are loved. I want to find a way to show them that communication is best done with words and not guns, knives, or fists. I want to never forget what this pain feels like. I want to see Shamar’s smile when I read headlines, the face of his mother when I hear rumors of war. I want the image of six boys – not men – carrying the casket of their brother and friend burned into my brain. I want to always remember who Shamar was, and what daily life is without the spark he brought. I want change to happen: before the world loses – before we lose – anyone else.
God help us if things get back to normal.