Sarah sharing the love and genuinely caring about the community to which she has become deeply connected

On March 14, 2017, Zinnodene, a 14-year-old boy from Hanover Park, was shot on his way home from school.  The news came to me the following day when I brought my mom to my internship: Tammy told me that one of the boys, whom I had interacted with from the Ceasefire Program, had unexpectedly died.  I had no idea what to do with this news, nor am I really sure if I’ve even completely processed it.  My interaction with Zinnodene was only one day – the day I went with Tammy, Glenn, and the Ceasefire boys to the beach – and while he looks familiar, I don’t know if I can even recall anything specific, which makes me feel guilty and pathetic seeing how he’s now dead.  This isn’t even about me, nor should I be making it so, but I can’t seem to get over the initial shock of it all.  I know kids of color are shot all the time as a result of gang violence or police brutality in the US, but I’ve never let it be so up close and personal – where I’ve interacted with a child that has been murdered. 

                

Before I continue with my own feelings on the matter, it is important to understand why this happened.  Zinnodene was a boy who came from a world enveloped in systematic poverty, where gangs were created to be a rebellious force against white supremacy, but turned on each other as a result of capitalism and racial hierarchy.  The odds of survival were most definitely not in his favor given his poisonous environment, but in his life he tried to defeat the odds by joining the Ceasefire Program, where he sought guidance to better his life.  He did not deserve to die.  No one in Hanover Park deserves to die.  It’s easy to point fingers at the gang leaders, depicting them as monsters, but they were once children too – they were once like Zinnodene, unsure of who to be in this world of chaos and violence.  Instead of judging the people, maybe we should look at the system and ask what it is that is being done to change it.  Too often do we, do I, give into the media portrayals of young men of color, saying that they are all “thugs” and “corrupt gangsters,” instead of what they really are: oppressed individuals who have faced more sadness and loss than most of us can ever imagine.

Although I had the day off for Human Rights Day, I was invited to Zinnodene’s funeral, and I felt that attending was the right thing to do.  I wanted to show people that I’m not just some foreigner looking to have a good time, but that I am a person who genuinely cares about their struggles and losses.  For while seeing such a small casket brought tears to my eyes, as did viewing his still, lifeless face, whose eyes would never again open to the world, whose mouth would never take another breath, whose arms would never fold into another hug, whose dream to become a mechanical engineer would never come true, I am so happy that I went.  I was honored to witness the turnout of over 2000 people, where the community gathered to mourn this tragedy, whose love radiated through the school gymnasium, whose voices matched every heartbeat, who unity was incomparable to anything I’ve ever seen.  I’m happy that I saw Skyler, one of the girls from the afterschool programme, who sat on my lap and made me feel that my time with her may make her life turn out different than Zinnodene’s.  That as small as my role may be, the love she and the other children have shown me will spread to the world around them, that the love I give them will save some of them from the defeat and despair that seems to consume their lives.