"It just hurts so damn bad." I sit on the other end of the phone this morning not knowing what to say. What can I say? I'm a southern girl trapped in a whirlpool that I'm realizing is considered the "inner city." The room is quiet in her background, and so is Tisha's* tiny voice as she cries and relays to me the events of this past Thursday.
Being in a relationship with an older man who has more than enough kids, attached to even more baby mamas, Tisha has gone above and beyond the call of duty in the girlfriend handbook. Thinking she was crazy at first, I didn't say much, but then I came to the conclusion that she is one of those people who don't love easy - but when they love, they love hard. She has taken his kids- every one of them- in as her own. From babysitting and spending time with them, to dress shopping with his daughter and getting her ready for prom. And while they are not officially married, I'm sure common law went into effect some years ago, as she genuinely considers his kids her "step-children " because she does so much for them; in some cases more than their own mothers. That's why when Mrs.Flemanns casually mentioned yesterday as I was leaving work that Tisha's "stepson was shot" I knew there was more to it.
"I'm upset and hurt, but i can't say I'm surprised," Tisha starts. Apparently Chris was hanging out with some fellow gang members who had just been involved in an altercation. These associates did not tell Chris that they had just jumped a 15-year-old in the neighborhood. Upon finishing the fight, the boys went to the playground, and invited Chris for a game of basketball. "As soon as he got out on the court, the little boy they beat up came back and just started spraying the playground. My stepson was hit first in the arm. Then the side. Then the leg. And then the chest." As she starts to sob she tells me of faint pulse he had in the ambulance, and finally at the hospital while surgeons were giving him a fighting chance, he just "gave up."
I can picture her thin body shaking in the darkness of their row house in West Baltimore. I try to console her over the line, but I know there's nothing I can say to make this better. Sadly, this is just another 16-year-old black male that has lost his life to these Baltimore Streets. I begin to think of my students.
Fear: One day, one of these students that I have grown to care for and genuinely love, will walk out of here and not come back.
Fact: It could easily happen on any given basketball court in this city.
When did playgrounds become killing fields?
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