I gunned my new, used Toyota Corolla and sped in a mad dash to Centinela Hospital in Inglewood, since Martin Luther King, the gun shot trauma hospital that used to be in Watts, had been shut down. Everything felt like a nightmare that I just couldn’t wake up from. I was praying this couldn’t be true, and if it were, that it wasn’t too late. I ran through red lights, but thankfully the police never pulled me over.
My heart was beating so fast I was afraid I’d have a heart attack. My sweaty palms clenched the steering wheel so tightly, they almost felt numb when I finally swerved into the hospital parking lot, screeching to a halt.
As we arrived at the hospital, the guards sent us around to the back to get into the Emergency Room. Chica and her fiancé, Riley Whitmore, who I met for the first time, were already there in the corridor in the crowded Emergency Room.
Chica was laying in the floor kicking, and screaming, over and over, “Oh, God, no! Not my baby!” Meantime, Riley was trying to soothe her.
I figured then that it was worse than we thought.
“She won’t get up,” said Riley, Chica’s fiancé, when he looked up, helplessly holding his hands in the air. He appeared distraught, but he recognized Shirley. “Someone’s got to identify him.” A nod of his head let me know the worse had happened.
That was when I knew Trayvon had expired. Finally Shirley and I decided to go in and identify the body. First, we talked to the doctor, a Dr. Bradley, who spoke in hushed tones. “We did all we could do. He was dead on arrival. You have my condolences. He was shot in the chest and he bled out.”
“What was the time of death?” I asked.
“9:30 P.M.”
We were finally escorted to a room off the emergency room where Trayvon was laying. The nurses had cleaned him up. He had a sheet pulled up to his neck. He looked so young, so vulnerable, almost like a little boy, with some height. His eyes were closed like he was sleeping and his body still felt warm to the touch.
I thought about when Trayvon came to me, saying he was afraid to go to school. Was this shooting related to the hit the Mexican gangs had supposedly put out on civilians?
A nurse came in, murmuring condolences, and handed us his clothes in a plastic bag. I noticed my Starter jacket. Dried blood was beginning to crust on the black background of the collar. I almost threw up.
It finally hit me. Trayvon was gone. That’s when I broke down.
13
The day of Trayvon’s funeral was the worst day of all of our lives. Although the sun fell in parallelograms with mote-swirling dust through the stained-glass church window, it was a dark day for us on the inside.
Burying Trayvon was not exactly how I had envisioned his life. I had always thought I would go to his high school, then college graduation. I’d always thought I’d see him go places in life. Not wind up in a bronze-colored casket before his life even got started. It took all my strength not to take a drink this past week before the funeral and the wake. So far, I’d been sober since I went into rehab—one day at a time. That cliché worked, too. One day at a time, I repeated to myself. Sometimes it was one minute at a time.
The smells of chrysanthemums filled my nostrils and added to my depression. The smell always reminded me of my father’s funeral. I gazed up at the Black Jesus on the wall, and wondered, When do we ever catch a break as a foster kid? I knew Shirley taught me that life wasn’t fair, but dayumm!
Most of Shirley’s church members were present. A number of Trayvon’s high school classmates filled the pews. His coach, Mr. Barry, the principal, Mr. Jackson, and a number of teachers filled the church. People were crying throughout the church. Young people held hands in a queue down each pew.
All week, shrines had been built around the street light near our house and down at the shopping center at Martin Luther King Boulevard and Crenshaw where he was killed. This was just across the street from Magic Johnson’s Movie Theater where I used to take Trayvon and his sisters for the Saturday matinees.
Candlelight vigils were held on the streets almost every night the preceding days before the funeral. Neighbors had been swarming in and out the house with warmed dishes of fried chicken, El Pollo Loco grilled chicken, tortillas, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, trays of enchiladas, red beans and rice, and someone even baked a golden brown turkey. But none of the family had an appetite.
The L.A. Times, and all the black papers, The Sentinel , the Wave and the L.A. Watts Times were filled with headlines: “COMMUNITY GALVANIZES OVER SHOOTING OF HIGH SCHOOL NBA PROSPECT.” “CITY IS IN SHOCK OVER MURDER OF NBA HOPEFUL.”
Sadness gripped the Baldwin Hills Baptist Church where there was standing room only. The black mortuary has done a good job and Trayvon was buried wearing his basketball shirt and his team number. He was the star point guard on his team. His casket was surrounded by chrysanthemums and roses, making the smells of life and death rival each other.
Chica was so distraught, the church nurses had to carry her out within the first fifteen minutes. Riley, who had remained at her side throughout the whole ordeal, had to go outside and try to help calm her down. Malibu, Charisma, Brooklyn, and Soledad, all dressed in white dresses, were inconsolable. Trayvon’s friend, Delonte, and a teenage girl, I assumed may have been Trayvon’s girlfriend, sat on the front row with the family. They both couldn’t stop crying either.
A heavy-set singer named Cynthia sang such a beautiful rendition of CeCe Winan’s “Don’t Cry.” She sounded like an angel.
I fought back my tears so I could be strong for the family. I’ll cry later, I told myself. I understood the tears of those around me though. For how could you not help but cry? A good kid, college bound, wiped out. Why? No gang affiliations from what everyone said. When would this senseless violence end?
Everyone lost it all over again, when Chica’s twelve-year old daughter, Malibu, sang, “Precious Lord.” I didn’t realize that child had such pipes—I mean she could really blow.
The funeral rushed by in a blur for me, but I was really touched when a local artist named Dr. Maxine Thompson delivered her poem.
“Son of God Called Home Too Soon”
You were not just some faceless young black boy,
Barely turned fifteen,
whose death was flashed on the news,
No, you were our beloved son, our child, our oldest.
Not only that, you were a cousin, a nephew and a friend to many.
You also had many relatives, who loved you, too,
But most of all, you were a son of God called home too soon.
You were a seedling in the prime of life,
Your entire life a leaf unfurling, pregnant with possibility,
The things you could have done,
The places you could’ve gone,
More lives you could have touched,
But, no, it was not to be.
How many more of our young men must we lose
To acts of senseless violence and rage?
When will we learn to love and not hate,
To cherish and not exterminate?
Let’s wake up before it’s too late
And we lose our entire future Black race.
But, only God, in His wisdom, knows
When and why He calls us home too soon,
Perhaps He says, “You were only on loan to them, my son,
You all are just renting your time in this earthly space,
As for you, Trayvon, I have prepared a better place.”
That’s why we must take our short allotted time on earth
To love deeply,
Live fully,
Give plentifully.
In your fifteen years,
You did this. You provided us with many moments of joy,
Happiness and smiles.
Trayvon, from your first breath to your last,
From your first steps to your final ones, we loved you.
Your smile, your laugh, your love, we will always remember and cherish.
You
will never be forgotten,
Love, Your mother and father, Maritza Olegari and the late Ted (Dog Bite) Jackson
When the program called for remarks about the deceased, one by one, different classmates got up and gave their remarks about how they remembered Trayvon.
I glanced to the back of the church. I noticed a few known gangbangers, some of whom I recognized from when I was on the force. They had come in and sat in the back, but they seemed respectful, because from what I heard at the wake, they wanted to know who did this as well. The way they took off their scarves and caps, you could see they came in peace. I recognized known gang members from the Baldwin Village Bloods, the Long Beach Boulevard Crips, the Rolling Sixties, the Bounty Hunters and Pirus Bloods.
I looked back and recognized an O.G. Crip named F-Loc from Jordan Downs’ Grape Street Crips. I got up and walked down the aisle. I beckoned to him through lifting my head. I vaguely remembered F-Loc from my childhood, but I mainly knew him from when I lived with Chica in Jordan Downs. He nodded his head in recognition. He let me know right away he remembered Mayhem, who was still incarcerated but had been transferred to Chino, from what he informed me.
F-Loc spoke in a low voice, his hand over his mouth, failing to hide his gold grill. “Yeah, I remember you, too. Mayhem’s little sister.” He eyed my curves and his gaze lingered at my hips, but I cut my eyes, letting him know this was no time for B.S. But, all the while, he was giving me respect. There was a level of reverence through association which brought to mind how Mayhem’s rep and my mother’s rep made me like some Ghetto Mafia princess when I was growing up.
“Did you know Trayvon?” I spoke under my breath, but I got straight to the point. “Did he have any gang affiliations?”
“Nah, Trayvon was a good kid. See, I live in the jungle now. We used to look out for him when he’d be out practicing ball or walking through the hood. We wanted to see him get in the NBA. We want to know who did this shit, too.” There was a menacing glint in his eye and I hated to think of the street justice that might get served.
We exchanged cell phone numbers, then I tiptoed back up to the front of the church for the rest of the funeral.
Finally Pastor Patterson, sweat dripping from his forehead, took control of the pulpit, therefore the congregation, and a hush fell over the entire church. He really preached, to everyone who was in the church.
“When we look at this young man’s remains before us,” he paused for dramatic effect, “we know this is out of the natural order. All over our community, mothers are losing their sons to this senseless violence. Too much blood is running in the street and no one is crying out about it. If this were in the suburbs, there would be an uproar on the part of society, but our victims are black and brown.”
Pastor Patterson paused again in a timely fashion for the traditional call and response.
“Preach, Rev. It’s the truth anyhow.”
“That’s the word.”
“Speak on it.”
Pastor Patterson continued and his voice crescendoed. “We are the victims of the scourge of drugs, gangs and violence. This evil three is a pestilence sucking the life blood of the future from this city.
“Brown and black have to stop warring against one another. It’s as if the violence has been outsourced to let the minorities kill one another.
“Teenagers are afraid to go to school. We now have a Safe Passage Program to help children get back and forth to school. Now, I don’t know about you, but I think there is something wrong with this picture.”
“Tell it like it is, Pastor,” someone intoned.
Pastor took his fist and pounded on the pulpit. “We’ve got to take back control of our community and stop letting the gangs run it. The real men and women have to stand up. We’ve got to stop our kids from being afraid to wear different colors, blue or red. Now they are even threatening to kill anyone wearing white T-shirts. What kind of mess is this? Do y’all hear me?”
“We hear you, Pastor.”
Pastor Patterson took his handkerchief and swiped his now sweating face. He continued his sermon, “Another one of our young slain.” He shook his head vigorously, then wiped his big white handkerchief over his sopping wet forehead. “We must not rise in anger. We can’t seek revenge. We’ve got to leave this in the Lord’s hand. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord. We’ve got to rise up in hope for the future.
“For today I say to you, we are declaring war on these people who will not allow our young people to live to see eighteen. Are we afraid of these hoodlums? No, but we don’t want you to go out and kill in retaliation. We want you to stop the killing and have peace.”
Pastor Patterson ended on this note.
“We’ve talked about the dead, but I’m going to talk to the living. Now, I want to know this. What are you going to do? What will be your legacy? In Trayvon’s short years, he touched a lot of people. He gave his life to Christ at an early age. Do you want to come to Christ today? What will be your legacy?”
A dozen people marched up and joined the church at this point.
After the funeral, as I was shambling out the church, I noticed Detective Gonzalez. Romero was standing inconspicuously in the back with a group of Latino students from the high school, so he did not stand out, other than he was older looking than the others. He was wearing mirrored shades, but I recognized him. He must have seen me studying him, because he nodded his head at me as I marched by.
When I passed his pew, he stepped in line and escorted me to the family funeral car. Outside, the sun was blinding white and I reached in my Coach bag and slid on my sunglasses. My head was pounding like a hammer on an anvil. It felt worse than some of my hangovers following a night of being “ten sheets to the wind.”
“I see you’re sitting with the family.” He raised his eyebrow, and asked, “A relative of yours?”
“My nephew.”
He let out a low whistle. “You have my condolences. Sorry for your loss.”
I tipped my head in acknowledgment. “What are you doing here? Funny how we keep running into each other.”
“This is part of a homicide investigation.”
“I thought you were in Pacific Division.”
“I am. But I’m also doing undercover, which might tie into this case. I’ll check with the detective in charge over at Southwest.”
“Any leads?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, a few of his friends say two Latinos walked up and just smoked him.”
“I’m so sorry. It’s always the good kids.... I’d like to take you for coffee to talk about the case, whenever you’re ready.” He handed me a card, which had his cell phone number scribbled on the back. He held the door for me, and I climbed in with the rest of the family.
After the funeral, I rode in the family car limousine with Shirley, Chill, Chica, and the girls, on the half-hour trail to Inglewood Cemetery. A motorcade led the funeral procession and the line went on for several city blocks. All the car lights were on, and people moved over to the curb as we rode by, running through red lights, but moving at a slow, steady speed.
I sat on one side of Chica, holding her right hand. Chica kept leaning on Shirley, crying in gut wrenching sobs. They sounded so haunting, so animal-like. Her cries reminded me of a howling wolf. Primitive, lonely, ancient as time. A cry that must have gone back to the Middle Passage. A mother’s grief.
All the while, Shirley patted her other hand, trying to control her own tears. Shirley had held up in her usual stoic manner, and, like me, had not broken down since the first night. She’d always been our pillar of strength.
“Mama, it hurts so bad.” Chica gulped, trying to catch her breath between her cries. “ I’ve never been there for Trayvon and now that I—I—I was getting myself together, this happens. Why him? Why not me? How can I go on?”
Shirley was quiet for a while. When she spoke up, she simply said, “With God’s help.”
14
Since we buried Trayv
on, Chica was a mess. I was afraid she was going to relapse or have a nervous breakdown. She was losing it. When I visited Chica at her and Riley’s apartment in North Hollywood, she couldn’t stop crying. I was so afraid she was going to start using again, I got nervous, but Riley said she hadn’t.
The truth be known, I’d been tempted to take a drink myself, but so far, I hadn’t. I knew it would only make matters worse. And that was, and remained, Shirley’s one rule for me renting her spot. I had to stay clean and sober.
Fortunately, the FOR SALE sign had gone down at the big house. Unfortunately, though, when I went to visit the big house, Shirley was a zombie, which was worse than Chica, who was at least getting her pain out. I hadn’t seen my foster mother cry since the night at the hospital.
The whole house screamed of Trayvon’s absence. No one had touched his bedroom, which he’d shared with no one since he was the only boy. The same Michael Jordan, Shaq and Kobe posters, and the same eleven by eighteen inch pictures of his team winning the championship last year still decorated his walls. His many trophies graced the top of his dresser. I got a chill as I walked by his room and peeked in. So much young energy gone. The house just felt weird.
Shirley had been sequestered in her room since the funeral. Even Chill had gotten worried about her and he came shuffling out of his room, where he had spent the past few years, locked up, except for when he wanted his meal on a TV tray. His speech was halting, as he met me in the hallway. “Something’s wrong with Shirley. She hasn’t fed me.” I didn’t pay his broken speech any attention. I was used to it. Still, it saddened me to remember how Daddy Chill used to have a sharp mind before he retired from the Post Office. I guess he was just getting old.
I wandered into the kitchen where the girls were wandering around the house and bumping into each other like blind guppies. In the past week, I’d cooked simple meals like hamburgers for them and tried to help with their homework, but I was not exactly mother material. This particular evening, Malibu, at age 12, was cooking sloppy joes so I let out a sigh of relief.
L.A. Blues Page 10