by Laura Lindeman
I know the victim!
knew…
Time in suspension
For his extravagant antics:
Bouncing down the halls,
Bouncing words at teachers,
Bouncing a few punches
off the faces of his peers.
But his smile races through a room
Like lightning!
Dreads dancing on his head with the energy of a
Superbowl halftime show…
He was mischief and enthusiasm and zest!
But living in danger
His speed and agility
Weaving through the violence
Not enough to protect him from the turbulence
Of generations of white oppression’s
Black destruction.
Armed by his family
False security in his sagging waistband.
At sixteen—just smart enough
To make irrational risk
Look adventurous.
Maybe this is why there used to be curfews?
Reasoning of the prefrontal cortex not fully formed
For another half dozen years;
Which he won’t experience.
His unique weapon—fancy firearm
Not a secret.
Proudly waved
Like a flag…
Or a dare.
During the next news cycle
I realize
I also know the shooter.
He took the dare;
Captured the flag.
Wanted the weapon of his friend.
Like two-year-olds in a sandbox
Tussling over a Tonka Truck.
What did they say?
“Mine.”
“Mine!”
“Give it!”
Bang…
Silence.
I know the shooter.
Smart, articulate
First year in middle school
Studying with headphones—Beats he called them.
Asking deep questions
Seeking complex answers
Quoting Tupac and Jay-Z
But survival on his block
Translates school as
“White people shit”.
Only slick, stark self-preservation
Was rewarded there.
The Seventh Sense
Of street survival.
Cutting classes,
Cursing teachers,
Curtailing disrespect from peers
At all costs.
Take what you want!
Command the room
the block
the bitches
the boys.
So when he wants his bro’s gun,
He takes the weapon;
Takes the shot;
Takes the life.
Takes the arrest,
The parole violation.
Takes his OG’s soul
Her head in her hands in the court room.
Takes residence in a cell
No bail.
Taking traded for youth, freedom and “potential”
Barely a teenager
Playing adult games
And losing.
Losing high school,
And chess club.
Losing a driver’s license and
The right to vote.
Losing his siblings and
His chance to age.
If tried and convicted as an adult
He’ll be incarcerated 45 to life.
Either way, life will be the sentence.
For the rest of his years, days, hours and moments
He will be dogged by the memory and
Haunted by the choices
He didn’t make:
To walk away,
To let go of the gun,
To put friendship over face-saving
And laugh at his own pretension
Stuck at fourteen forever.
Trauma imprints
Even if denied by bluster
He can’t out-run
out-shout
out-shoot
or fake out
His own fledgling soul.
I knew the victim;
I know the shooter.
Again.
Laura Lindeman is a new poet who has just decided to submit some poetry for publication with the help of a friend. This poem is a political poem focusing on gun violence, and as you will read, is based on her knowing, as a teacher, two teenagers before they became shooter and victim in a real-life tragedy. The poem speculates based on material revealed in news reports, but the poet has no first-hand knowledge of the crime itself.
