Last night we had a peace vigil on the corner. Yesterday morning a 22 year old man was shot six times on our block. I’m fairly sure I know who it was. A Puerto Rican kid, with a big ponytail, nicknamed appropriately- “Ponytail”. I saw him a few times in front of our house, very clearly dealing drugs. They said he’d been around for the last three weeks, which confirmed my suspicion that it was the same kid. I laughed at him once. After a close call with the police driving by, he pulled his purple bandana, which matched his purple shoes over his face and began strutting down the street with a little bit of sassy attitude. As of yesterday he was in critical condition.
Philadelphia, nicknamed, “Killadelphia” is not lacking in crime, or murder. I walk past dozens of dealers and strung out addicts every day and feel somewhat complacent to it. However, when I heard about the shooting, a knot instantly formed in my stomach.
People came and went from the vigil. There were about 15-20 of us total—a bunch white kids on a corner of an infamous neighborhood, holding candles and singing about peace. I have tried hard to blend in here; last night we did just the opposite. My housemate went around to different houses in the neighborhood and invited people out for the vigil. Some people voiced an interest, but also fear for their safety. Some who walked by our circle of candles and song walked by silently, and quickly; some crossed their chest and whispered a prayer; some asked if we were “church”; some stuck around and talked about their concerns with the neighborhood, what they knew about “Ponytail”, or how they are good people who enjoy their little Budweiser everyday. I watched one lady for a long time. She was very high, and aggressively cleaned out her eyes for about three minutes. Eventually she faded into the sea of strung out faces, and was gone.
We stood there for about and hour and a half, holding our candles, singing songs, talking, sharing, thinking… I have fought hard for the last few months against the bonds of heaviness. However, in the face of raw reality last night, and the blatant display of faith, I had no choice but to embrace the heaviness. I thought about our neighborhood, and the millions more just like it. I thought about far and distant lands. I thought about violence, drugs, and pain. I thought about how distant I’ve made myself from these things. We sang songs about God, and peace. I remember once singing the same songs with confidence, strength, and faith. I sang them last night with the same amount of depth, but with tremendous mystery surrounding them. I have no answers; nothing is clear other than love. And love is all I wanted last night. I didn’t want answers. I wanted love.
We walked back down the block to the house. Danielle thought it would be nice to visit our neighbors who often display violence to each other. I walked outside to the stoop only to find my housemates with a guitar, and singing, as my neighbors stood by clapping and laughing. An addict, a victim/offender, a broken human—smiling, and clapping…
I went back to my room to do some studying before bed, only to find myself ten minutes later with tears streaming down my face for reasons I have yet to discover. I called out to whoever it is I call out to, and felt such a void. “Love”, in that moment, was seemingly not there, nor was answers, and yet here we are, floundering. With such a mix of hope, a memory of peace, the pain of humanity, the beauty of people, the flashbacks of unanswered prayers, the apathy, I took down my bible for the first time in a long time. I suppose I was hoping to find something. Something, or anything to feel the peace so many of my friends had while holding those candles on the corner, or the peace I once had in the face of death, destruction, pain, and hopelessness. A verse came to my head, and before cynicism got the best of me I turned there. Isaiah 26. As I read, I wept, some for the content, some for the anger, some for the hope, and some for the empty, black void. I was overwhelmed, almost to the point of weakness, when I got to the verses about the labouring woman, giving birth to wind, as that opened up yet another world of pain and question, hope and memory. So many things are tied together. Ponytail being shot is Rosie dying in a car accident. Rosie being killed is the baby I felt fall apart and die in my hands. That baby is the girl under the bridge in San Diego; the girl is the addict overdosing on my stoop, so on and so forth.
The other day I watched an episode of Grey’s Anatomy,(shameful I know). In it, an elderly man lost his wife, and despite the signed “do not resuscitate” papers, he stood there until he could not stand any more, pressing on her chest, forcing her heart to beat weakly. Her name was Rose. As he forced her heart to beat he begged her not to leave him. When he was exhausted and faint Dr. Bailey came over, put oxygen to his mouth, took his place on Rose’s chest and began to push. She did this for some time, until Dr. Shepard took her place, pushed a few times on Rose’s chest, then slowly, peacefully, and gracefully allowed her heart to stop. I wept while I watched this aware that it was a TV show, but also aware that it touched in me something that nothing else has been able to touch and I wanted so badly to feel it. To really feel it. To purge it, get it up, get it out, and move on.
That imaginary elderly woman is the woman I searched for a pulse, and could not find one; the woman whose eyes I closed, and the woman whose father sang as he wept over her body.
Danielle and I walked to Frank’s Market this morning to get laundry detergent. A block down from our house we saw two people fighting. One man had another person up against a car, and then proceeded to punch the person with great force in the face. We quickly realized the person against the car was a woman. My stomach quickly filled with pain and my mind with numbness. We waited for a moment, to ask if she was alright. She came walking along side us, crying, and looking back. She wouldn’t answer us really, but as we walked up to a group of people sitting on a stoop, she took something quickly from a man’s hand and walked away. The reality of this neighborhood hit me again. Drugs, violence, pain, and family. They are what hold this place together, and yet what holds it down.
“…When you loose all sense of self
the bonds of a thousand chains will vanish.
Lose yourself completely,
Return to the root of the root of your own soul…”
-Rumi (We Can See the Truth in Your Eyes)
Philadelphia, nicknamed, “Killadelphia” is not lacking in crime, or murder. I walk past dozens of dealers and strung out addicts every day and feel somewhat complacent to it. However, when I heard about the shooting, a knot instantly formed in my stomach.
People came and went from the vigil. There were about 15-20 of us total—a bunch white kids on a corner of an infamous neighborhood, holding candles and singing about peace. I have tried hard to blend in here; last night we did just the opposite. My housemate went around to different houses in the neighborhood and invited people out for the vigil. Some people voiced an interest, but also fear for their safety. Some who walked by our circle of candles and song walked by silently, and quickly; some crossed their chest and whispered a prayer; some asked if we were “church”; some stuck around and talked about their concerns with the neighborhood, what they knew about “Ponytail”, or how they are good people who enjoy their little Budweiser everyday. I watched one lady for a long time. She was very high, and aggressively cleaned out her eyes for about three minutes. Eventually she faded into the sea of strung out faces, and was gone.
We stood there for about and hour and a half, holding our candles, singing songs, talking, sharing, thinking… I have fought hard for the last few months against the bonds of heaviness. However, in the face of raw reality last night, and the blatant display of faith, I had no choice but to embrace the heaviness. I thought about our neighborhood, and the millions more just like it. I thought about far and distant lands. I thought about violence, drugs, and pain. I thought about how distant I’ve made myself from these things. We sang songs about God, and peace. I remember once singing the same songs with confidence, strength, and faith. I sang them last night with the same amount of depth, but with tremendous mystery surrounding them. I have no answers; nothing is clear other than love. And love is all I wanted last night. I didn’t want answers. I wanted love.
We walked back down the block to the house. Danielle thought it would be nice to visit our neighbors who often display violence to each other. I walked outside to the stoop only to find my housemates with a guitar, and singing, as my neighbors stood by clapping and laughing. An addict, a victim/offender, a broken human—smiling, and clapping…
I went back to my room to do some studying before bed, only to find myself ten minutes later with tears streaming down my face for reasons I have yet to discover. I called out to whoever it is I call out to, and felt such a void. “Love”, in that moment, was seemingly not there, nor was answers, and yet here we are, floundering. With such a mix of hope, a memory of peace, the pain of humanity, the beauty of people, the flashbacks of unanswered prayers, the apathy, I took down my bible for the first time in a long time. I suppose I was hoping to find something. Something, or anything to feel the peace so many of my friends had while holding those candles on the corner, or the peace I once had in the face of death, destruction, pain, and hopelessness. A verse came to my head, and before cynicism got the best of me I turned there. Isaiah 26. As I read, I wept, some for the content, some for the anger, some for the hope, and some for the empty, black void. I was overwhelmed, almost to the point of weakness, when I got to the verses about the labouring woman, giving birth to wind, as that opened up yet another world of pain and question, hope and memory. So many things are tied together. Ponytail being shot is Rosie dying in a car accident. Rosie being killed is the baby I felt fall apart and die in my hands. That baby is the girl under the bridge in San Diego; the girl is the addict overdosing on my stoop, so on and so forth.
The other day I watched an episode of Grey’s Anatomy,(shameful I know). In it, an elderly man lost his wife, and despite the signed “do not resuscitate” papers, he stood there until he could not stand any more, pressing on her chest, forcing her heart to beat weakly. Her name was Rose. As he forced her heart to beat he begged her not to leave him. When he was exhausted and faint Dr. Bailey came over, put oxygen to his mouth, took his place on Rose’s chest and began to push. She did this for some time, until Dr. Shepard took her place, pushed a few times on Rose’s chest, then slowly, peacefully, and gracefully allowed her heart to stop. I wept while I watched this aware that it was a TV show, but also aware that it touched in me something that nothing else has been able to touch and I wanted so badly to feel it. To really feel it. To purge it, get it up, get it out, and move on.
That imaginary elderly woman is the woman I searched for a pulse, and could not find one; the woman whose eyes I closed, and the woman whose father sang as he wept over her body.
Danielle and I walked to Frank’s Market this morning to get laundry detergent. A block down from our house we saw two people fighting. One man had another person up against a car, and then proceeded to punch the person with great force in the face. We quickly realized the person against the car was a woman. My stomach quickly filled with pain and my mind with numbness. We waited for a moment, to ask if she was alright. She came walking along side us, crying, and looking back. She wouldn’t answer us really, but as we walked up to a group of people sitting on a stoop, she took something quickly from a man’s hand and walked away. The reality of this neighborhood hit me again. Drugs, violence, pain, and family. They are what hold this place together, and yet what holds it down.
“…When you loose all sense of self
the bonds of a thousand chains will vanish.
Lose yourself completely,
Return to the root of the root of your own soul…”
-Rumi (We Can See the Truth in Your Eyes)
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