The big, burly campus pastor frowned at me as he shifted his weight in his chair. He crossed his fingers over his large belly and listened intently. He was uncomfortable. Not much to say. One tear slowly fell from my right eye as I told him my story. He stared at me, and his eyes were like ice. Now I felt uncomfortable. I looked down at my knees and gripped the arms of my chair as if I were holding on for dear life.
My sister was murdered.
Our session was over. The pastor quoted a few bible scriptures and told me that if I ever needed to talk again, to let him know.
My story had shaken him. I doubt he ever had anyone in his office that had a family member murdered. At that time, gun violence had not profoundly affected the small college town of DeKalb, Illinois. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with murder or guns. Perhaps the white campus pastor had never had a black person in his office at all before.
Going to see this pastor had not been my idea. My mother had heard the sorrow and hopelessness in my voice as I told her through guilty tears that I did not want to live. I had been a horrible sister, right up until the unexpected end. My mom’s words of comfort were “God’s will be done.” But she also thought that I needed to talk to someone. So it was either a pastor or a shrink.
My first stop was the shrink. I couldn’t afford a real psychiatrist, so I decided to talk to a counselor on campus. A “psychologist.” But the psychologist heard my story and immediately wanted to put me on antidepressants. I wasn’t ready for that. After all, I was still basically a kid; first year away at college. I just needed to talk things out. So my next stop was the pastor. Didn’t go so well. Who was next?
I didn’t know many people on campus, and I didn’t make friends easily. My white college roommate was either drunk or high most of the time. Most of the students in my school and in my dorm had come from small towns and led very sheltered lives. Many white kids confessed to never meeting or “dealing with” black people before. I was a mystery to them and they were a mystery to me.
It seemed as though the girls’ biggest worry was sorority rush week. And, the guys’ biggest worry was “rushing” the girls. How could any of them relate to me? Many of the people I met during that year were nice, but who could I really talk to about my pain?
The weekend it happened, my family had planned to take a trip out to the school and spend the weekend with me. The first semester had been tough, and I was homesick. I was making decent grades, but my social life was…well, I had no social life. I wanted to spend some time with people who loved me. It was the last weekend of February. I was so excited to show them around campus and to have them see what I was doing and how I was living. The plan had been for them to make the 45-minute drive from Chicago to the school early Saturday morning and stay until Sunday.
The phone rang early that Saturday morning, and I jumped nervously from my bottom bunk and answered it. Heart racing, I said hello. It was my mom. Surely she was about to tell me that she and my dad were on their way. Instead, she calmly told me that my sister had been shot in the head. She went on to say, “The doctor says she’s basically a vegetable. I don’t think I want her to live that way. I have to make the decision.”
I hung up the phone and lay down in my bed on my left side. My roommate awoke from a drunken stupor, leaned over the top bunk, and asked me what happened. I told her that my sister had been shot in the head. I think she may have said something like That sucks and then rolled over and went back to sleep.
I lay there in shock. One tear fell from my right eye and streamed across my nose. I must be having a bad dream. My parents are supposed to be here with me right now, and we are supposed to be having a grand time. Oh, that’s right, my mom said that she’s not dead yet. Perhaps she will be okay. Maybe the doctors don’t know what they’re talking about; maybe the machines could keep her alive.
I lay there for what felt like minutes, but a few hours passed, and the phone rang again. It was my mom.
“She’s gone. Your father’s on his way to pick you up.”
* * *
When I came back to campus after having attended my sister’s funeral, a girl who lived on my floor in my dorm said to me, “I haven’t seen you in a while. Where have you been?”
“My sister died. I was at her funeral,” I replied.
She replied, “Oh.” Then her eyes perked up. “So, how was it?”
I paused for a moment. Did I just tell this girl that I had been to a party or a funeral? How was it? How do you think it was? I heard talk of how the undertaker had to cover up the gunshot wound on my sister’s head. They still don’t know who killed her. I heard my mom asking God, why do people have to die. I saw my sister who had once been so full of life being lowered in the ground. Tears, tears, and more tears. It was the most devastating experience of my life.
How was it? I looked up at the girl who had asked me this and only responded, “It was sad.”
A better question would have been, How was I? I wanted to die. Crazy thoughts flooded my head. I had an enormous fear of death, but there were times I thought of suicide. I feared sudden death. I feared being shot. Nothing was certain anymore. Not even tomorrow. My sister was dead at thirty-four years of age, and I was eighteen. Life was not long.
I didn’t need a shrink or a disinterested pastor. I needed a friend.
* * *
Over the next few years, I never truly connected with anyone. There were a few friends or acquaintances that came and went. I felt so much grief over losing my sister and so much shame about her manner of death. It was just too difficult to let new people into my heart.
One of the first things people ask when getting to know you is about your family. Any brothers? Sisters? I would usually say, Yes I had a sister, but she died. Then the person would ask, Can I ask what happened? To which I would respond, She was murdered. After that, I would prepare for an icy response. What a way to “kill” the spirit of getting to know someone. I guess I could have lied, but the reality is that I wanted to tell someone. A friend. I wanted to say the words that not only had my sister died, but that she had been murdered. A gunshot to the head. I wanted to tell the whole story and share my pain with someone who was not afraid of it.
* * *
After what seemed like an eternity, my senior year in college finally arrived. A year earlier, I had taken a job as a resident assistant (RA) in my college dorm. My job was to manage a floor of about fifty freshman girls. It may not have been the best job choice for a person who was isolated and withdrawn, but the job paid free room and board, and I got my own room. Although the job required me to be interactive and social with the residents, I spent as much time as I could get away with in my room. If I didn’t have to answer the door, I didn’t answer it.
Other than avoiding my residents, I spent a lot of time alone because no one really connected with me anymore. And I must admit that I never reached out. This was the late ’90s. There were no Facebook or Twitter updates to let everyone know how crappy I was feeling. And the truth is that it’s much easier to update a status to say I’m lonely, sad, and depressed, than to actually pick up a phone and say it to someone. So I didn’t do it.
Resident assistants were required to check into the dorms a week earlier than the regular students so that we could meet the other RAs, have training and mandatory fun. I actually liked this time because I could be on the floor alone before all the crazy girls arrived with their loud music and fighting. One afternoon after RA training was over, I sat in my room watching TV. The halls were quiet. I dreaded thinking about the violation of peace that would happen in a few days. The alone time was nice. It’s so much easier to be alone. Yes, being alone was what I thought I needed.
But then there was a knock on the door…
Startled, I answered it, and there stood the tallest girl I had ever seen in my life. She had pale skin, freckles, and the longest dark brown ringlets, which crowned her head and fell as long as her torso.
I had seen her in passing in some of our mandatory fun activities, but the only thing I really knew about her was her name. Vanessa. As she stood in front of me, I looked at her with concern. Was there something wrong? Did she need to borrow something? But then she said, “Hey, what are you doing? It’s so quiet here, can I hang out with you for a while?”
Hang out? With me?
Confused, I said, “Sure.”
I stepped away from the door, and she and her fluffy slippers shuffled in slowly as if she had known me forever. She plopped down in a chair, and I sat across from her on my bed. The TV played in the background as Vanessa began to talk. She started asking me questions. She wanted to know about my interests, how long I had been an RA. Then she started talking about family. She told me she had one sister and one brother, and they all lived with her dad in Chicago. I thought to myself, Here we go. Here comes the big question.
So, do you have any brothers and sisters?
I paused. Should I lie? Should I only partially tell the truth? Should I ask her to leave? But for some strange reason, I felt safe.
“I had a sister, but she died… My sister died.”
Silence.
Great. I knew what was coming next.
Vanessa asked directly, “How did she die?”
Again, should I lie?
I lowered my eyes, and my voice broke as I said, “She was murdered.”
Her response wasn’t a gasp; no shock, no disgust, and most importantly, no pity, just an “Oh.”
There goes my new friend.
I looked down at my knees. I wanted to disappear.
She said, “Damn. My mom died. She was sick. But murder, I cannot even imagine.”
Her mom died.
“I’m sorry your mom died.”
It turned out, Vanessa’s mom had died in the same year my sister was murdered. Her mom had battled a long illness, and Vanessa had been her mom’s caregiver and emotional support for her dad and her younger siblings. I could not imagine Vanessa’s loss. I relied on my mom for everything.
We sat there for a few moments in our mutual pain. Neither one of us moving. We were connected through loss. This was the friend I had been waiting for. This person knew my pain without me having to say anything. I wanted to ask her, What took you so long?
We talked for a little while more, and Vanessa got up to go back to her room. I wondered if we were going to hang out again. Before she left my room, she looked over her shoulder, her long hair hanging down over her shoulders, and she said lightly, “Hey, wanna go shopping tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
My friend. Somewhere, my sister and her mom were smiling.
My sister was murdered.
Our session was over. The pastor quoted a few bible scriptures and told me that if I ever needed to talk again, to let him know.
My story had shaken him. I doubt he ever had anyone in his office that had a family member murdered. At that time, gun violence had not profoundly affected the small college town of DeKalb, Illinois. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with murder or guns. Perhaps the white campus pastor had never had a black person in his office at all before.
Going to see this pastor had not been my idea. My mother had heard the sorrow and hopelessness in my voice as I told her through guilty tears that I did not want to live. I had been a horrible sister, right up until the unexpected end. My mom’s words of comfort were “God’s will be done.” But she also thought that I needed to talk to someone. So it was either a pastor or a shrink.
My first stop was the shrink. I couldn’t afford a real psychiatrist, so I decided to talk to a counselor on campus. A “psychologist.” But the psychologist heard my story and immediately wanted to put me on antidepressants. I wasn’t ready for that. After all, I was still basically a kid; first year away at college. I just needed to talk things out. So my next stop was the pastor. Didn’t go so well. Who was next?
I didn’t know many people on campus, and I didn’t make friends easily. My white college roommate was either drunk or high most of the time. Most of the students in my school and in my dorm had come from small towns and led very sheltered lives. Many white kids confessed to never meeting or “dealing with” black people before. I was a mystery to them and they were a mystery to me.
It seemed as though the girls’ biggest worry was sorority rush week. And, the guys’ biggest worry was “rushing” the girls. How could any of them relate to me? Many of the people I met during that year were nice, but who could I really talk to about my pain?
The weekend it happened, my family had planned to take a trip out to the school and spend the weekend with me. The first semester had been tough, and I was homesick. I was making decent grades, but my social life was…well, I had no social life. I wanted to spend some time with people who loved me. It was the last weekend of February. I was so excited to show them around campus and to have them see what I was doing and how I was living. The plan had been for them to make the 45-minute drive from Chicago to the school early Saturday morning and stay until Sunday.
The phone rang early that Saturday morning, and I jumped nervously from my bottom bunk and answered it. Heart racing, I said hello. It was my mom. Surely she was about to tell me that she and my dad were on their way. Instead, she calmly told me that my sister had been shot in the head. She went on to say, “The doctor says she’s basically a vegetable. I don’t think I want her to live that way. I have to make the decision.”
I hung up the phone and lay down in my bed on my left side. My roommate awoke from a drunken stupor, leaned over the top bunk, and asked me what happened. I told her that my sister had been shot in the head. I think she may have said something like That sucks and then rolled over and went back to sleep.
I lay there in shock. One tear fell from my right eye and streamed across my nose. I must be having a bad dream. My parents are supposed to be here with me right now, and we are supposed to be having a grand time. Oh, that’s right, my mom said that she’s not dead yet. Perhaps she will be okay. Maybe the doctors don’t know what they’re talking about; maybe the machines could keep her alive.
I lay there for what felt like minutes, but a few hours passed, and the phone rang again. It was my mom.
“She’s gone. Your father’s on his way to pick you up.”
* * *
When I came back to campus after having attended my sister’s funeral, a girl who lived on my floor in my dorm said to me, “I haven’t seen you in a while. Where have you been?”
“My sister died. I was at her funeral,” I replied.
She replied, “Oh.” Then her eyes perked up. “So, how was it?”
I paused for a moment. Did I just tell this girl that I had been to a party or a funeral? How was it? How do you think it was? I heard talk of how the undertaker had to cover up the gunshot wound on my sister’s head. They still don’t know who killed her. I heard my mom asking God, why do people have to die. I saw my sister who had once been so full of life being lowered in the ground. Tears, tears, and more tears. It was the most devastating experience of my life.
How was it? I looked up at the girl who had asked me this and only responded, “It was sad.”
A better question would have been, How was I? I wanted to die. Crazy thoughts flooded my head. I had an enormous fear of death, but there were times I thought of suicide. I feared sudden death. I feared being shot. Nothing was certain anymore. Not even tomorrow. My sister was dead at thirty-four years of age, and I was eighteen. Life was not long.
I didn’t need a shrink or a disinterested pastor. I needed a friend.
* * *
Over the next few years, I never truly connected with anyone. There were a few friends or acquaintances that came and went. I felt so much grief over losing my sister and so much shame about her manner of death. It was just too difficult to let new people into my heart.
One of the first things people ask when getting to know you is about your family. Any brothers? Sisters? I would usually say, Yes I had a sister, but she died. Then the person would ask, Can I ask what happened? To which I would respond, She was murdered. After that, I would prepare for an icy response. What a way to “kill” the spirit of getting to know someone. I guess I could have lied, but the reality is that I wanted to tell someone. A friend. I wanted to say the words that not only had my sister died, but that she had been murdered. A gunshot to the head. I wanted to tell the whole story and share my pain with someone who was not afraid of it.
* * *
After what seemed like an eternity, my senior year in college finally arrived. A year earlier, I had taken a job as a resident assistant (RA) in my college dorm. My job was to manage a floor of about fifty freshman girls. It may not have been the best job choice for a person who was isolated and withdrawn, but the job paid free room and board, and I got my own room. Although the job required me to be interactive and social with the residents, I spent as much time as I could get away with in my room. If I didn’t have to answer the door, I didn’t answer it.
Other than avoiding my residents, I spent a lot of time alone because no one really connected with me anymore. And I must admit that I never reached out. This was the late ’90s. There were no Facebook or Twitter updates to let everyone know how crappy I was feeling. And the truth is that it’s much easier to update a status to say I’m lonely, sad, and depressed, than to actually pick up a phone and say it to someone. So I didn’t do it.
Resident assistants were required to check into the dorms a week earlier than the regular students so that we could meet the other RAs, have training and mandatory fun. I actually liked this time because I could be on the floor alone before all the crazy girls arrived with their loud music and fighting. One afternoon after RA training was over, I sat in my room watching TV. The halls were quiet. I dreaded thinking about the violation of peace that would happen in a few days. The alone time was nice. It’s so much easier to be alone. Yes, being alone was what I thought I needed.
But then there was a knock on the door…
Startled, I answered it, and there stood the tallest girl I had ever seen in my life. She had pale skin, freckles, and the longest dark brown ringlets, which crowned her head and fell as long as her torso.
I had seen her in passing in some of our mandatory fun activities, but the only thing I really knew about her was her name. Vanessa. As she stood in front of me, I looked at her with concern. Was there something wrong? Did she need to borrow something? But then she said, “Hey, what are you doing? It’s so quiet here, can I hang out with you for a while?”
Hang out? With me?
Confused, I said, “Sure.”
I stepped away from the door, and she and her fluffy slippers shuffled in slowly as if she had known me forever. She plopped down in a chair, and I sat across from her on my bed. The TV played in the background as Vanessa began to talk. She started asking me questions. She wanted to know about my interests, how long I had been an RA. Then she started talking about family. She told me she had one sister and one brother, and they all lived with her dad in Chicago. I thought to myself, Here we go. Here comes the big question.
So, do you have any brothers and sisters?
I paused. Should I lie? Should I only partially tell the truth? Should I ask her to leave? But for some strange reason, I felt safe.
“I had a sister, but she died… My sister died.”
Silence.
Great. I knew what was coming next.
Vanessa asked directly, “How did she die?”
Again, should I lie?
I lowered my eyes, and my voice broke as I said, “She was murdered.”
Her response wasn’t a gasp; no shock, no disgust, and most importantly, no pity, just an “Oh.”
There goes my new friend.
I looked down at my knees. I wanted to disappear.
She said, “Damn. My mom died. She was sick. But murder, I cannot even imagine.”
Her mom died.
“I’m sorry your mom died.”
It turned out, Vanessa’s mom had died in the same year my sister was murdered. Her mom had battled a long illness, and Vanessa had been her mom’s caregiver and emotional support for her dad and her younger siblings. I could not imagine Vanessa’s loss. I relied on my mom for everything.
We sat there for a few moments in our mutual pain. Neither one of us moving. We were connected through loss. This was the friend I had been waiting for. This person knew my pain without me having to say anything. I wanted to ask her, What took you so long?
We talked for a little while more, and Vanessa got up to go back to her room. I wondered if we were going to hang out again. Before she left my room, she looked over her shoulder, her long hair hanging down over her shoulders, and she said lightly, “Hey, wanna go shopping tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
My friend. Somewhere, my sister and her mom were smiling.
