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What I would like to see. By Sue Swenson|
For facts about gun violence, visit: |
The phone rang one May morning at 6:30 am. It was Melissa, our daycare worker. She spoke in a quiet, monotone voice, and I knew something was wrong. “Did you hear about the shooting that killed a little boy last night?” she said. “Well, it was Charlie Johnson.”
Charlie had been playing in his living room when a stray bullet came from a neighbor’s front porch, across a meadow, through the window and hit Charlie in the back of his head.
I was stunned. The call was short because neither one of us knew what to say.
My daughter, Dani, had just turned five years old, and Charlie had come to her birthday party. I had to face one of the hardest jobs a mother has with a child: breaking bad news involving death. I woke Dani up for kindergarten and sat on our living room sofa to tell her about Charlie. I thought, “What is this country coming to when a mother has to tell her five-year-old that her friend has been shot to death?” I felt fear and rage.
Mark Nichols, a neighbor of Charlie, said, “That could have been my son. That could have been your son.”
Columnist Jonathan Nicholas wrote in the newspaper, “Charlie Johnson was where a kid is supposed to feel that he’s in the safest place in the world. At home with his mom and dad and grandma. He was playing on the living room floor.” Nicholas added, “As evening fell across that meadow that served as Charlie’s front yard, some young punk in the house across the way reached for his favorite toy—a handgun. In a moment of fear masquerading as bravado, he fires a single random shot. It roars through a couple of windows and into Charlie’s brain.”
Calling for help
Charlie’s parents, Jennie and Don, had called 911, but the line was busy. They waited half a minute and tried again, but the police put them on hold. Finally, frantically, they carried Charlie to their car and rushed to the hospital themselves. His mom, Jennie, was 24 years old and had just given birth to a baby boy three days earlier. Jennie had just arrived home from the hospital.
Now Jennie wore a simple house dress soaked in blood from holding Charlie. She was still weak and raw from delivering a baby. She had not slept much over the last few days.
Jennie then had to leave Charlie dying in a coma at the hospital so she could return home to her newborn. Friends and family stayed with Charlie, spoke to him while he was in a coma, and told him it was okay to let go — and die. They held him and said goodbye for his mother and for all of us.
The gunshot shattered Jennie’s world and her husband’s. It devastated Charlie’s grandmother, the other relatives, friends, neighbors, church members, acquaintances — a whole community. The murder killed a little bit of each of us.
A spark of joy
I had met Charlie at Dani’s birthday party and saw him occasionally at daycare. Charlie wore a Batman costume at the party and posed for a picture, perhaps the last one taken of him. He had a spark of joy about him, something that made me notice him.
He was a cute little boy, blue-eyed with brown hair. In some ways, he resembled the “all-American boy.” That made it harder because it was easy to project onto Charlie the feelings one has for a son, a brother, a nephew, a cousin, a grandson.
Charlie’s favorite song was “Apples and Bananas” by Raffi, and he wanted to be a policeman. He was only six years on the morning he died.
This senseless loss upset a whole community. Two nights after Charlie’s death, a church-based activist group held a candlelight vigil outside Charlie’s home. Many community leaders attended as well as neighbors, friends, and politicians. We stood in the light rain on that chilly spring evening. We saw the bullet hole in the living room window and the meadow between the two houses. We saw the rundown house where the gunshot originated.
I remember standing at that vigil, holding my little candle flickering in the gentle breeze, smelling the paraffin. I watched all the sad faces in the crowd as the newspaper reporters stopped periodically to interview a sorrowful candleholder. Television reporters were also there with film crews and conspicuous cameras.
Goodbye, we love you.
Charlie’s parents made a prepared statement for publication. “Charlie was proud and excited to be a big brother to Joshua. Charlie’s life was a blessing, his murder a sudden tragedy. Charlie, you are so very missed. Your memories will be alive in our hearts. Good-bye Cheeseman. We love you. Mom and Dad.”
I attended the funeral held a week after Charlie’s death. I entered the lobby of a neighborhood church that was crammed with people. Inside, pictures of Charlie covered the walls. The first picture I saw was of Charlie as a newborn. The pictures followed his life in chronological order. There were pictures of Charlie in his highchair, on the floor on his stomach, and in the arms of his parents and grandma. There were pictures of Charlie smiling for the camera, Charlie hamming it up, and Charlie full of life. The last picture was of kindergarten and was the picture printed in the local paper.
A complete collection of Charlie’s artwork was on the other side of the lobby. Once again, it was in chronological order, from his first attempts with a crayon up through his kindergarten masterpieces. I sobbed my way through the lobby to a seat on the aisle. The light coming through the stained-glass windows seemed to be weeping in red, blue, yellow, and green that day.
When you lose a child, you lose your future.
In front of the altar was a setting of Charlie’s belongings. The display included his tennis shoes along with some of his trucks, a basketball, his tricycle, and his baseball glove. There were two television screens on the altar. Before the service started, a recent home video showed Charlie rollicking at a birthday party and performing for the camera, having fun. While the silent video continued, “Apples and Bananas” played over the loudspeaker. Someone once said, “When you lose a parent, you lose your past, but when you lose a child, you lose your future.”
The hardest part for me came when Jennie stood up and spoke at the podium. Her face looked blotchy from crying and lack of sleep. Yet, despite it, she managed to look beautiful, almost ethereal. She gave one of the most moving speeches I have ever heard. I had to keep reminding myself that she was so young because her eloquence and poise belied her years. We have no idea how much we are loved, how precious we all are to someone.
“I was a drug addict when I gave birth to Charlie. I struggled with this demon for a long time,” Jennie said. “But, it was Charlie who gave me the will and the strength to overcome this serious problem. I have Charlie to thank for my very life. He was a gift to me. He gave me a reason to live sober and drug-free. His unconditional love was more powerful than all the crack cocaine in the world.”
Between deep breaths, Jennie added, “I don’t know what all of this means. Charlie’s sudden murder, all the press and media attention, and the letters from strangers in the city and other parts of the country are overwhelming. We have even heard from people in other countries. The whole experience is beyond my comprehension, my understanding. This situation is bigger than me than all of us. It’s too big for me to understand. It scares me.”
“I miss Charlie so much. It’s not easy having a drug addict for a mother. It’s not easy mothering your mother at such a young age. Yet Charlie was a special, great kid despite his hardships and problems. He was an inspiration. ”
I subsequently moved away. However, I have often thought about Jennie, Don, and Joshua over the years. I have wondered what the community has done since Charlie’s death to assure Joshua of a safer world.
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