My personal sense of safety was shattered in October 2007.
My Nyanci, a beautiful student, had decided to love herself and walk in a direction that made her happy and made her feel proud. She loved music and wanted to rap, but she wanted to play basketball at her new high school even more. So, my Nyanci started getting her grades together so she could make the team. To focus and pursue her dreams, she shed the weight of a heavy relationship with her boyfriend at the time and set out to do all the things high school girls do. She was simply loving her life, but my Nyanci didn’t make it passed sophomore year.
Nyanci was a former student at the school I worked at. I had known her and watched her grow since she was in 3rd grade. Yet, in October 2007, word swept across campus about a murder-suicide near the high school she transferred to. I immediately stilled myself and prayed for the loss of two young lives and for their families who would forever be devastated. After my prayer, I went on with my day.
The end of the school day was nearing, and I was in an office finishing up. Two staff members walked into the office with a look of doom and gloom on their faces. “What did I do now,” I asked. “We just realized that no one told you who got shot this morning,” they replied. As they said Nyanci’s name, and I confirmed her last name —Gonzales— I felt my spirit separate from my body. I needed to find her. I knew she was scared. My body and spirit immediately left the office in search of Nyanci Gonzales.
As I walked through the doors that lead to the main campus, time stopped. Everything slowed down and it felt as if I were walking in slow motion. A sea of students had just gotten the news of Nyanci’s death and as expected, they were completely distraught. Some of the students were students, like her, who had grown up in front of my eyes. I stayed with them to comfort them, give out hugs and wipe tears. There were no words that could be said. This was not a time for adults to comfort each other. It was time to allow these kids the space to cry and fall apart for as long as they needed it. These were my babies, and our school was a close-knit family.
When I finally made it home, I was exhausted. I fell across my bed on my back and just laid there with my hands spread out to either side of me. My spirit was still calling for Nyanci. I felt a wisp of energy cross my body, and I imagined it was Nyanci. She was scared, so I talked to her. I told her that l loved her and that I was sorry. Then I told her she couldn’t stay. She had to go and be with God. I told her to follow the light no matter what. If you follow the light everything will be alright. “When you get there let me know,” I said, ever the mother looking after her child. “Come back and tell me about your journey.”
My personal sense of safety was shattered that day.
The daily struggle to just breathe, to simply get out of bed, was absolutely trying in the beginning. There were more days that I couldn’t get out of bed, shower, or eat than days where I could. Pieces of my spirit died with her that day and since then, I’ve walked around with shakes. I imagine this is what a dope feign feels like. However, I managed to breathe again only because God was not finished with me yet.
I cannot imagine the pain, the emptiness and the nothingness that fills your being after losing a child. Sending your child off to school, only for them to take their last breath there is tragic. Death is death, but the death of a child by violence carries a vibration that can’t be described.
To all the mothers who have lost their children to the senseless sickness of violence, I pray that you find a way to regain your sense of safety. I pray that you find joy in the memories of your babies. I pray that you can become an advocate. I pray that you allow the love from your child to move through you and allow you to speak the words of universal wisdom to another mother’s child. Maybe you will get to a place where you can talk, write and show up.
I did not give birth to this child; however, my Nyanci was my child the moment God placed her in my care. All of the young people I’ve been blessed to encounter here on this earth share this in common —they’re my children. So many people talk about the village it takes to raise children, but I truly feel as though God gave me the heart, knowledge, perseverance, and an unending reservoir of love, that has allowed me to communicate with his youngest children. I believe that that skill set is my gift from God.
My grief, my pain, my confusion, and my disillusionment have dropped me off at this point in my life and I’m humbled by God’s power. I’m also grateful—grateful for every breath I’ve taken thus far.