I heard gunfire. It was nothing but gunfire. Not fireworks. Not a car back firing. It was Easter Sunday. It was still sunny. I had just walked from my car to the apt. I saw a girl hoola hooping. I saw families walking home with baskets, little girls in dresses. I heard the first shot and wondered, did that sound like a bullet? I heard the second shot and I moved from my bed to the floor. I wondered, is it still wise to get down low when I live on the second floor. I decided yes, it’s good to avoid windows. Then I heard two more shots.
At first, I was indifferent. Whatever, gunshots, don’t think about it. There are no holes in my body, nor in those of my roommates. It doesn’t affect you. You can easily forget it. I continued playing with my cellphone trying to get it to work. Then I thought: Wait a minute. I moved to this neighborhood to be a part of it. The sound of the gunshots made it to my ears; I need to let it penetrate my consciousness, my life.
I decided my first reaction should be to call someone. My roommates didn’t answer their phones. I called my boyfriend. Then my roommates came home. I ushered them in and shut the door. They arrived only minutes after the shooting. Thankful they were not the ones caught in the cross fire.
After a brief summary of how we passed our days. The gunshots settled deeper in my consciousness. “Hey, you want to pray about whatever is happening?”. The helicopters were circling very close. The trees in our outside picked up their vibrations. The sirens were roaring. In our neighborhood it is easy to tune out these sounds of the landscape. But we decided not today. My prayer was a sloppy request before God. My nerves were rising and I didn’t know what to pray for. I just knew I wanted to pray. Luckily God listen to heart murmurs and not just words spoken by the tongue. My roommates were more eloquent and I could agree with their prayers.
I went to sleep later that night, my ear against my pillow, my heart against the sidewalk outside. I said to my roommate, “I want to learn how to keep an ear to the ground” to know what is going on in our neighborhood. “Maybe the 15 year old girl next door will know. Maybe I can ask her.”
I came to work this morning and decided the easiest way to set my ear to be tuned to the neighborhood was latimes.com. I clicked on California – local and found this article:
Pregnant Woman Critically Injured in Gunfight, Suspect Is Slain
From a Times Staff Writer
April 17, 2006
A pregnant woman was shot and critically wounded Sunday night when she apparently was caught in the middle of a gunfight on a street in South Los Angeles, police said.
The woman was shot near Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Normandie Avenue about 6:15 p.m. Because several cars were struck with bullets, police believe the woman was caught in the middle of a street gun battle.
"As it looks right now, probably wrong place, wrong time," said Los Angeles Police Sgt. Lee Sands.
A man believed to have been involved in the woman's shooting was later shot and killed after opening fire at officers, Sands said.
Officers found the man, whom they considered a suspect, at a nearby bus stop and attempted to detain him, Sands said. The man started shooting at the officers, who returned fire, killing him, Sands said.
The pregnant woman, believed to be in her late 20s, was in extremely critical condition at California Hospital Medical Center. She was believed to be brain dead, Sands said.
Police were trying to locate a second suspect in the woman's shooting, Sands said.
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The article is very short. About as many words as steps it would take to get from my house to where the shooting could have been. Short like the time it takes for a man to react and shoot. Short like the lives it describes.
I sent this article to my friend this morning, "My Monday is also starting differently. I just got information that one of our members got shot and killed this weekend in Riverside. I also heard gunshots in my neighborhood just after coming home yesterday afternoon and then I found this article today. This is my neighborhood. It’s a reminder of where I really live and how we really need to be praying. "
He responded:
“'This is my neighborhood' I can’t get this line out of my head. I’m not sure why. I guess I anticipated “I live here” or “this is near me” or something like that. But This is my neighborhood is stronger. It’s not ashamed or shy, but it’s acknowledging. I’m sure you didn’t mean all of this when you typed it. I’m just rambling now, but I still can’t shake it. "
This response meant a lot to me as I am learning how to identify with my neighborhood. A place as foreign to me as any other country in some respects. I have become accustom to certain things. The ice cream trucks playing off key Christmas carols in April. The tamales vendors bicycling around. The couches, the trash, the pigeons that line the street. With the strangely and double parked cars my street is always a bit of an obstacle course. Situations like this jar me to attention. How to find the balance of being comfortable, but not too comfortable with my neighborhood. How not to accept the status quo, without being judgmental.
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