a kid got shot in the head and died

Make a few lefts in this town. From the studio, mount up, leave the goat to graze its yard, ride left up Main, over the river, past town hall, past Lofton school for troubled kids, over the tracks, down through and past Genesee Street, continue west, turn left on Thurston, follow south through lively pedestrian traffic to 544 on the corner of Midvale, park, pray, weep for a dead boy.

I sit here twiddling my beard just as I did there on that crowded corner. Two days ago a boy got shot in the head while sitting in the back of a friend’s car, a homicide victim. This boy was 17 years old. He leaves behind two children, one just three days old. The cops don’t have a suspect and are not likely to find one. Word on the street is there is no word on the street. No snitching. And that is that. This story passes by almost unnoticed; it’s the twenty fourth homicide in Rochester so far this year. Per capita, the most violent city in New York with rates far above New York City, Albany and Buffalo. Jayla follows the stories, makes photographs of the shrines built by the concerned and affected and writes about it when the muse hits. So when she forwarded the story along in a matter of fact tone in the same breath as the weather and accolades of a successful opening the night before I followed the link and read on. In all, about three lines of information – kid’s dead, family’s angry, silver car, 544 Thurston, bullet to brain. Attached: a call to vigil Monday evening 6:30 at the site of the murder. So we go.

No less than three preachers in, the message is clear. The folks who kill are far gone from the generation prior. “Praise Jesus! Use your fists!” A prayer to the lord god made flesh that boys would be men and fucking fight with fists instead of guns and have a chance to fight another day. Hip Hop takes its hits, “kids is lost their way! We needs to find a betta way! Amen!” “Amen!” Words against the culture of silence, “When death come knockin’ on yo’ front door, then you know. By then is too late!” “Praise the lord! You gotta speak out or you be next!” “Amen!” No shit. Scan the crowd, the killer could be there. Probably young, teens, early twenties. Speak up and one among us goes away for twenty years at least. Brothers weeping. What are they to do? Brother protects brother. A rage burns in hearts of men and nothing much can be said to suppress that fire. I would kill for my brother for Christ’s sake or at least struggle hard and long for an alternate answer. Light a candle, listen, sing, weep behind dark lenses and go. Another night, Jazzfest kickin’, studio waiting for tomorrow’s project, crowd disperses. No chance it’s the last one in ROC this year. Not by a long shot.