The porch light is off. His mother says if you turn it on, “It just gives them something to shoot at.” Same goes for the lamp in the den, which can be seen from the street. Off. They sit here — on an old couch, in front of bare walls and a TV set — in semi-darkness. Hiding in their homes.
“You’ll want to move away from that window,” the mother suggests.
“How many nights a week do you hear shooting?”
She blinks, as if surprised by the question.
“Every night. They shoot like it’s their job or somethin.”
First in a series on heartbreaks and hopes of unsung Detroit area athletes in 1995.
“A person like me needs all the support he can get, because of all the things that happen to me.”
— From a 10th-grade English paper by Dewon Jones
The wrestlers gather on the purple and white mats and make a semicircle around their coach, who is speaking in a whisper. A few of the boys are big and muscular. Others are younger, shorter, and their voices are still high. They are teen-aged, but they are just children, really. And children should never have to witness a murder, not one of their own. But it happened inside Romulus High School, and now they must learn to live with the nightmares. And it is not easy.