Rest and Live in Peace

Near the top of the hill next to the school where I teach a small shrine appeared two years ago. Attached to the chain link fence was a sign made with poster board and magic markers that read: "RIP Thomas." There were lots of other messages scrawled with various writing implements and with varying degrees of legibility. There were a bunch of empty forty ounce cans and a few smashed bottles of Remy-Martin scattered among a sea of burned out candles on the sidewalk. After a few weeks the wind, weather and neighbors disappeared the altar. Thomas' memory was kept in hearts, not by the street. I didn't have to ask around much at my school to find out about Thomas. There were varying reports about just how much or how bad or how innocent or corrupt he was - but everyone agreed that seventeen was far too young to be shot and killed.
The Thomas shrine has reappeared twice since, to commemorated his birthday. This past week the sign read: "Why'd ya hafta go and die?" Something about merging young men with high-caliber ammunition would be the first explanation that comes to my mind. There weren't as many candles or bottles this year, but the mylar balloons hung over the fence for a good long time before they were cut down. Thomas was loved.
This week I learned that the sister of one of my students just had a baby. My fourth grade sister is now the aunt to her sixteen year old sister's child. Nine years ago, I was her sister's teacher. I remember how she ran out of her classroom on the first day of standardized testing. I have every hope that her coping skills have improved substantially since then. Parenthood is regularly as challenging as most standardized tests. Still, I couldn't help but marvel at the cycle of life in that neighborhood. Seventeen year olds fighting and dying while sixteen year olds are giving birth to another generation. And so it goes.