This is a line from a deeply moving poem written by Marcia Fingal, a member of our church and “poet laureate” of the Marble Women’s Ministry. I offer this line, gut-wrenching as it is, because I am thinking about another mother who has lost a son to gun violence at the hands of the NY Police Department. 

I was not surprised last week when the verdict of aquittal was returned for the police officers who killed Sean Bell. Bell, a 23-year-old African American man, was killed in Queens on Nov. 25, 2006—his wedding day—as he was leaving a bachelor party with two friends.

Would a guilty verdict have stopped more young, innocent African American being shot by police officers? It is hard to know. I do have a sense that police work is extremely difficult and dangerous. I also have a sense that guns are treacherous instruments, no matter whose hands they are in. I also know that I am the mother of two beautiful Black boys...

Of course, the Sean Bell killing and court case reminded me of so many others who have been killed in this way. One of the profoundest was the shooting of Amadou Diallo. Another innocent man in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had a chance to shake his mother’s hand and offer my (inadequate) condolences to her. She is a beautiful person in every way and yet, I hope never to walk her path.

Is it possible to end gun violence (by police and by criminals) before this young generation gets old enough to be out in the fray? I hope it is not a naïve question. Can I pray enough and protest enough so that the next generation will not know the pain and loss of Mrs. Bell and Ms. Diallo?

Below are excerpts from Marcia’s poem.  Let us pray for mercy:

Amadou, My Son

Amadou, My Son.
Amadou, My Son.
Kadiatou is calling her boy.
Kadiatou is calling her boy &
Saikou wants his child &
Saikou wants his child...

...I remember the phone ringing & there were words and words, more and more words...
but no meaning, no sense in them...
I was not understanding…There was some mistake... This could not be...
No, tell me this is not real!
I stopped breathing...
There were bullets...forty one of them...19 hitting my Amadou!
Legs buckling, arms flailing, holes in his heart,
He was gone before he even hit the ground.
Allah did not intercede this time & Amadou's breath was taken from him, from me...
Blood & shattered glass, four white men & fear, splintered wood, a black wallet,
a rapist on the loose & my son's riddled body.
Who slew my gallant, African prince, my gentle man-child & Why?
I knew I needed to see my son.
This was all an ugly joke, a mean, stupid prank...Amadou was alive!

It is not sweet when mothers bury their sons.
Those next few days blurred before my eyes.
My son was dead and every television station and newspaper told me so over & again.
They spoke of police brutality, excessive violence & deadly force.
Four white officers murdered my son on the streets of the Bronx because they thought
he was a rapist.
His weapon, a black wallet.
The entire world seemed to know about my Amadou now.
Saikou and I met with politicians, religious leaders, public figures, dignitaries,
activists…There were press conferences and interviews.
My son's death mobilized entire communities across those united states.
People, thousands of people were marching in the streets, protesting my son's killing & other wrongful killings, shouting words..."No Justice, No Peace! No Justice, No Peace!
Stop the Violence! Stop the Violence!"
My Amadou was more famous in death than in life and his sacrifice brought flagrant
injustices to the forefront in battle weary communities…
It was then I realized Allah's plan.

We brought Amadou home to Guinea like a high-ranking official.
Thousands came to pay last respects as we laid my son with his ancestors in our native
village, Djountou.
I wanted everyone to know, "We are all crying. We are all mourning this child. Because of him we are going to fight together to save all our children. His blood should be a sacrifice for us all..."

Amadou, My Son.
Amadou, My Son.
Kadiatou is calling her boy.
Kadiatou is calling her boy &
Saikou wants his child &
Saikou wants his child.

Full text of poem available here.