It was range week, when correctional officers in training learn to use their rifles.
I thought I was ready, but at the first target practice, we were told to shoot “center mass.”
Twelve years ago, my little brother Tyler was shot in his chest – his “center mass.”
Even though eight years had passed, every time I shot that target, all I could see was my brother, in our driveway, getting shot in the chest.
“Center mass.” Boom. The floodgates opened. Unresolved trauma poured through.
I’ve now been a correctional officer for several years. I’ve carried my trauma every day since I was 11 years old. I carry it every day as I interact with people who are part of the justice system that failed to solve my brother’s murder for more than a decade. I encounter men in prison jumpsuits who are incarcerated for crimes like the one that took my brother Tyler’s life.
Being a correctional officer has unexpectedly become part of my healing journey. Paired with my personal experience of trauma in childhood, my new line of work has helped me see what young Black and brown men are facing in the streets, in our underserved communities. It’s helped me focus on the specific problems that land Black and brown people in jail or on either side of a gun.
Some of the men I see at work never healed from their own traumas and encounters with violence. Some come from communities where there were no youth programs or positive mentorship and guidance. Without thriving businesses or safe social spaces, they ended up in gangs. They ended up everywhere but where they needed to be, and then some of them ended up here, behind bars.
Trauma and a lack of support are part of the journey that landed me on the other side of those bars.
Grieving as a child, grieving as a mom
I was 11 when my sister Tyesa was shot and killed. I was 31 when Tyler bled to death from a gunshot wound.
As a child grieving my sister, I didn’t really get to heal. As an adult survivor, I can see that while I had some good God-bearing people in my corner, there were times where more guidance, more tender love and care, would have led me to better decisions.
Because my mom was a single mother working multiple jobs, Tyesa often took care of us. I felt cheated. I lost a sister and a caregiver, but I also lost a piece of my mom.
I understood that my mom needed time and space, so I wanted to make sure that I was not a problem for her. I didn’t get into trouble. I worked hard at school, but I also didn’t talk to her about what happened. I never confronted the grief and the trauma head on.
My mom started parenting out of fear. She held on to us so tight that when I was ready to leave the nest, I stayed, because I wanted her to feel safe. I’m still here. I don’t feel comfortable leaving her. Much like her, I feel stuck.
I went to school and got a degree to provide a better life for my children, but in 2012, 20 years after losing my sister to gun violence, Tyler, 20, was murdered.
By then, I had children of my own. Now, as an adult and a parent, I have a better understanding of what my mother went through. I understand why she parented out of fear.
I also understand that, in the aftermath of gun violence, we have to make sure the siblings and children are taken care of.
Advocates and third places for young survivors
When my brother was killed, I took the allotted three days of bereavement leave and family medical leave from my job with a waste management company. While time to grieve was helpful, for some, trauma can last a lifetime and there isn’t a lot of mandated support. After 11 years with the company, I was let go.
Two-and-a-half years later, I became a correctional officer both because I needed a stable career and I saw it as an opportunity to learn important lessons about the role community disinvestment plays in gun violence.
I understand that some of the incarcerated men I see at work are there for heinous crimes, but others are there because they had to make sacrifices or poor decisions as they tried to provide for their families in communities with few career options.
Some grew up in communities that were rampant with gun violence long before they themselves ever picked up a gun. That does not excuse their crimes, but they never received the mental health support and community resources to deal with such an environment, support that could’ve set them on a different path.
When a few of them saw my story on the news, they asked me how I could come in every day, knowing that some of them committed gun violence or worse. They say I’m never disrespectful or angry.
I tell them my brother could’ve been in their shoes, and I hope that someone would treat him with humanity.
Some of these men make me think of my son, too. Because Tyler was killed at 20, my son struggled to imagine himself living past 20, as well. So when he turned 21 he didn’t know what to do with himself. That’s another form of trauma. That’s another way young men end up in trouble.
These revelations informed the work my mother and I do with our grassroots organization, Tender Youth (TY) Foundation, in the South Suburbs. We teach proper gun storage and positive conflict resolution, we host speaking engagements, and connect victims with resources, including victims’ compensation applications and counseling.
This work exposed me to the gaps in our systems, and led me to believe that the city should employ advocates to work specifically with youth survivors of gun violence, to set them up with a therapist, work with their school to seek academic accommodations, and make sure their teachers know what they’re going through. They would also serve as a reliable adult when kids’ parents might not be able to, because grieving parents are going through their own trauma.
My whole family has been living in a cycle of trauma since we lost Tyler and Tyesa. Christmases aren’t Christmases. Holidays aren’t holidays.
Because the way my brother was targeted and killed in front of my home, home stopped feeling safe, but in our community there weren’t really other places to go, particularly for young people. There wasn’t enough support for young people affected by violence. That’s part of why I moved my family out of the neighborhood.
In communities without safe places and supports — like affordable Park District programs, art galleries, skating rinks, community centers — or programming people like trade-based and job readiness programs or STEM programs, young people can find themselves adrift, the way my son felt after Tyler died. So I try to host events focused on the youth, where they can find both mental health support and a safe place. I want all the young people in Chicago to remember that they deserve to be young.
I am trying not to raise my own kids out of fear. I hold my relationships with them very tight, because childhood is a voyage that I missed.
