The Play of Death
by David Thompson
“Mom! Lets go. Cragmont’s waiting!”
“Okay!. Just let me put my shoes on” My mother said as she scrambled down the stairs.
We were late. I couldn’t believe that my mother made me late to the biggest event of my fourth grade life. As she sat in the driver’s seat pushing sixty down the quiet streets of the Berkeley Hills, I could do nothing but sit there with my lips poked out in anger. As we pulled up to the school we were just in time for the final rehearsal. Unfortunately parents were allowed backstage.
“David, I don’t want you to be nervous”
“I’m not.”
“Now David, I know you must be a little bit nervous. There are going to be hundreds of people in the crowd.”
Oh shit! Hundreds of people!?
It was time for the big moment. My mother’s words kept replaying in my mind and I couldn’t shake them. It didn’t help that she was in my direct view. Before I knew it, the play had started and I was on the frontlines playing the sticks pig.
“Let me in, Let me in, little pig or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down!”
“Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin”
Then he ate me. My small part was over, and I was done. Surprisingly I did all right. I wasn’t nervous anymore and my lines were presented perfectly. As smooth as I thought that night would be, I was sadly mistaken.
“ I am so proud of you, David. You did an amazing job in the play. And here I was thinking you were nervous!”
“Thanks mom,” I replied.
“Isn’t this a great night? You did great in the play; I cooked your favorite meal and…hold on.”
Before she could finish her sentence, the phone rang. It was one of the few times my mother had ever seen me in my school environment, and that was the first time she had seen me happy in a couple of months. I was always been a child who never approached many new people. I never wanted to meet anyone because I felt that if I got too close they would disappear.
Death had never really been important to me or had a huge impact on my eight-year-old life. But one specific death hit me extremely hard. I never quite expected death to have such a big effect on me, but at age eight, who really expects it? Many deaths had happened before Shamon[1]’s death, but it was always someone whose time had run out. I wasn’t new to death and death wasn’t new too me. My goldfish Lucky, Bucky and Sucky, Scrappy the dog and Torty the Tortoise all died. But Shamon was an actual person, something that couldn’t be replaced by a swipe of a MasterCard or be buried in the backyard, which was something that I had not realized ‘till now. You always hear crazy, unbelievable horror stories about how people tragically die, but you never quite expect it to happen to your family. On September 18th, 1998 an unknown gunman on the quiet streets of Florida murdered a young man that was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The incredible night that I thought was happening to me, soon turned into a never-ending roller coaster of emotions. I couldn’t seem to wrap my young mind around the concept of “death.” Did someone leave? Were they ever going to come back? How? All of these questions invented a new experience for me. A journey that I did not want to undertake but unfortunately it was unavoidable. I had no understanding of what had happened to my cousin. But my mother was devastated. She had raised him for most of his life, she cried for what seemed like an eternity. I had all these questions bottled up inside me that no one was willing to answer they used the “you’ll know when you get older” excuse. On the ride to school the next day, P Diddy’s song “I’ll Be Missing U” came on. The next thing I knew, we were pulled over with my mother walking around the car frantically. She got back in the car after a few minutes. She revealed to me later that she didn’t want to show me that side of her, she felt that if she wasn’t strong, no one else would be.
“What was he like?”
“ He, who?” my mother replied.
I briefly paused. I was tired of being kept out of the light, especially when everyone was so bright.
“I think you know, who.” She looked at me with confusion for a second, and then her eyes opened widely and said “Oh”. From that moment on, my mother could no longer shield me from the harsh environment that everyone thought I needed to be kept away from. It was knocking on my door and I could no longer duck their knocks.
“Is it…”?
“ Yeah”, I sadly replied.
That’s when I knew that I had hit something sensitive, when she couldn’t even say his name. I felt so guilty that I couldn’t bear to say anything for the rest of the ride. I felt like I had opened up an emotions vault that had already been sealed shut.
Shamon and I never really had a steady visiting schedule. We only met on a couple occasions and every one I never knew how to pronounce his name correctly. Salmon. I used to call him Salmon, which was nowhere close to Shamon. He never once corrected me, I guess he liked the “nickname” I called him. He was a man. A great man with endless amounts of energy and a smile that would light up the room. A man that was going to be truly missed by everyone he knew, and especially me. I remember one occasion where my family was flat broke, (this was around the time where my big toe started to poke holes through my size three power ranger light up shoes) and we had no room to splurge to buy what my father called an “extra” pair of shoes. Seeing how financially strapped the family was, my cousin being the generous person he was, stepped up and paid for the second light up pair of power ranger shoes that I had loved so much. I didn’t realize how much my cousin loved me, and I didn’t realize how much I loved him.
“I hate you!” those were my last words to Shamon. I didn’t mean those words in such an angry manner; they just came out that way. My Aunt, Uncle, and Shamon were all supposed to visit and stay in a hotel, but my mother’s generosity allowed them to stay at our house. Unfortunately our house had only two bedrooms, I was sleeping on the long couch and Shamon had the short couch (this always made me laugh, because Shamon was at least 6’3” and the couch was only fit for someone that was 5’7”.) He was furious. I forgot why my mother chose it that way, but she did. After all the parents were settled into their own comfortable beds, Shamon picked me up off of the long couch and set me on the floor. Not even the short couch, but the floor. The next morning all of the adults found me on the floor with nothing but my power rangers t-shirt on. No blankets, no pajama bottoms just a lonely white tee shirt with my favorite power ranger while Shamon was catching Z’s on the long couch, with two blankets! I will never forget my mother’s response
“Shamon, get yo’ black ass up and get that boy of that damn floor! I can’t believe you. You know how cold that floor is”, and all he said was
“Ah’ Marg”.
I always remember that event as a happy one but also a sad one. I knew he meant to cause no harm but at the time, I was very upset. The words I said must’ve hurt him some, even if it was a little.
I always felt like his death was my fault. Even though I was nowhere near him
when he died. I felt somehow responsible, like I subconsciously wanted him
dead for moving me off that damn couch. Like I suddenly hit the kill button on
my alarm clock. I never knew why I felt this way. I always just assumed it was
an “eight-year-old thing”.
But now I just think it was because I didn’t get to know him well and now
there is no chance now.
In the summer of 2002, my family started to notice that my emotions were not normal. It took me a while to realize that I wasn’t healthy. But it wasn’t the normal cough and a runny nose. This sickness made me step into quicksand, and being only 3’8” made me sink even faster. I was always a tired, non-social and suffered headaches that felt like they would never stop. My pediatrician said that I was a “special” case. Whatever that means. He had never seen such a small child with depression. He wanted me too see a psychologist. I remember riding with my parents towards the loony bin. I had no idea what they were getting me into, and I wasn’t willing to find out. My therapist was a young white lady who looked like she needed more time in the playpen. She busted into the room with an energetic
“Hello David, how are you? I’m Kat.”
“How do you think I am?” She talked too me like I was incompetent. That was her first mistake. In my mind I was smarter than she in my twelve years compared to her whatever years. I perfected my sarcasm techniques at these therapy sessions.
“David!?” My mother sharply intervened.
“Sorry” I said in my retreated and defeated tone.
“That’s alright, Lets get started, Shall we? Your mother has informed me of the tragic event that happened. I’m so sorry you had to go through that”
“Really? How did you know my cousin?”
“I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing your cousin”
“Then why in the hell are you sorry?, You didn’t lose anyone?
My parents cut this meeting short. At this point I was tired of people telling me they were sorry. In reality they had no emotions at all, they couldn’t have cared less about my cousin.
Year’s later I went into a deeper depression over my cousin’s murder. It ultimately lasted until my seventh grade year in middle school. Although thirty classmates in Mr. Hourula’s history class surrounded me, I still felt alone. No one that I’d known had gone through a death, and if they had they were doing one hell of a job hiding it from me just like I was from them. I think the main cause of my depression mainly revolved around the fact that he was never coming back, no one ever talked about him, and my family always tried to keep their emotions inside to be “strong”. I had gotten over my depression with the help of much needed friendships and all the expensive therapy sessions. But I still didn’t feel like myself. I felt like a senior citizen with a broken hip yelling,
“Nurse, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” It took me a long time to “get over” Shamon’s death. I felt disabled that I couldn’t say his name without crying or seeing a simple picture of him without going into a crying frenzy. Even though I didn’t know him very well. I was highly emotional. It’s a feeling that you get when someone dies. Like it’s your responsibility to let out your emotions. For one, I was angry with the murderers who targeted my cousin like he was the piece of paper at a target practice ring. I was and still am upset that the policemen of Orlando, FL let a murder case go unsolved and cold! I’ve seen CSI and Cold Case. They solve a case in less than twenty-four hours. Take a lesson. There’s a cold-hearted brutal murderer still on the loose and no one seems to care. They should be spending the rest of their life in the state penitentiary.
On each anniversary of his death my family makes their annual trip up to his gravesite. I usually stay in the car; I didn’t think I was ready to say goodbye yet. Each time I go it makes me feel like my memories of him are slowly fading away. I remembered him slightly but I don’t remember the important things that a person should about their deceased family members. But on the 2004 anniversary, it was different. As soon as the family’s green Mercedes-Benz stopped at the Garden of Divinity I got out. It took me a while but I still got out. I thought I owed it to him to finally say goodbye and get on with my life rather than just carrying this burden that made me a hunchback for so long. I must’ve stayed there laying out my feelings for hours. He was the only one that wouldn’t say anything in return. I just needed someone to listen. As I left I said
“Thanks, for listening”.
As we ended our visit my mind started to play tricks on me. A voice said
“Your welcome little D”
I asked if anyone else heard that. But everyone responded “Heard what?” While my mother and I rode back home, I asked what “little D” meant to Shamon. She looked at me with confusion as once before and asked,
“Where did that come from?”
I responded “no where, I just wanted to know”,
not knowing what to do or think she responded
“that was his nickname for you”
I acknowledged the answer as I continued the conversation with a
“really?” a grin spread onto my face because I knew that was Shamon speaking too me and not a figment of my imagination, she looked over and viewed a smile. She was puzzled,
“What’s with that smirk?”
“Nothing”
I finally was done with letting my emotions go haywire. From that moment on I knew we had ended our relationship on a great term. I had no more sadness, anger or disappointment. The trauma was over and done.