Being Scared

Every story is more complex than we ever hope for it to be. Eve was murdered two weeks ago. And that is devastating. In dealing with a person's death I think its natural to try and create images for every moment that could have passed during that last night. This was especially the case for me, hearing about it on vacation in Thailand, away from fast computers, good news sources and friends. I received a text the night after Eve's death from Erin in Phnom Penh telling me I should check my email: sad news from UNC.

I ran to an internet cafe. It was 10pm and the place was about to close. When I saw Eve's picture on the opening page of UNC's website, it didn't register that she had died. I was used to seeing her picture everywhere.

I imagined my last conversation with her. How rushed I had been! Standing in the Weaver Street parking lot- my backpack was on! I was decked out in my hiking pants. I was leaving that moment for this trip. Kristen drove up, ready to take me to the airport. Eve was also rushed, she always had a million things on her mind and in her hands. But she was so excited to see me. We hadn't seen each other since graduation. I think her excitement was less about seeing me, but more about seeing someone on the other side--the other side of graduation. She wanted to hear about my trip. She was thinking about traveling herself when she finished school. She just wanted to see the world- to see, do, touch all that she could. And she was so excited to talk about what was next.

I didn't have a chance to find out many details about her death that night. Most people knew very little about the circumstances of her death in the beginning anyway. Even now, after learning more, I still try to imagine every second that lead up to it. As I'm pouring a draft at Talking to a Stranger or cleaning an infected cut for a kid in Boeung Trabek, I suddenly stop and can't keep my mind from imagining. It's salsa night at the bar and I see a girl dancing by herself, long hair, laughing with her friends and I imagine Eve in Cuba with Margaret and I'm so sad for her, for Margaret, for everyone.

I imagine the possibilities for Eve that night- did she almost decide to go on to sleep, did she almost get away, did she run, did she try to convince them not to shoot her, where exactly was she shot, what were her last words, and who was she thinking about? Mostly though, I imagine just how deeply sad she was to let go of it all.

I don't know whether to be terrified. Am I supposed to be constantly conscious of every danger, every where? She was killed a block from where I had lived my senior year at Chapel Hill.

This summer when Ginger and I drove to San Francisco together and camped outside in the Grand Canyon, she woke me up, "EB, are you scared?" I said, "No, don't think about it and it'll be fine. I think there are too many people around us for bears anyway." But she wasn't scared of bears. She was scared of a man. So we locked ourselves in her car for the night.

When I found out that Eve had been shot, my immediate thought was that she had been killed by a man. And now I hear all of this uproar about race. A white man may say, "Whats wrong with the black youth of today?" Or, "I suspected that the guy was in a gang." Or, "Of course he was from Durham." And the white men, again, as they have forever in America, fear for their beautiful white daughters.

Does this not get at the root of racial problems between white and blackmen in America- a black guy taking (violently or in matrimony) a white woman.

So we spend our lives protecting our white women from black men. And we punish, consistently, black men for it.

Eve wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want racial tensions to flare as a result of her death. More and more she becomes less of an individual. She is lost to the cause. Is this how it should be? Does she become a martyr for stricter gun laws? For tighter gang regulation? Who can we blame, how can we honor her?

The problem with the black youth in America is a societal problem. And I blame all of us. Who does a black youth turn to when he can't get a job or education or any direction? Some turn to gangs. Everyone wants family, for someone to support them and for someone whom they can support. Its hard to blame someone for joining a gang when they have nothing- no country, no home.

In some ways, this is a race issue. But I think its unfair to call it a problem with African Americans. I think white America has to own up to it. We cannot ignore the way that we've marginalized non-whites since the founding of our country.

Maybe Eve's murder should be the impetus for a different conversation. Instead of asking, "Whats wrong with the black youth?" we could ask, "Whats wrong with patriarchy? Whats wrong with American men? Why is no one surprised that another act of violence was committed by a man?" I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I wish it weren't so, but I am scared of men.