I suppose there are times in every person’s life where we ask just how much we care about a person, place or thing. How much are you willing to sacrific for something? How about that NBA Rookie Card of Michael Jordon? Or that tight ass apartment on the Upper East Side that everybody raves about and nobody has but you? Or the child that gets shot every day in this country? Sometimes I think that we forget a lot about the great deal of work that it took to get somewhere. I know that there are some people that worked extremely hard, on their own, to get to the top. But even being left to yourself to accomplish your life goal, there was someone or something teaching you a lesson. Whether is was that you didn’t need any help, or if it was that you always had the attitude that you were fine in life and never let on that you needed to help. The later is usually us more stubborn people, and I am one of them. I am extremely stubborn, as are a lot of the people in my family. But there are a few things that I know are more important, deeper, and less desirable than the aforementioned places and things said before. How many people when put in the situation would take a bullet for a child, or a stranger, or a man, or a woman, if it meant it would save their life?
I have a repeating dream about once a week. It stems from when I was living in Brooklyn, in a rather rough area, and one afternoon while running around the park I was a witness to a young boy being shot dead as an innocent victim in a gangs drive by shooting. I witness it from the moment the grey Caprice came around the corner to the second the first shot was fired to the feable leap I made in front of the boy that was killed. If as soon as I had seen the car pull up I had grabbed the boy, he probably would have lived. But my hesitation, my studder step as I realized what was happening, was something that cost a little boy his life. And it seems that once a week I have a dream about it, and if I had been quicker, and the life that boy would have now. And I am constantly wondering about it. I am constantly saddened by the fact that this boy could not be at his kindergarden graduation. That he never met his first grade teacher, or saw Central Park, or saw anything outside of the shitty neighborhood he had been born in.
I wonder often times if in the same situation or a similar one, if I would be able to react quicker. If I would be one step faster, or a half a step faster and take the bullet myself. I wonder at other times if I would be one of those people that would risk a car wreck to miss a slow grandmother in the cross walk. If there would be time enough for me to avoid her and not hit the car storming up the lane to my left.
I wonder a lot if any other American ever thinks about this, or if we all have become too wrapped up in ourselves.
I wonder if I was not meant to think about this.
I wonder if thinking about it has done more good than bad.
If there is a cure for the constant wonder that creeps into my head late at night and forces me to stay awake.
I wonder as I sit here and I type this if Charles Decker II ever typed on a computer, or knew how to read.
Because the only thing I knew about him was that his last breathes were spent in pain and in fear and in solace, because the people that loved him didn’t love him enough to be with him at the park that day.
I know that there is no reason not to sacrifice myself for the life of someone that has so much to learn about, live for, and experience. A child’s life is easier more precious and more valuable than my own.
Is it more than yours?
::::Maybe a little dark, but nothing to be alarmed about::::