If a trauma center had been closer, my best friend might still be alive

This story was originally published by the Trace, a nonprofit newsroom covering gun violence in America. Sign up for its newsletters here.

I always thought Junior and I would go to college together, that we’d be roommates after school. I always thought our kids would grow up together. Instead, when he was 19, I lost my very best childhood friend.

On December 30, 2012, Junior was shot along with two other people. His friends were shot in the shoulder and jaw and in the back, and Junior was shot in the abdomen, but there was no trauma center nearby. Blood loss, his family said, was a major factor in his passing.

Losing Junior made me realize that while impoverished areas suffer the most from gun violence, they’re often not equipped to handle the bloodshed. In Chicago city limits, there are five level one trauma centers (and a sixth that serves only pediatric patients), and they tend to be on opposite ends of the city. There were only four when Junior died.

Chicago needs more trauma centers, and its hospitals and emergency staff need better trauma training. This was the case 12 years ago when Junior died, and it’s still the case now. The only change I’ve seen in Humboldt Park is that now there are condos and coffee shops, things that make wealthier residents’ lives easier. These changes don’t serve the people who’ve been there for generations, the neighborhood kids like me and Junior who grew up thinking we had the whole world in our little slice of Chicago. If we instead invested in communities like the one Junior and I grew up in—creating community events and funding trauma centers—maybe my best friend would still be here today.

Growing up with Junior

I met Junior when I was 11 and he was seven. The neighborhood kids used to hang around Kedvale Park, and there was always a group that would bully us. One day, when the biggest kid tried to push Junior, Junior hit the kid and ran away. I had to know who he was.
I learned that he happened to live maybe a block away from us and that we had the same interests. We liked video games, especially Street Fighter, and we loved wrestling. He liked “Stone Cold” Steve Austin; I liked the Rock.

We started hanging out in the park that summer. There wasn’t much else that you could do to have fun for free where we lived.

Eventually, my family ended up moving into the first floor of the two-flat building Junior’s dad owned, solidifying the friendship. Anytime my brothers and I got bored or had a new video game, we would go upstairs, or Junior would come down. It was just fun.

We would go to the candy shop together. Even if we didn’t have enough money, we would scrounge up dimes and nickels and put them all together.

As soon as we got up in the morning, we hung out. The only time we were separate was when his parents had something to do or we were out of town. We were practically family.

As we grew bigger, so did our problems, but Junior was still one of the people that I counted on the most. One Father’s Day, my son’s mother got mad at me for something, and she refused to let me see my son. I called Junior, and he told me to come over. I told him everything, and he talked me through it.

It could have been just another story

Around 11 PM one night, I was on the Red Line coming home from a bad date, and I wanted to talk to Junior about it. I told myself I’d call tomorrow. I had no idea that Junior’s tomorrow would never come.

Fifty minutes earlier, Junior had been shot. He died at Stroger Hospital at 12:15 AM.
I found out from family and friends later that an adversary from his past who wouldn’t leave him alone challenged him to a fight. But, they said, it was all a trap. When Junior and his friends arrived, the person ambushed and shot them.

Another friend drove them to Norwegian American Hospital (now Humboldt Park Health), which does not have a trauma center. They transferred Junior to Stroger, but it was too late.
It could have been just another story. I can imagine him saying it. “Oh, dude. Oh, man. Remember when I got shot in the stomach—and I’m still here?”

We could have joked about it, but unfortunately the first hospital wasn’t properly equipped, and now he’s gone.

A rift in time

Everyone drifted further apart. I stopped talking to his brother and his sister as much. I would see his mom every once in a while. All the neighborhood kids who used to hang out, none of us saw each other anymore. The glue that held us all together was gone. Junior was our community leader.

The last time we were all together was when we all met up at his grave site a year after his death for one last hurrah.

Losing Junior felt like losing my childhood. It’s like when they tell you Santa Claus isn’t real; the magic was gone. It was like a rift in time. One moment we were able to experience our youth, and then, just like that, everything I knew vanished.

His death created a gap between then and now. Then, we didn’t have much, but we shared everything we had.

Now, I don’t share what I’m feeling. I’m distrustful. I don’t seek out new friends. I am cautious with my kids. I probably shelter them too much, but sometimes I feel like they’re too trusting. I just don’t want them to hurt the way that I am. I don’t want to jinx myself or make any plans that would fall through if the worst happens.

He’s the person I would’ve talked to about something like this.

The world and everything in it

I didn’t ever go downtown until I was 17. I just thought all those buildings on the horizon were landmarks and locations I would never get to see and touch.

Junior knew better. He encouraged me to want more. He would say, “We don’t have to settle for this. There’s more out there. Let’s go.”

We were happy just being friends in our little slice of Chicago, but I wish we were able to see more.

One of our favorite movies was Scarface. Our favorite scene was when Tony Montana’s best friend, Chico, asks him what he wants and Tony answers, “The world and everything in it.” When I have the money, I’ll start a club for at-risk youth, kids like us, to teach them art, history, sports, and science. They’ll get to see more of the world than we did.