It is very tough growing up black in a hostile society

Dec 06, 2005

<b>Opiyo Oloya</b><br><br>PERSPECTIVE OF A UGANDAN IN CANADA<br><br>I came to learn about Carlos’ fate two weeks ago when the Toronto Star ran a story headlined “Saving Carlos”.

Opiyo Oloya

PERSPECTIVE OF A UGANDAN IN CANADA

I came to learn about Carlos’ fate two weeks ago when the Toronto Star ran a story headlined “Saving Carlos”.

The 19-year old is a former student of mine who was shot by an unknown person or persons in Toronto last July.

Whoever dumped the grievously-wounded young man at the hospital did not wait around for police. To this day, nobody really knows what happened that hot summer night four months ago.

What makes his shooting all the more tragic is that Carlos was a very polite, soft-spoken, helpful young man who worked hard to get good grades in my Grade 7 class.

Tall, handsome and always smiling, he interacted well with the other students. He volunteered a lot of his time to help one particular student who had difficulty reading. With his encouragement and that of other students, the boy learned to read simple books.

Somewhere in the family album, there is the picture of 13-year old Carlos carrying my four-month old son when the baby and his mother visited our class.

He loved children. Yet, in the growing violence cutting down Toronto’s young black men in their prime, Carlos is one of the lucky ones because he survived. Not so lucky are the many that have perished this year as the blood-bath continues.

Three weeks ago, for instance, the city was outraged when eighteen-year-old Amon Beckles who was attending the funeral of his slain friend, Jamal Hemmings 17, was himself gunned down when he stepped out of the church for a cigarette. Mourners inside the Seventh Day Adventist Church ducked for cover as bullets flew, leaving Beckles dead even as his friend’s coffin sat a few metres away.

Last week, as Toronto recorded its 50th shooting death of 2005, after a man was gunned down at a car dealership, many were asking why so many young blacks are killing each other.

There are those who suggest that some of the killings are gangs fighting over drug turfs while others argue that the root of the problem is poverty that leaves young blacks struggling in schools, dropping out, trying dead-end jobs and spiralling out of control into the world of dope-dealing and violence.

Still others have sought explanation in the overwhelming number of young black men growing up without fathers. As one writer in this camp put it, “the violence now being witnessed in Toronto’s poor black neighbourhoods is ultimately the voice of political orphans denied the firm discipline and direction of the black fathers.”

The truth is probably a combination of all of the above. But Carlos was different. He had his entire family around him — his father was ever ready to hear suggestions on how to improve the boy’s education.

The paternal grandfather was also in his life, showing up for parent-teacher interviews. I spent many evenings at his house helping him with homework. Yet, things began to fall apart for Carlos in high school, and I only heard about it when his father called me one day to say that the boy had left home to live on his own. The father was worried because he could not talk sense into the young man, and wanted my help to steer the boy in the right direction.

I summoned Carlos to come to see me at my school, and for the next hour spoke to him about what life was all about, and how he must stick close to the home-base. He agreed to work with his father in the family scrap metal business, and return to school at some point. I never heard from Carlos again until the newspaper article.

After church this past Sunday, I visited Carlos at the hospital where he remains in intensive care. His father and grandfather were waiting for me and my two sons.

The nurse told us that Carlos remained in guarded condition, and that we must suit up in hospital gowns and don facial masks. We did that and entered the room where Carlos was waiting for us — he instantly recognised me, and gave a big smile, the biggest he had given in a long time, his nurse said. He could not sit up because both legs were amputated above the knee, and his right arm was still somewhat paralysed from the stroke he suffered after he was shot.

Carlos could only communicate by grunting and moving his shrivelled left hand missing a thumb and a finger. The torso where the bullets tore into the body was almost completely covered by skin lifted from elsewhere. He lived only because of the miracles of modern medicine.

But his eyes were as intelligent and quick as ever. As his father fed him grapes, Carlos reached out with his damaged hand to touch my sons, his eyes glued on the boy he once carried as a baby.

Forty-five minutes later, he struggled to say the word “bye-bye” as we left. You could sense he wanted us to stay a bit longer.

As I drove away from the hospital with my two sons, I reflected on the challenges they face growing up black in a society that expects mostly failure from them. Some actually do well, moving onto post-secondary education in college or university.

But many, like Carlos, do not make it, and too often these days, their lives are snuffed out before they have even begun. It was a frightening thought.

Opiyo.oloya@sympatico.ca

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