It was almost 3 A.M. and I was walking around the old Roebling Wire Works factory in Trenton, discussing paintings with my friend at the local Art All Night festival.
“The bright sunset landscape was neat,” I told her. That’s when I heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Immediately screams started. My first instinct was to run away. Hundreds of people were pushing, frantically running across a busy street.
We have all heard of mass shootings. We watch the news and talk about how horrible it must be. We conjure up reasons why it happens and get angry at society. But when the shooting starts, you don’t think. You just run.
There was no looking both ways crossing the street. Ahead I saw my friend, as frantic as I was. I blindly followed. I wanted her safe. I wanted myself safe. I wanted us all safe.
A young man around my age called out to us as my friend and I headed for our car. Being from the area, he indicated he felt the need to keep us safe. All we had was trust. We let him walk with us.
Once the sound of shots stopped, the three of us, my friend, this complete stranger and I, continued on to find our car parked at the arena. Before we could even say a word, the stranger quickly mentioned he was carrying a gun. Not planning to harm us, he explained his friends were the ones getting shot at. It was pretty clear at that point he was part of a gang.
The term “gang member” is never brought up in daily conversation as a positive. When you hear “gang member,” you think guns, drugs, thugs, and punks. The fact that I was standing next to a gang member in real life gave me a slight shock if the loud shots did not already.
However, this tall, thin African American man, little more than a boy, really, with long dreads walking along side of me in bright red Jordans and a nice cap, had the same stunned face that my friend and I had. He was just like us. He was scared too. But he was protecting us. I asked him if his friends were okay. Unfortunately, he had no idea. My heart sunk with him.
Art All Night was supposed to be a coming together. This event was supposed to shed light on the capital of New Jersey and prove it’s not the horrible place everyone warns about. However, that dark morning, it was.
According to NJ.com, 105 shootings have occurred thus far this year in Trenton, more than 20 of which occurred at this event. For some reason, the city cannot shake the label ¨dangerous¨. Governor Phil Murphy referred to this shooting as, “another reminder of the senselessness of gun violence.” according to USA Today. Can we call this “just another Trenton shooting”? We were incapable of thought, just searched for safety.
We finally spotted our car in the parking lot. Before splitting ways, the man thanked us for letting him walk with us. At first, I had no idea why. He explained that by walking with us, he was not a lone black man walking alone after a shooting. This man feared he would be stopped and questioned or even accused of participating in the crime we were both terrified of.
After sitting in my friend’s car and watching the young man walk away, I felt my perspective on all of it: the guns, the gangs, the “good” guys and “bad” guys, the complicated interplay of race and gender. Fear, sadness and actual anger set in. Not only was I fearing who could be lurking the streets, I feared the man who just escorted us to our car would get hurt on his long walk home. I did not just feel sadness for those who were shot, but for those who spend every day living in a state of worry that their friends, family, or selves could die just for which section of town they are from. I was saddened at the fact walking with two white girls–myself and my friend–could dictate the probability of an African American man being stopped and questioned by the police. And of course, in the end, I was furious that 22 people were injured, one was dead, a mass shooting ruined what should have been a lovely event and had only given more support to the stereotypes about Trenton.
I don’t know where the man who died that night is buried. I don’t know where the 22 wounded people are now, or if they are alright. But sometimes when it all feels like too much to bear, I look back and remember that in the midst of all that chaos and awfulness, when we were at our most vulnerable, the gang member and I decided to trust.
