To Listen;
I remember the dread. Having to go to practice. The smells of plastic, the heavy helmet and the rubbery mouth piece. I hated it. I hated it but I needed it. It was who I was, 9 years old and decided.
My mom helped me jump into my pants, literally jumping up and down to get into them. Somehow the knee pads still went down to my ankles. The bad shaped jersey, the number 12. I've hated it since.
I remember as we were walking out my mom asked me if I grabbed something, I can't remember what, but I do remember running up the stairs and coming back down to see her sitting on the couch. Her face was twisted. It got that way when my dad was around. I figured he was on the phone. Then I saw her break, it was slight. Her eyes glossed over, her raised lip lowered and lowered. It made my stomach drop, I knew something was wrong. For some reason I thought of my brother. A silent one, but his emotions in his eyes. I thought something must've happened to him. My mom lowered the phone and asked me “are you ready for practice?”
I asked what was wrong and she said a friend had to take me to practice because something was wrong at my Grandma's house. I started to shrug it off.
We pulled up, 2911 Fashion.
Cop cars, an ambulance and a fire truck.
My grandma was hollering from inside the house.
Teresa, my friend Thomas’ mother, walked me to her car.
Thomas asked if I was okay, I think I said yeah and made a joke.
I went to practice.
That day my uncle, Alondo Watson, took his life with a grey pistol in my grandmother's bathroom.
My mother cleaned it.
I never went to the funeral, I've hardly heard stories.
I kept going to practice.
Ignorance is bliss until you also want to pick up the gun.
These are my questions through images of who Alondo Watson was, who he could have been, and what he left behind.
There are always signs if you're willing to listen.
I remember the dread. Having to go to practice. The smells of plastic, the heavy helmet and the rubbery mouth piece. I hated it. I hated it but I needed it. It was who I was, 9 years old and decided.
My mom helped me jump into my pants, literally jumping up and down to get into them. Somehow the knee pads still went down to my ankles. The bad shaped jersey, the number 12. I've hated it since.
I remember as we were walking out my mom asked me if I grabbed something, I can't remember what, but I do remember running up the stairs and coming back down to see her sitting on the couch. Her face was twisted. It got that way when my dad was around. I figured he was on the phone. Then I saw her break, it was slight. Her eyes glossed over, her raised lip lowered and lowered. It made my stomach drop, I knew something was wrong. For some reason I thought of my brother. A silent one, but his emotions in his eyes. I thought something must've happened to him. My mom lowered the phone and asked me “are you ready for practice?”
I asked what was wrong and she said a friend had to take me to practice because something was wrong at my Grandma's house. I started to shrug it off.
We pulled up, 2911 Fashion.
Cop cars, an ambulance and a fire truck.
My grandma was hollering from inside the house.
Teresa, my friend Thomas’ mother, walked me to her car.
Thomas asked if I was okay, I think I said yeah and made a joke.
I went to practice.
That day my uncle, Alondo Watson, took his life with a grey pistol in my grandmother's bathroom.
My mother cleaned it.
I never went to the funeral, I've hardly heard stories.
I kept going to practice.
Ignorance is bliss until you also want to pick up the gun.
These are my questions through images of who Alondo Watson was, who he could have been, and what he left behind.
There are always signs if you're willing to listen.