(See Part 1: Between Rumor and Knowing)
Today, a year after
the murder of Darnell Byrd, Jr,, his mother, Ultra Humphries, sits in
the front room in her house in East Oakland, in the room where
Darnell slept, talking about him, about his hopes and dreams, about
his ongoing presence in her life. Darnell wanted to be a barber. He
had plans to change his own look, to look more professional, more
button-down. He was getting serious, he was growing up. Mother and
son were scheduled to go shopping for new clothes the day his body
was found, with a bullet in his head, on 78th Avenue. He was 24.
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| Akim, Ultra and Darnell. Darnell was killed in Oakland in 2013 |
Ultra has turned
Darnell's old room into a peaceful sitting room. Warm sunlight
filters through the curtains of blue and brown. There are two
comfortable couches and a corner shrine to the memory of her only
son. Her husband, Akim, sits at her side. They are young, a year either side of 40,
a strikingly handsome couple, out in the world
they will catch your eye. But if you watch them long enough you will
see in the hard, sober set of their faces the weight of this loss.
Akim is always a quiet presence until, occasionally, while telling
her story, Ultra can't totally control her emotions and her voice
wavers, and then gently Akim touches her arm. He picks up the story
until she can gather herself. It's never a long time. Ultra is
determined for people to know what happened, what is happening in
Oakland, and how the families of the killed, especially the mothers,
suffer.
"I'm strong,"
she says. "But I hurt."
For Ultra, it has
been, it continues to be, a journey through grief and pain, to
forgiveness, and a search for healing and justice. Every week she
checks-in with the Oakland detectives in charge of the investigation.
When the primary investigator got sick, she insisted that the
investigation progress.
"This is not a
cold case," she told them. She says they have been responsive,
but she does get frustrated with the pace of things.
Her attitude towards
her son's killer has shifted over her painful year.
"In the
beginning, I felt a lot of hatred," she says. "And I really
wished he was dead." But this has been a hell she would not wish
on anybody. "I really have to pray for him and his family.
Because...God help him. And I really hope that he will turn himself
in and repent and turn away from wickedness and evil. If he doesn't
turn away, his parents are going to lose their son."
Her faith has kept
her intact, she tells me. "Because I have God, it's why I
haven't gone crazy."
She's gotten
invaluable support from her church, and from two Oakland institutions
devoted to helping families of the killed. The Crisis Response and Support Network, out of Catholic Charities of the East Bay, has
helped with the rent when Ultra had to miss work. And they have
linked her and her daughter up with therapist who she says have
helped them both immensely.
And in Marilyn Harris and the Khadafy Washington Foundation for Non-Violence, she
has found a kindred soul and a source of ongoing strength and
healing. Since her own young son was murdered in Oakland in 2000,
Harris has been stepping into the lives of survivors, often right at
the crime scene, or in the first days after a killing, to guide them
through the business at hand, to be their eyes and brain when their
own eyes and brain refuse to function or believe, and to begin their
long journey back to life. Among the many services she provides,
Harris leads a monthly grief group for parents of the killed. There,
Ultra could being to tell her story.
"The group,"
she says, "it makes me feel comfortable to speak about my
situation, because others are going through the same thing that I'm
going through. So they understand. And when they tell their stories,
I'm able to identify what I'm going through, because even though they
may have lost their son five years ago, ten years ago, they still
lost their son, and they're able to tell me how it's gonna
be."
It sounds strange,
but sometimes her strength frustrates her. "I don't want to wear
it," she tells me," but she does want people to know both
that she has a painful story and that she is enduring. "I
want them to know, even though I've been through the death of my son,
you are still able to make it, you can do it. and that's what Marilyn
has given me strengh to do."
Outwardly, a year
later, she can look fine, normal, like anybody else going about their
business. On a day just about six months after Darnell's death, Ultra
wandered idly into a local clothing store. She didn't have much money
and wasn't really looking for anything in particular, unless some
real bargain popped out at her. Eventually she found herself at the
jewelry counter chatting with a friendly clerk. Ultra ended up
telling the clerk her story, talking about her son's death,
witnessing to the clerk about her church.
"She said, 'I
saw you when you came into the store," Ultra recalls, "'and
you just looked so good, and nice, and you would never have thought
that you lost your son.' In my mind, I'm thinking, 'Do I have to look
like what I've been through? She said 'You can't even tell.' But if I
looked like my story," says Ultra, "I'd probably be missing
all my hair, all my teeth, one leg, no hands."
Still, it is
important that people know, that they hear. "Just because I'm
not wearing my story, doesn't mean I don't have a story that's
killing my heart. Because I have one."
One year later, of
course Darnell remains a force in her daily life, even as she misses
the little things, the mom-things."I can't tell him to take the
garbage out, tell him to go the store for me."
She speaks to him
still, sometimes just to ask, in exasperation, why he wouldn't listen
to her. "Why didn't you just stay home, why did you always have
to go out. Why didn't you just listen. I told him not to go in that
area. Not to go around there. That's not a good area for him to be
in."
And then there are
the times when she hears his voice. Darnell speaks to her. "I
just keep hearing him telling me 'Moms, it's gonna be okay.'"
When her inclination
was to save the insurance money, Darnell gave her advice. Mom, you
need to use that money, that's what I gave it to you for. She
used it to create this peaceful room we are sitting in today, this
room in which Darnell is a presence in photographs and in spirit. One
year after his murder, the grief of course still comes, sometimes
very suddenly. "I will be in the bathroom putting on my makeup
and suddenly have a spurt of crying," says Ultra.
She says she wants
to have a quiet day on the anniversary of his death, a visit to his
niche at the cemetery and a day of family togetherness. They'll have
a bigger event to mark what would have been his 26th birthday in
January.
More and more,
others who have lost a son or daughter have begun turning to Ultra
for advice and she says that actually has helped her heal. "Helping
others helps me," she tells me. "I'm a fighter, I go, I
have to keep moving, and that's what makes me thrive. I want to be
like Marilyn Harris, to be able to motivate and inspire people."
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