Blog Post 11/17/2009
All WE NEED IS LOVE…(Title from a Beatle song)
A young man died one week before his 29th birthday. His name is Gidd Gomel Robinson. My relationship to him was through his mother whom I have known for 26 years. Gidds life ended by an exchange of racial slurs which ended in an exchange of gunfire which ripped through is masculine body via his chest – he was unarmed. The murderer was so out of touch he allowed his seven year old son to witness the carnage. And if that wasn’t enough he shot my best friend’s son in front of his three little girls; ages, 7 months, 2 years and 4 years of age. Gidd was just leaving his house to walk his 4 year old to kindergarten. How in the world do we explain that?
Gidds senseless murder rocked West Sacramento, CA. Gidd grew up in an area known as Broderick. It is also synomnous with the infamous gang the Broderick Boys. His family’s friends consisted of gang members, non-gang members many, many, who made their home, their home. Gidd has a younger brother named Juan. When you spoke of them you automatically said Gidd and Juan. They were three years apart, but usually as children and young men, when you saw one you saw the other.
All WE NEED IS LOVE…(Title from a Beatle song)
A young man died one week before his 29th birthday. His name is Gidd Gomel Robinson. My relationship to him was through his mother whom I have known for 26 years. Gidds life ended by an exchange of racial slurs which ended in an exchange of gunfire which ripped through is masculine body via his chest – he was unarmed. The murderer was so out of touch he allowed his seven year old son to witness the carnage. And if that wasn’t enough he shot my best friend’s son in front of his three little girls; ages, 7 months, 2 years and 4 years of age. Gidd was just leaving his house to walk his 4 year old to kindergarten. How in the world do we explain that?
Gidds senseless murder rocked West Sacramento, CA. Gidd grew up in an area known as Broderick. It is also synomnous with the infamous gang the Broderick Boys. His family’s friends consisted of gang members, non-gang members many, many, who made their home, their home. Gidd has a younger brother named Juan. When you spoke of them you automatically said Gidd and Juan. They were three years apart, but usually as children and young men, when you saw one you saw the other.
When I called his mother to congratulate her on managing to get a photograph with Maxi Priest, one of her favorite musicians, her phone was answered by someone else. When I introduced myself and asked for Gwen, she said they were at the hospital and she could not talk. I could hear Gwen whisper in a tone I was unaccustomed to hearing “who is it?” and the receiver of the call said Leslie. The next voice I heard was my sister Gwen’s. “Oh Leslie” she says through tears. The first thing entering my mind was that her sister Birdie who she has been caregiver to for ten years due to a car accident and subsequent brain damage was in the hospital. “Birdie?” I asked. “No, Gidd!” she stated through a cracked voice full of tears. “Where is he Gwennie?” “They killed my baby!” she cried out “No, No, No!” I shouted through the phone, and my tears flowed. I knew it was not the time to ask how, when, where, so I told her I was on the way. When I arrived in Sacramento four days later, my sister was strong as anyone could be. She greeted me with a big hug and held on tight. I told her I am so sorry, sweetheart, but God has you.” She continued to show strength that only one of immense faith could sustain. That was Sunday.
On Tuesday, I accompanied her to dress her dead son. Not knowing how I was going to handle it, I felt it was an honor. As we walked into the area, he laid on a cold slab with a sheet to his neck. The first thing I noticed was the staples in the crown of his head, from one ear to the other;evidence of the autopsy.
She went to her son, and kissed and rubbed his forehead. She had seen him before the funeral home did their work, so he was softer then, she stated. This time his body was cold, yet he looked as if he was sleeping. Gwen requested no makeup, so he looked natural - 29 years old and gone from this world. When she did break down, I stood behind her placing my arms around her, my head to her shoulder, sobbing with her. When we were done, the two wonderful helpers assisted us with the dressing. Never had I touched a dead body except for my grandfather and grandmother. It was surreal, yet I knew God had sent me for a reason. It confirmed that life can be taken in the blink of an eye and that life was too short to deal with pettiness, inconsequential minute issues, that we must enjoy and live each day as it is our last – with no regrets. And how blessed I am to survive when 924 did not.
The coroners tags still attached to his toes, “Should we remove them?” I asked one of the assistants. “No, you can leave them on.” I wondered why, but followed his instructions. As we put one sock on his foot, at a time, we moved his jeans along his long legs to his torso, positioned ourselves one side and the other to put his white button up shirt on him, and finally his shoes. I cried silent tears, as my heart ached for my sister, his wife, his children, his brother and the host of people that loved him, as his laughter we would hear no more, his deep voice disappearing through this life and into the next.
This tragedy has a redemption factor. As I mentioned many of Gidds friends came from all walks of life and he was well loved. Gidd was laid off and was breeding pit pulls, but had no life insurance. His friends, the hard core gang bangers, those that were not and many in between got to work and through a series of car washes, barbeques, selling of T-shirts- raised over $6,000 in four days to bury their friend. I was amazed and joyful. Goodness comes in all forms. They honored him with love – they honored him with faith – and they honored him for being the man he had become. Now Gidd was not the young man that did well in school, or was obedient to his mother and teachers, but a little bit of a trouble maker. But through all of that he was loved.
The day of his burial over 200 people came to pay their respects- it was standing room only. Some of the pall bearers, who I was in charge of organizing, wore thick chains around their necks, representing the dog breeder they were laying to rest. The minister mistook this for some type of negative symbol, and made a statement to that effect when he went to the pulpit to speak. “I am not going to have any mess jumping off in here, because there are 80 year old women, etc.” No, Lord I thought. Was I disappointed? Yes. Did he know the hearts of those wearing the chains? Was he aware of what they accomplished? Later after someone whispered in his ear, he returned for the eulogy and offered an apology. He stated he did not understand the significance of the chains. Uhmmm, redemption. It saddened me because as a man of God he was already judging who was in the room and what he anticipated without weighing the enormity of these folks with chains around their neck were the ones that made the funeral happen, but not just that they made it happened, but who there were as human beings. Jesus went to those that needed salvation. If we all judged people by how many tattoos they had, piercings, hair color, nail polish, clothes – then who are we? Is salvation only for those that go to church every Sunday? Or is it our duty as messengers to witness to all people? Are we to exclude those that don’t look as we think they should? Do they have to have on three piece suits, big hats, and be hair neatly coiffed and dressed to the nines? Uhmmmm… what do you think? Is this a problem in the churches?
His sermon consisted of Gidds death not being God’s will, because God did not and does not create evil. Agreed. It was the responsibility of a man who was void of God consciousness that ended life as he knew it and the lives of many others; his own son included. The minister spoke about Gidd’s life not being in vain, and made a plea to those who wanted to make a change to raise their hands. I don’t know if he met with them afterwards to give them counsel. But all in all it was a decent attempt.
As people formed a line to speak of memories and anecdotes about their friend, we laughed, we cried and we felt somewhat renewed. The most touching of all moments was when his wife, Jennifer reached the pulpit and read an essay her husband, Gidd has written upon the birth of his first daughter, Aneesa. The essay began with “I used to think all women were f---- b------; until my three pound daughter was born. He continued with what it meant to be a father of a daughter and the immense change that occurred within him. We all cried. Here was another soul lost before its full potential was realized. Gidd loved his baby girls. He stayed home with him while their mother worked and was even teaching one of them ballet. We all got a chuckle out of that, because if you knew and saw Gidd you would wonder how his size ---- shoes could ever turn a poirete.
His aunt came up afterwards and read another essay he had written about his seven month old daughter, Attiana- the sound of sobs could be heard throughout the chapel. His wasted life sunk deeper into our existence.
On the way to the internment, we laughed and we cried. His resting place for his body is behind a marble stone which says Garden of Peace . As I grabbed a handful of dirt and baby breaths I let them go slowly dropping to the casket that held the shell of my friends son. I wanted to go and hug my children, grateful for them still being alive to enjoy.
What the world needs is LOVE! God is LOVE, LOVE = PEACE, AN END TO WAR, AND END TO PROVERTY, LIVES REALIZED. Many people say that these are the last days, the signs are there. But we must be prepared for the Love Revolution!
Be blessed.
