Another daughter slain; Remembering Frances

By John W. Fountain

       This is another in an occasional, yearlong series that looks behind the number of murders in Chicago.

  Not Jonylah. Not Hadiya.

  Frances. Her name is Frances.
Frances Colon. She was 18. She was not just another nameless, faceless statistic in the incessant toll of Chicago murder victims whose blood pours over city’s streets like rain water.
         She was Dorothy Payton’s and Jose Colon’s daughter. Sister to Lizzie, Lorretta, Lalorrie, Selena, Dominique and Donice.  A jewel to four brothers.

  Student. Friend. A young woman with dreams.

Special project: Pulling up violence from its root

By Christopher Sutter

For 177 days, baby Jonylah Watkins lived before dying of a gunshot wound. Cradled in the lap of her father in the front seat of their gold minivan, pulled over to the side of street, a gunman, apparently targeting her father, approached the vehicle and opened fire. The Chicago Police Department suggested that Jonylah was unfortunately caught in the crossfire between her father, Johnathan Watkins, and the so-far unknown shooter. The bullet caused severe damage to the tiny girl’s internal organs, ultimately causing her death.

Jonylah is among hundreds of Chicago children in the last two decades who have been slain. In fact, over the last 20 years, Chicago has experienced the murders of over 360 small children, ages 10 and under, according to Chicago Police. Some were slain on the school bus, or while playing with toys on their porch, or even sitting inside of their homes.

Fostering healing and hope; A caseworker's passion

By Christopher Sutter
     The sun heated the cracked asphalt as two little girls, ages five and three, crossed the street. Holding the hands of their mother, Daphne and Lily, their real names changed in this story for their safety, glanced up at their guardian, their fingers still interlocked, as their mother was shot and killed by her boyfriend.

Months later, the girls, then living with their father and grandmother, visited Casa Central and began counseling with Mary Reynolds.

A mother's vow to a son; Gone but never forgotten

By Daria Sokolova

  
  A grief support group, Mothers of Murdered Sons was founded by Phyllis Duncan, whose son Dodavah Duncan was fatally shot in May 2006 in northwest suburban Elgin.

Also known as MOMS, the group seeks to provide grief counseling to those whose children were senselessly taken away by gun violence. The group holds their meetings on sthe econd Saturday of each month at the Bellwood public library, located at 600 Bohland Avenue.

             "We started here in western suburbs six years ago, addressing the crimes and the homicides here in a Proviso Township," says Duncan, founder of MOMS and women's community leadership counsel.

Living Through The Pain

Remembering slain siblings: 
A sister's undying love

The author was just 11 when her 16-year-old sister Tyesa was fatally shot outside a downtown Chicago movie theater. Days before this past Christmas, her baby brother Tyler was gunned down outside their south suburban home. Here she tells her family's story of loss and also coping and living through the pain. 

A niece stands at the tomb of her aunt Tyesa Cherry, slain at 16 before she was born.

By Tamika Howard

Special Contributor

Tamika Howard smiles with brother Tyler Cherry.

    Not a day goes by that I don’t think about my older sister Tyesa. No matter how much she ever teased me, I always admired how strong and beautiful she was. She was so cool and had the goofiest laugh. And now there is also my little brother Tyler to miss. 

Nowadays, each morning, on my way to work, I look at Tyler’s high school graduation photo that I keep above my sun visor. His charming smile is unforgettable. I kiss the photo and I say my daily prayer: “Thank you, God, for who you are and everything that you do. Please give me the strength make it through the day and please protect me, my family, friends, and even my enemies.”  

One: That's the number that should matter most

By John W. Fountain

One. One bullet. One gun. One hot summer's night. One death. One city. One dream.

One funeral. One father's grief.

One community's scourge. One mother's tears. One child's fears. One. One last kiss. One pastor's plight. One hope. One fight.

This is the first in an occasional, yearlong series that looks intimately behind the numbers of murders in Chicago, which in 2012 totaled 506—more than one a day, nearly 10 a week, about 42 a month.

Angry: When will the killing stop?

By John W. Fountain

            I am almost too angry to write. Angry about the killings. Angry at this city I love. Angry at my people—fellow African Americans—over our nonchalant acceptance of the senseless murder of our children in the streets like dogs, and our defeatist, kneejerk, shoulder hunching.

I am angry about the murder of another child—Hadiya Pendleton, 15—fatally shot this week while standing under a canopy in a South Side park.

   I am angry that we still are not up in arms. That we have not yet declared, “Enough is enough.” A state of emergency.

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