Official Participant in the Youth Media Blog-a-Thon

By Deja Hogue

I was born in Oakland in 1991, but went to school in Berkeley while I was growing up. Some of my Oakland friends say that it’s a “hippie” town full of activists and people who like to run around basically nude or that they are “hella gay.” But I think of Berkeley as a place, more like a haven, where I can escape the struggles, the shoot-outs and the fights that solve nothing, and that are about nothing and characterize my life in Oakland.

I was raised in Oakland, right on E.14th, in the “Hunnitz” – as some would call it, all of my sixteen years of breathing on this earth. I had to deal with my father leaving me at only seven years old, with my mother’s problems with alcohol and watch the only person who was a real father figure to me die a violent death.

Some days I want to run through the streets celebrating life. Other days I want to just lie in my bed with the covers over my head and never leave. My life has had ups and downs, some good times and some bad times. But I never regret the bad times because without them, my life would seem strange.

My bad days started at seven. That was the year my father decided to beat on my mom, and leave the family. I didn’t see him for at least two or three years. I found out later that he was back in his hometown of Phoenix, Arizona with the rest of his family. I visited him a few times but then once – when I was 12 – he was mad at my mother and left an angry message on our answering machine, saying that I wasn’t his real daughter. I know he meant it just to hurt my mother but it was heartbreaking to hear these words.

When my father left, a new man came into my mother’s life. His name was Derrick Duncan. Since I was so young, I thought he was a cool guy that I could trust. He seemed to treat my mother better than my father had, except that he cheated on her. I used to be able to tell him anything, I used to climb on him and hug him. And when I was a little older, I still was able to talk to him about things, but not really about boys. I was able to have laughs especially when he would make fun of me. He used to call me his little “Indian Princess,” or “Stinky from the planet Blinky.” But his favorite was “Hoagie Sandwich” because my last name is Hogue. I can remember all of the times we shared and what he taught me about boys and how they really think.

But as I grew older, I drifted apart from him. I begun to think he was the reason behind why my mom and my dad were not getting back together, because I still hoped that my mom still wanted to be with my dad – like all kids do. I began to rest Derrick. Sometimes we would clash because we both were Aries, and we each wanted thing our own way, but eventually things just became his way. My mom and I would clash because I told her that he wasn’t any good for her, that he was a lying, good-for-nothing type of man. At times I would just stop nagging my mom about kicking him out on the street, especially after my sister was born. But when she got a little bit older, I started back up again. I would even tell him I hated him.

Now I regret everything I said, and I know that I never really meant those things.

One day, I finally talked to Derrick about everything that was going on between us. It all started because I ran away from home. My mom and I had gotten into a fight and it just got out of hand. When I got back, I thought he was going to be really mad at me but he just sat me down in the living room and said how worried he was about me and that I should never run away from home again. I sat there, explained why I ran away and that I just couldn’t take living with my mom right now. He explained to me that my mom is still my mom, no matter what she does and whether she’s right or wrong – I still had to listen to her. I actually listened to everything he said, but what I’ll never forger is when he said: “I consider you to be just like one of my real daughters.” From that point on, I was so happy to have him step in and take the responsibility of my father.

No too long after that, he was shot. He had been with my mother for nine years. I was at school, sitting in a classroom working when I got called into the office. I didn’t cry because I was trying to be strong for my mom. I calmly tried to find out what hospital he was at but inside I was raging with questions like Who would do this to him? Why would they do it? My heart was crushed.

That same day, I went to Highland hospital to check up on his condition. He was in the ICU. I saw that he had a bandage wrapped around his head. I asked my mom why and I was shocked to hear he had a bullet lodged in his head. I held my mom’s hand and told her it will be all right. I told her: “He is going to make it out of this one. I know he will.” I was too scared to go near him. To afraid to even touch him, because he seemed so fragile.

I was there throughout his stay in the hospital. One day he would be doing well, the next day he was developing seizures. We heard that he would either be paralyzed or stay a “vegetable,” which was too much for my mom to bear. My mom decided that the best thing to do was take him of life support. She had to sit there and watch him take his last few breaths of life. The day he died was Mother’s Day. That was the saddest day for all of us.

There are days when I go to certain places in Oakland where I think about Derrick and the good times. But I can’t help but wonder about the details of his shooting: Who set him up? Did he risk his life because someone threatened to hurt his family? The only person that doesn’t really know what happens is his daughter, my sister, Destinee. Some days it’s harder for her because she doesn’t understand, and she wonders why she can’t be with him. Some nights, she used to whisper to me that she wants to be in Heaven with her dad. I want to tell her the truth at times and explain why he was in the hospital. I beg my mom to tell me why he was shot or who shot him because I heard that she knows. But she never really talks about it. Every time this topic of Derrick is brought up she starts to get tense and walk around it, and it doesn’t help anything. The same thing happened when Derrick’s brother – who was shot in the head and killed instantly – comes up. No one talks about why it happened, or how it happened. I try not to think about them being shot. I just try and remember the times when I was the happiest with these people.

It hurts me to hear about other people who have been killed in a cross fire, or who were shot for wearing the wrong colors, even if they don’t belong in a gang. I wish something would happen where the violence would just “poof” and disappear into thin air. But life doesn’t seem to happen that way.

Once someone you know gets shot, it changes your whole aspect on life. Some of these people think they are invincible, but they aren’t. I know this because that’s how my step-dad used to see himself: Invincible. Some communities light candles and then a month later they forget who these people are. But if it happens to a family, their hearts are deeply broken because the lost person who was a major part of their lives.