With a name like Laquan, we can safely assume his Blackness. Of middling height, perhaps ‘5, 2”, with a weight of 130 lbs., Laquan bounces down a Chicago avenue with typical teenage abandon.
He seems more like he’s skipping than running, his right hand holding a pen-knife of some 3” or so. One can almost feel the buzz of youthful testosterone rushing through his veins. A subterranean river of strength assuring him that he is invincible, that he can punch through walls, get hit with a mountain and rise.
And then, without warning, a shot rings out, and it spins him like a top, 360º.
He falls, and unfamiliar pain grips him, curling him, folding him into a fetal position cradled by the cold earth. Then, like heartbeats, come death beats of bullets, and 17 year old Laquan McDonald is no more.
He is but the…