Trigger warning: murder, violence

Sunday night I wrapped my body in a blanket and my hair in a bun. I brewed lemon tea and shuffled in my socks to the living room. I squeezed in between laughing friends as we sunk into the couch and chatted our way through the VMA’s. I’d never been much for award shows, but I live in a house full of girls now, and there are always new rituals to be made, new reasons to put down half-written papers, new excuses to coo over beautiful dresses and beautiful voices. I fell asleep that night to the sound of Drake falling in love with Rihanna. I fell asleep that night warm and safe. I left the tea bag at the bottom of my mug.

Sunday at 2:00 in the morning Ithaca College sophomore Anthony Nazaire was stabbed to death 60 fast steps from where I was sleeping. I didn’t hear a thing. I did my homework. I watched the VMA’s. Anthony Nazaire was bloody, and he was dead, and he had done nothing wrong. Why weren’t there people screaming? Sunday should have felt like a funeral. But instead, it was silent, and since then, there has been a funeral going on inside of all of us. We’re carrying the casket. We’re forgetting his name. We’re burying him without ever knowing him.

Saturday night Nazaire went to a Cornell Omega Phi Psi party. I just saw a video of him dancing. It was a fourteen-second clip sandwiched between two insurance advertisements on a news source that I used to read recipes on. Have you ever seen a ghost dance before?

The story that follows the video tells me that the Brooklyn teenager was helping his sick friend get home. He had been dancing, and then he had been helping, and then he was dead. The article tells me that Nazaire was kind and was loved and was part of an organization that provided strong role models for young boys of color. He was someone they looked up to. Have you ever looked up to a ghost before?

I haven’t been able to get the sick funeral feeling out of my stomach. I have the aftertaste of a wake in my mouth. There’s an apology in my throat. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Anthony. I’m sorry that I had to make sure I was spelling your name correctly. I’m sorry that we’re the same age. I’m sorry that this is where we go to school-- that we both showed up in this town to learn. I’m sorry that I watched the VMA’s. I’m sorry that I’m alive and I’m sorry that you’re not.

I’m so sorry.

I didn’t know Anthony Nazaire, and I send all my love and sorrow to his family and friends. I send my apologies and my regrets and my hopes that they’ll find healthy way to cope—that they’ll find ways to remember him with warm hearts, even if their stomachs feel sick.

I knew that I needed to write something for Nazaire even though I didn’t know him. It wasn’t because I wanted to feel better, but it was because people deserve to be thought about. People deserve to be written about. People deserve to go to parties, and to dance, and to help, and to not be stabbed. I’m so sorry, Anthony, that I can’t give you what you deserved, but I can give you this poem.

Here is a tribute to the life of Anthony Nezaire, whose name I learned only in death, but will remember for the rest of this life. I composed this work using only lyrics from artists featured at this year’s VMA’s. It is my apology.

August 28^th (to the tune of “Kiss It Better,” “Ultralight Beam,” “Paranoia,” “Freedom,” and “All Night.”

Been waiting on that sunshine

I think I need it back

Don’t have much strength to fight,

So I look to the light

Trapped in the middle of the map

Our summer don’t get no shine no more

Eight blocks left, death is around the corner

They murder kids here

They deserted us here

Lord forgive me, I’ve been running

Running blind in truth

I hope that it storms in the morning

Tell the storm I’m new

Baby boy,

Where are you?

I know you’re scared

You should ask us if we’re scared too

When they carve [your] name inside the concrete

I pray it forever reads:

How did it come down to this?

Won’t let my freedom rot

It’s easier to find a gun than it is to find a fucking parking spot

Baby boy,

I’ll trade your broken wings for mine

Baby boy,

I’ve seen your scars and kissed your crimes

I’m telling these tears, “Go and fall away, fall away”

May the last one burn into flames.