from the classroom to the courtroom: I sat behind ruby's killer

I never wrote a blog within the first 48 hours of an episodic event that moved me, had an impression on me, searing me with the seconds and minutes that led up to the moment. This was one of those days. It was like it was yesterday because in this sacred instant that I write, it was.

Over 2 years later, the story of my slain student Ruby still follows me, informs my work, giving direction to my North Star of equity, justice, and liberation.

Her good friend Davi informed me of the hearing of the young man who took Ruby's life at a party--she was at the wrong place-- the wrong time. I've since traveled the country amplifying this story, refusing to allow others, especially those in power, to normalize the youth of our city being gunned down.

I thought about it for only a few minutes, knowing I had to go-knowing I had to be there-knowing I had to be a presence that would be a demonstration of love, support, and backing from our school community...and beyond really.

I also thought-woah--I'm going deeper, getting more involved in this narrative. Yet, there was no turning back.

I said, "Davi, I'll go, let's do this."

She made T-shirts that said, "Ruby--Know Her Story, Say Her Name." Like a banner of declaration that draped our hearts, we walk up the steps of the Cook County Jail in Chicago, IL on May 12th for the sentencing.

Walking up, a billion thoughts were racing through my mind. They were striking quickly, like a lightning bolt that was shooting up against the clouds in the sky; one minute it was firing, the next it was gone.

Jury duty line was long, but we were nonjury. Stepping past to get to the metal detectors, Davi and I dodge the crowd and move quietly through security clearance.

Getting lost, a kind soul escorts us to the right elevator. 7th floor. Number of completion. Everything at this point was symbolic for me.

We approached the court doors and looked for Ruby's name or his name, the offender. We see his name, and we both look at each other in stand-still shock.

"It's this one," I whispered. "Is that him, is that his name?"

She nodded her head yes, words weren't necessary.

We enter, and the room is layered in a thick silence.

We find a seat on the wooden benches on the left hand side. They made a creeky sound the way a wooden floor would when you step on it.

A family looks at us and asks Davi and I about our shirts. We tell them we lost our friend, my student to gun violence and are supporting the family for the sentencing.

They proceeded to tell us they too lost a loved one to gun violence and are awaiting the sentencing as well. The offender's family was on the opposite side. The sister who lost her brother pointed with her head nod. I glanced over. Disbelief draped over me like this was a scene in a movie or something. Yet, this time, it wasn't fiction.

The exchange of grief was chilling, but I felt led to hold space for their story.

The judge approached, and clerks, deputy sheriffs, lawyers, and public defenders shuffled around the space. The time was just before 10am.

No sign of Ruby's parents yet, and no sign of the accused either.

I was growing impatient, I was getting hungry and thirsty.

Yet, could it be that I was more hungry and thirsty for justice, for healing? I wasn't sure.

A few cases were deliberated, and a few inmates approached your honor's desk with their council.

I remember telling myself, "G you don't have a phone, so take mental images of the scenery." I scanned the room, looking for details that I wanted to recall for you, for this account. Phones are prohibited, so my notes app was null and void at that moment along with my cam and vid.

Peering ahead, I noticed a small golden statue of Lady Justice on the judge’s desk. She held the balance scale with a certain pride, an undeniable authority that arrested me. Lady J represents a symbol of the justice system-a symbol of fairness, and balance of the scales if you will. I have her tattooed on my arm, as she and I are kindred spirits. That statue alone impacted me profoundly.

About 45 minutes into the wait, Ruby's parents and a family friend arrive.

I freeze, yet open my arms to hug her mom as she passed me. They looked so similar. At first, I was confused as to who was mom--the family friend, or her.

I regret not going with instincts-they could've passed for twins.

The lawyer and translator send us out into the hallway for case details and next steps.

I almost couldn't believe we were allowed in this conversation. Myself, and two of Ruby's friends, (Nati, one who came later), stood very still, and breathing softly.

Her parents were whisped to the back for more deliberating on the case.

We re-entered the courtroom.

A hush of more silence ensued.

We all shuffled back on the same long bench we were at earlier. This time, I was the last in the row with barely any room to sit. No one wanted to say anything about moving down some, so I was literally sitting at the edge of my seat in the natural and supernatural. This discomfort added to the intensity of the suspension of disbelief.

Then, unbeknownst to us, they called the offender out-the one who took Ruby's life.

Young male, Latino. First name Edwin. No more than 21 years old.

Like a chorus that enters in unison, Ruby's two friends and I immediately begin sobbing. Earlier, I stuffed toilet paper in my purse from the bathroom, anticipating this moment.

I whipped my hands over their already clasped hands and put some pressure of presence, of love, of comfort. We each hiccuped cries of angst as tears slid down soft cheeks of despair.

I built the courage to steal a glimpse at Ruby's mom. She seemed motionless, frozen in time, paralyzed with a mother's grief that NO ONE can understand less you lived it. I lean back in reverence, pressing my back against the hardwood that held us.

We all leaned forward as the lawyers began to discuss. The judge seemed irritated. They weren't ready for the sentencing. Postponed till June, we all looked at each other in disbelief. Justice not denied, but deferred.

Yet in the end, who really wins? Both moms lose; his mom and Ruby's. Crestfallen, I deflate in that revelation that baffled me.

Releasing my hand from over theirs, I pull out my wad of tissue and begin passing it out. It was passed down like communion bread to our whole row of Ruby's friends and family, and one teacher who dared to add herself to the equation. I'm sure even Ruby herself wouldn't have seen that coming. Neither did I, really. Yet, I was there, and I consciously calculated that I was supposed to be for reasons bigger than myself. And for these specific life occurrences, I'm NEVER wrong. I'm wrong about a lot, but the stuff of destiny, of heaven's assignment, I'm spot fucking on. I'm spot on. I digress.

SENTENCING POSTPONED.

We are all called out again. And literally all over again, I can't believe I'm added into this huddle with her lawyer and translator. So indicative of this layer of my call. I'm called into the huddle, I'm proximate to the issues, and I'm involved now. I can't unsee it, and trust me I don't plan to.

My heart is beating loud and fast in my chest cavity as we enter the elevator. With court documents under her arm in an accordion folder, she glides into the elevator with Ruby's dad and family friend. Myself and Ruby's friends follow them in. An awkward tension fills the box frame as we descend.

Listen, when I tell you that I've been longing to talk to Ruby's mom in person for a minute, that is not an understatement. The desire was real. I mean, I had already written an Op-Ed for the Chicago Tribune on my experience when I first heard the news of Ruby's death. The lived narration of my reaction has since resounded in conference spaces, webinar zooms, and stages across waters and borders.

When the bell sounded and the elevator doors erupted open, I knew I had a thin window, and there was my chance.

With a tenacity I didn't even see coming, I pull her arm gently and ask her to pause with me without words.

I emptied myself before her and told her everything I wanted to tell her.

How Ruby was a poet.

I was her writing lab instructor.

She was so talkative and bubbly and kind and funny.

She brought in kids who needed help, always thinking of others.

She was a strong writer, and asked her if she knew that.

That I've since shared my story with Ruby because I have access to power spaces.

I asked for permission in Spanish.

"Quisiera abrir un fondo de becas en honor a Ruby. Una de las últimas cosas que ella intentó fue continuar con su educación, a su manera. ¿Me dan su permiso?"

Transation: "I want to open a scholarship fund in Ruby's name. One of the last things she tried to do was pursue her education in her own way. Do I have your permission?"

Tears coursed her face and slid down her neck. Her dad, wiping his away but couldn't keep up with their downfall.

"Pues, si maestra." Of course dear teacher.

Something came over me. I then led onto say in Spanish:

"Me aseguraré de que el nombre de Ruby sea recordado. Estoy en muchos espacios de poder. Conocerán su nombre. No olvidaré su nombre ni su historia. Ella importaba, tenía valor, tenía dignidad. Es el honor más grande de mi vida llevar estas historias conmigo."

Translation: I will make sure Ruby's name is remembered. I'm in a lot of spaces of power. They will know her name. I will not forget her name or her story. She mattered, she had value, had worth. It is the honor of my life to carry these stories. 

We instantly hugged, I felt her heart banging wildly through her pink blazer and over my shirt that had her baby’s name draped across. From a mother to another, I let her melt in my arms of comfort. We sobbed together, it was a holy moment for certain.

More words were exchanged, but for now, know they were beyond this world for me. I still need more time to process the weight of them.

THEY ARE INDEED A SUMMONS.

Next stop was my old stomping ground, Latino Youth High School down the street. My room number 214 was paid a visit where the madness and magic began. My former students would come from 26th and California County Jail where we just were after being locked up the night before. They'd show up pink slip in hand smelling like jail, and I'd gladly take them. Room 214 would turn to a nonprofit that I co-led for many years in the name of education equity. There my whole journey began as more than just a teacher, combatting school to prison pipeline, confronted with gang and gun violence--where the anointing and call took place. My memories and sensation of pure serendipity yanked me by the shirt that had Ruby's face on it, no less.

Last stop was the cemetary. Help me Lord. Sitting next to her grave, I said something along the lines of, "Hey Ruby girl, it's Mrs. G. Imma continue to lift your story, to advocate for this. I miss you baby girl, I miss you." Davi and I exchanged stories of Ruby next to her rested frame. We laughed and cried and sat together in the afternoon overcast. Then, we just sat in the quiet buzz and hums of the afternoon breeze.

I've been looking for butterflies lately, training my brain to see them as a reminder of goodness, of hope, and of destiny. When I tell you her grave was covered in butterflies would you believe me? You really can't make this up.

From the classroom to the courtroom, I sat behind Ruby's killer. Then I sat at her grave.

Next, I will sit next to change, to progress, to hope, to truth, to justice.

Watch me...