By John W. Fountain
Hollow
eyes stare into space. Mournful cries yearn for grace. And yet, little
brown boys with baby faces, and little brown girls with curls and lace frolic on
some golden, sun-drenched days. Jump rope with joy and laughter ablaze. Rough-house
in vacant lots—play all day—while some stand afar gazing and still see: No
children here.
And
children's dreams here are no less than the dreams of children anywhere—everywhere—even
when muted by suffocating despair, by the nocturnal spray of gunfire piercing the
air. That sometimes rouses them from their beds—recurring nightmare, living
dread.
But there
are children here. Even if some, even here, have said in haste—amid the waste of
human hate, of murderous tides and hope-drained lakes, and snow-capped dreams
that now lie forever frozen by icy fates—that there are no children here.
Tyesa.
Dantrell. Rashonda. Diamond and Tionda.
Derrion
Albert. Blair Holt. By the thousands. Too many to know.

There are
children here. Pigtails and ponytails. Bubble gum and ice cream dreams. Patty
cake. Summer nights. Snowball fights. Trampolines—imagined from musty
mattresses, like quilts sewn from useless patches, and by imagination, raptured
into rhapsodies and tapestries that form the substance of children's dreams.
There are children here.
Are their
faces too dark for the world to care? Their eyes too deeply brown to see within
their stare the glare of humanity that glistens like the constellations, even
in a world darkened by cold depravity? Is their world too impoverished and
bare? Their lives lived too distant from mainstream fare?
Who is it
that hears their cries? Or who dissects the lies that hold them prisoner on these
hyper-segregated isles of urban guile—that gnaw at their souls, conspire to
steal their smiles. All the while, some convince themselves that there are no
children here.
For they
have seen too much, some say. Heard too much to still play—as children do. Ingested
too much hate to love as children do—to still be considered as children too.
Innocence
lost—so great a cost. And yet, the greater loss: To be written off. To be
rendered invisible, even though clear as frost.
There are
children here.
I see them:
Kissing the light of a summer’s day. A double-dutch jump rope slapping the
sidewalk at play. The dull ringing of a basketball on the ground. A cacophony
of laughter, joy, sound—even in a world where so much heartache abounds. Can you see
them? There are
children here.