How Long Will I Cry? Read Online Free

was just yelling out loud, “We
need your help downstairs. There’s a group of kids outside of our
building fighting.” I came back down to the front desk, and that’s
when I saw the attack on Derrion.
    Almost immediately when I got to the window,
I saw a young man take what looked like a two-by-four—it was a big
piece of wood—and hit someone over the head with a board. And so, I
saw the injured boy fall to the ground and try to get back up, and
another young man came and punched him. They began to kick him, and
the next thing I remember was the second hit with the board. I
turned to my co-worker and said, “They’re gonna kill him.” And
before I knew it, I was outside of the building.
    There were a bunch of co-workers standing
there at the time, and I don’t know how much they saw or didn’t see
of the attack. But later, one of the women who works with me was
like, “We’re not surprised that it was you who ran out there.”
    See, I’ve always just really felt burdened to
give back and work alongside young people who may not have had the
exact experience as I had, but something very similar. I started
out as a statistic with all of the odds against me, so to speak. I
was born to a drug addict. My mother was addicted to heroin, and
just about any drug that was out there, she used. I mean, she was
full-blown out there, and is still struggling today.
    I have a twin brother. My maternal
grandfather took us in when we were born, and we lived with him
until we were about 5 or 6 years old. Then, we relocated in
Southeast D.C. with my mom. She had gone through a recovery
program, and we went to live in public housing with her. And after
about a year or so, my mom did not make it through her recovery—she
became addicted again. And to get away from investigations with the
Department of Children and Family Services, we moved to Harrisburg,
Pennsylvania. She ran off with us with a boyfriend there. And her
addiction did not stop, so eventually my grandparents got us back,
and we moved back to the Washington area. I would say that half of
my life was kind of lived in instability, because I was staying
with a distant family member there, or a distant family member over
here, and then we moved here, and then I was back with my mom here,
and so there was a lot of moving around.
    Chicago was the first place I ever lived
where I didn’t move around a lot. Really, to be honest, Chicago has
been my first home. When I arrived in Roseland, I saw a community
that was hurting. But I also saw people who were willing to do
something about it, people who weren’t accepting things as they
were, people who were saying, “We’ve had enough.”
    So, I don’t know that I felt scared when I
walked out the door to try to help Derrion Albert. I felt like I
was doing what I needed to do. And I did for him what I would have
done for any kid in our neighborhood. And I did for him what I feel
like I would have wanted someone to do for my child if that was my
child out there. So, if there was any fear, the fear was of what
would happen to him, not of what would happen to me.
    It was chaotic out there. I mean, it was kids
running in the street; it was just people everywhere. I don’t
remember seeing very much, because my focus was getting him out of
there. I do remember a black SUV coming through the alley at the
time, and I just kind of waved to the driver and said, “Please, get
out. Help me. Help me get him.” He got out of the car. But I have
no idea who he was or where he went after that—never heard anything
else from him.
    My focus immediately became Derrion. All I
know is I went over to the crowd and I remember saying, “Get away
from him,” you know, “leave him alone.” And I just wrapped my arms
around his chest and picked him up and carried him into the Agape
Center. He felt as light as a feather at the time. I don’t know if
it was adrenaline; I believe it was the Lord that allowed me to
lift him. I lifted him up off the