Dead kids never make sense

Too many kids are dead, and I'm sick of feeling that there's not one goddamn thing I can do about it. I've been told the Creator has a reason for everything, but lately I've questioned that. Why are our kids dying, killing each other, and killing themselves?

A chubby-cheeked 14-year-old named Rodger Ledger was killed in Winnipeg in a fatal game of Russian roulette, when he and his friends spun around an empty lot in a stolen car and tossed a shovel into the window as it passed by. Ledger was hit, and we're told, killed instantly. No pain, right?
Wrong.

Curiosity led me to the muddy lot where Ledger died, like a rubbernecker at a car accident on the highway. As I neared the Selkirk Ave. lot, a trio of kids brushed by me, a six-pack of empties in hand. The littlest one, about seven, was dragging on a cigarette like a champ. What the hell? Before I could rustle up an indignant word to say, they were gone.

I've been studying journalism, and writing about Ledger seemed like a natural for a class assignment. Camera in hand, this North end chick was ready for business.
I walked through the lot, over to a makeshift memorial made of bricks, flower crosses, candles, and a broken car mirror. An old aboriginal woman came over with two young kids in tow. She asked me a question in Cree, which I didn't understand. She asked in English, 'Did you know him?' and pointed at Ledger's obituary picture that was taped to the shrine.

"No," I told her, slightly ashamed. The old woman paid her respects, said a few words to her grandchildren, then left. Brilliant woman. I began taking pictures when a group of teen girls also came over to the memorial. This time it was my turn to ask if they knew Ledger.

The girls were close friends of his, and began talking about the last time they saw him. Bells went off in my head. A journalists' wet dream, right? But the camera went down, and I didn't bother to write any of it in my notepad. Screw it.

Some journalism teachers might've given me an F if I'd been assigned this story, but I really didn't care about 'the story' any longer. As the girls kept talking, Rodger wasn't just a headline, and I now had an inkling of what he was like. As a shared silence overtook us all, I realized I wasn't there as a reporter; I was there to grieve, just like them. For the next while I just hung out, soaked up the spring sunshine and quietly observed a handful of others who passed through to say goodbye.

Chalk it up to a sensitive nature, but I got all teary staring at a little toy car that rested on the memorial. The damn kid was just a baby.

I used to want to be a journalist because I foolishly believed I could change the world with words. The reality: feeling like I've told a story well is enough of a success. Maybe Rodger didn't see other options in life because the bad ones were so numerous, and encompassing. Every day, every hour.

I grew up in Winnipeg's North end too, but I was lucky.

Rodger wasn't perfect, but he didn't deserve to die. Just remember, Rodger's death isn't senseless if you don't make the same mistakes he and his friends did.
There, that's it.