Speaking into the silence after a double tragedy

By Louise Reid Ritchie

It’s the silence that haunts me. When I think of Shundavian Marquis Brooks, the 20-year-old man who police say shot to death last month his roommate and longtime friend, and then, hours later turned his gun on himself, that’s what I keep returning to. The silence is about him, a young man upon whom his parents may have bestowed optimistically a unique name to make him stand out in the world. Yet, in this age in which it seems that one can find information about almost anyone on the Internet, I can find nothing about Brooks until Thanksgiving, when he and Nefertiti Williams were found dead in the two-story Killearn house they rented with classmates from their high school in Bradenton.

The Internet has bylined stories by Williams, 20, a college junior who was news editor of The Famuan student newspaper, and it lists her as the president of the Florida A&M chapter of Circle K, the Kiwanis college service organization. It also has her MySpace blog, including pictures from her experiences in the FACES modeling troupe.

About Brooks, though, I can find nothing, no mention of his name, not even on sports team rosters or anyone’s blogs until the grim day that the bodies were found. Later, I read in a newspaper quotes from an administrator at Bradenton’s Southeast High School who warmly remembered Williams as “our African queen” who ran track, was in National Honor Society, held a club presidency, and won school awards. About Brooks, the administrator remembered nothing.

Williams’ friends and professors described her as “a superstar,” “charismatic,” “beautiful,” a hard working, gregarious and inspirational young woman with attitude who obviously was going places. From the day that the deaths were reported, the stories overflowed with information about her. Hundreds turned out at FAMU for the memorial service that students planned for her. It took a while for the media to learn much about Brooks, who initially was erroneously described as a current Tallahassee Community College student. Later, stories quoted friends and family, who said he was laid back, quiet, always smiling, loved his 3-year-old nephew, basketball and cars. Brooks, they said, moved to Tallahassee with his high school friends. He worked, but had recently lost his job. Despite his having financial problems, his friends and family said Brooks didn’t seem depressed. He died days before he would have turned 21.

The anecdote-filled, vibrant picture of Williams that emerged from the stories was of a person who had lived a successful, full life and whom others had viewed with hope. The sketchy picture that emerged of Brooks was that of someone who had yet to blossom.

Still, while Brooks’ accomplishments may seem meager in light of Williams’ and the achievements of many young people in the United States, seen in the light of the African American community, he had experienced much success.

He was in the ranks of the only about 48 percent of African-American males who earn public high school diplomas (By comparison, the Manhattan Institute for Policy Research says that the overall high school graduation rate for the class of 2002 was 70 percent). He was not among the approximately 20 percent of black men in their 20s who are incarcerated. His joblessness was no different than that of about 50 percent of black males who are in their 20s.

So, as had his victim’s life, Brooks’ life, too, had represented a lot of hope – the kind that causes many black males to pump their fists and strut across the stage when they get their high school diplomas while their mothers smile through happy tears. But from what I saw, the stories were silent about this aspect of his life.

The police say that Brooks left no note explaining why he killed his friend and then himself. Because of his final silence, we may never know whether unrequited love, alcohol-induced tomfoolery or an argument caused him to turn his gun on his friend and then himself.

Like his family and friends who wish for some measure of closure, I want to know the whys of those tragic, unnecessary deaths. Still, what I wish even more was that I could have spoken to Shundavian Brooks and stopped him before he took Nefertiti Williams’ vibrant life. And if I couldn’t reach him then, I wish that I could have talked to him during what police say was a several hours-long period before his shot that ended his young life.

I wish that I could have told him about my former mentee, Kofi, who is putting his life back together after serving time for the death of a teen that occurred when Kofi, angry that a friend had been dissed at a party, opened his car trunk allowing his friend to remove a gun and fire at the home where the party was held. I wish that I could have told him about Jarvis Masters, a San Quentin inmate whose book “Finding Freedom” tells about his spiritual growth while doing Zen Buddhist meditation on death row.

I want to tell him about what South African Archbishop Desmond Tutu has said about the southern African philosophy “ubuntu”: “The very source and strength of myself comes because of the very source and strength of you. I am not alone. There is a power greater than my own, a possibility of love that transcends any ability within me. In this understanding, the burden of my flawed humanity and the potential for forgiveness and transformation both have room to dwell.” I wish that I could have told Shundavian Marquis Brooks that his journey didn’t have to end like this.

Louise Reid Ritchie, Ph.D. is a journalist, psychologist and diversity consultant who has assisted with statewide projects involving the academic underachievement of African American males.