A birthday to remember

Tanya Clark sat at a picnic table in Fairmount Park and stared at the sheet cake in front of her. Her tired brown eyes welled with tears. Her lips quivered.

Her nephew, Jabarr Richards, should have been turning 21.

But he is forever 20. He was shot and killed on Halloween last year outside a corner store in Southwest Philadelphia.

Richards’ death did not make news. The shooting was soon eclipsed by another. And his killing remains unsolved.

This is not unusual for many of the hundreds of mostly young Black men killed every year in Philadelphia: Their deaths are sometimes not publicly acknowledged, their lives unrecognized, and killers often not brought to justice.

Richards’ life and death mirror that of many of the city’s gun violence victims. He was Black and in his 20s. He grew up in and was killed in a neighborhood of depleted resources, shaped by systemic racism and deep poverty. He was raised by his grandmother and aunt, and cycled through the juvenile justice system as a child.

And the pain that his loved ones have faced in the aftermath of his death — their lives diminished, filled with grief they described as “unimaginable” — is similarly felt by thousands of Philadelphia families.

They remember him as a loving brother and protective son, a talented basketball player, a young man with his whole life ahead of him.

And now they are fighting to keep his memory alive, to ensure that he will never be just a statistic, that there is something to learn from how he lived and died.

These are the intimate moments and reflections of a family whose lives were upended by gun violence. Some quotes have been edited for length and clarity.

“Our mother, Agnes Clark, was the matriarch of the family, and she instilled in us the importance of family. She would take in anyone who needed help. At one point, there was 16 people living in our two-bedroom house growing up. And no one complained. Because in the end, all we have is each other.

I’ve tried to do the same for my nieces and nephews. My sister and I raised them. Five boys and four girls. Jabarr was in the middle. But he was like the baby. He was spoiled.”

— Tanya Clark, 65, aunt

“We tried to keep them all together. My daughter’s kids were my kids. They’d spend a month with me on and off. But his parents, his mother, neglected him, and that affected him deeply, maybe more than the others. He harbored anger about that. They needed their mother.”

— Joyce Clark, 64, grandmother

“We were raised in the same house, and even though he was younger, it was like he was my older brother. He was protective, he made sure we were all OK.

When my dad died last year, he told me he’d have my back, that he’d never leave me. The hug he gave me, I can still feel it. I’ll never forget that hug.”

— Ahia Devine, 27, cousin

“You couldn’t eat or watch TV without him picking at you. He’d be playing basketball and come home all sweaty and then rub up on you. I’d be like get outta here, you smell like outside.

If Jabarr was here, he’d be like, ‘Bro, you got me that corny cake for my 21st birthday?’ That’s what I hear in the back of my head.”

— David Richards, 28, older brother

“If he were here today, he’d put on a nice outfit and get a fresh haircut. He’d prolly buy himself some new Air Forces, then spend the night with us or his friends.

He would have laughed at the cake, but he still would have turned that jawn up.”

— Jaheem Clark, 21, older brother

“He was brutally honest. He’d call you on your bluff. I admired that about him.

I’ve been surviving in this city for a long time. Sometimes I think I just gotta be thankful I wasn’t murdered. You see the things in our communities, the beer distributors and corner stores and no community spaces. You realize these things are placed here. We don’t make these conditions.

I knew the people and places Jabarr was around, he was at greater risk. I tried to shield him. I always worried about him.”

— Kenyatta Clark, 39, cousin

“He was the closest person to me. It was like we were together too much.

He had behavioral issues. When he was around 12 he got in trouble and was sent to a juvenile detention center. He spent about four years there. … He felt abandoned. He told me he got beat up by staff members. That some were inappropriate. It didn’t help him at all. He came home angrier. He acted like the same Jabarr, but you could see it in his eyes. …

— Jaheem Clark, 21, older brother

… I just miss him. After he died I lost my drive. I was depressed. I gained weight. Sometimes it’s like I’m having a heart attack.

I think he was shot for being on the wrong block. He wasn’t associated with a gang. I think whoever 53rd Street had beef with, they came to the block and picked him. He got caught where you not supposed to be. I don’t go down there anymore.”

— Jaheem Clark, 21, older brother

“Somebody took him. You can’t not feel angry. Where is our justice? Where is our peace?

I got three boys growing up in this society. I don’t want to live in Philly. I need to make sure my kids have a future.” — Leah Williams, cousin

“Sometimes it feels like no one cares. No one acknowledged his death. And this pain my family feels, it’s not just my family. People feel like nothing will change, but if we all thought like that, nothing will. We have to hold on to hope.

This is what gives me joy, when I look around and see my family. … Sometimes I give out more of me than I should, but God gives me the strength to go on. My faith gives me the strength of Goliath.”

— Tanya Clark, aunt

The family gathered around the table, the blue-and-white cake in the center.

“Happy birthday to you,” they sang.

Tanya Clark looked toward the heavens and placed her hand on her chest, atop the photo of Jabarr. Her knees bounced nervously, and she drew deep breaths between each chorus.

“Love and miss you so much,” she said.

Golden sunlight sparkled through the trees. Jabarr’s loved ones hugged one another. They would draw strength from this moment, from each other. They would honor his memory. And they would always remember him.