From the mouths of mothers

In their own words, seven moms whose children were killed by gun violence share what they’ve lost.

• By Helen Ubiñas
• Published

In the process of telling the stories of mothers whose children were killed by guns, I have shared their words, and added some of my own.

I have worked to amplify their voices, when they were ignored, and when they were lifted together in protest.

I have attended the vigils and the exhibits dedicated to those lost to gun violence. I have described streets stained with blood, neighborhoods filled with memorials.

Look at the painted portraits of the dead. Listen to the reverent whispers about untouched bedrooms belonging to children who will never return.

But, after more than 10 years of chronicling the toll of gun violence in our city a series of images of grieving Philadelphia-area mothers produced by photographer Kathy Shorr touched me in a way I did not expect.

Shorr spent nine months photographing 51 mothers — many of whom I have written about — for a new project, “SHOT: We the Mothers.”

There is an intimacy and resonance in her images that captures their grief in a way that feels simultaneously familiar and haunting.

Like the photo of Kimberly Burrell’s 18-year-old son, Darryl Pray Jr., taken in the morgue after he was shot and killed in 2009. And the photo of a sobbing mother, Movita Johnson-Harrell, clutching the hat of Donté, the second son she lost to gun violence.

Images that, at first glance might appear shocking, intrusive even — if the mothers hadn’t implored the photographer, and us, not to look away.

We’ve long relied on a kind of detached language to try and name the depths of this agony — often leaning into vague words like grief and pain and loss.

But between these photos and the words spoken by the mothers themselves — about not knowing how to keep living, about, often, not wanting to — my hope is that this serves as a jolting reminder of what that grief and pain and loss really look, and feel, like.

And how little we’ve done to help.

Because in the process of telling these stories, of asking so much of these mothers as they tear open their wounds in hopes that their sorrow will spare others, we need to stop and ask ourselves:

Just what — what words, what images, what amount of loss — will it take to shatter our collective sense of apathy?

Latrice Felix, 50

Felix’s son Alan Womack Jr., 28, was killed in Upper Merion Township on Feb. 28, 2020.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe we’re talking about my son not being here. I can’t believe I made it after the first day because I had no idea how I would survive after Feb. 28. It’s hard as hell, but I’m standing.

I get through it because I am intentional. Intentional about having a desire to live, because when I lost Alan, I didn’t want to kill myself, but I didn’t care if I lived or died. If I’m not intentional, I won’t make it through today. I won’t survive this.

I’ve never talked to myself, but these last few years I talk to myself, I encourage myself: “All right, girl, you can do it. Get up, let’s go.”

I created a toolbox, too, of the things that help me, and so I put flashcards in there, things that make me feel good, things that I can think about that encourage me, that build me up, pictures of my son, things that make me happy. And when I need it, I gotta go in that box and pull it out because sometimes I need to remind myself: “Alan is well. You’ll see him again. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, because if you do, you’re gonna have to start all over.”

Lisa Harmon, 58

Harmon’s son Alan Gray, 34, was killed in the Eastwick neighborhood of Philadelphia on Sept. 30, 2018.

My husband heard the shots, my youngest son heard it, everyone heard it but me, the three gunshots. I heard someone screaming my name, so I jumped out of bed. And when I got to the door, I saw him lying there, and then the screams belonged to me: “That’s not my son! That’s not my son!”

You don’t want to believe it when you see it.

I stayed there, talking to him, just telling him to listen to my voice and hold on.

I thought that the doctor had saved him, so when he came out and said my name I thought he was going to say — but, he made it. I was looking for him to say — but. But, he’s paralyzed. But, he won’t have use of his legs. I just waited for the “but” to come, and it didn’t come.

I couldn’t accept the fact that he wasn’t coming back. I know now that I needed more intense therapy, but I didn’t take it. I thought working would be my distraction. I thought that being a good mother, living in an area where there is little to no gun violence, giving them love, would be enough, I prayed it would be. But none of that made him exempt.

Michele Parker, 50

Parker’s son Evan Baylor, 23, was killed in West Philadelphia on June 19, 2021.

He mattered. I need to let people know that Evan’s life mattered. He was an athlete scholar. He had seven scholarships to college. He went to Penn State University.

That’s the kind of child my child was. He was a hard worker in the construction field and was about to open up a food truck. He was a junior deacon at church, like_ ___these are the things that people need to know instead of — he was victim number 257.

This is not fair, it’s not right. My issue is not only with the people who took my son’s life, but with the people who know what happened, and refuse to speak.

I can honestly say that my life has been on autopilot since June 19. I keep myself busy so that I won’t kill myself or kill someone else, and that’s being 100% transparent.

It feels like he’s not gone. I haven’t accepted it. I’m not there yet.

You never ever get over it. You learn to live and navigate your new reality.

He was savagely murdered in front of my house. And that is something that as a woman of faith I really grapple with, and I really talk to God a lot because for a long time I was very angry with God, because I was like, “How could you? How could this happen?”

Patricia Griffin, 78

Griffin’s son Darien Owen Griffin, 33, was killed in North Philadelphia on Dec. 8, 2003.

He would do just about anything in the neighborhood for those who may have been less fortunate than him. At his repast, there was a gentleman who knelt down by my chair and he said, “I want you to know that Darien was a good guy.” Evidently this young man, his sister had died some months earlier, and by him being homeless, living on the street, he didn’t have anything to wear. My son bought him a suit, shirt, tie, underwear, socks, and shoes so he could attend his sister’s funeral. You can imagine what it felt like to hear that.

It’ll be 19 years this December. Sometimes you just break down crying and you have to talk yourself back, almost to coming back and surviving. Eighteen years later seems like today. There is no yesterday, it’s only today.

He had two boys. Jalen was 3 at the time of his death and Darien was 11 at the time of his death. And Darien, the oldest one, who is now 29, I believe, he just had a baby boy. Darien has a grandson that he’ll never see. That makes me cry.

If God didn’t give us tears, I would drown. Grief is a process, it is not an event.

The person who supposedly killed my son, come to find out, that young man had been killed. His mother lost him too. So she’s going through the same thing that I’m going through. I’ve never hated him, just always wanted to know why. Just why.

Movita Johnson-Harrell, 55

Johnson-Harrell’s son Charles, 18, was killed in the Mount Airy section of Philadelphia on Jan. 13, 2011. Her son Donté, 30, was killed while visiting Los Angeles on March 5, 2021.

I’m dealing, I mean I have to, I have four grandchildren that don’t have fathers, so I just keep getting out of bed. That’s it. You just keep getting up.

I don’t have a choice to stay in the fetal position.

I never expected to lose Charles. And to lose Donté, too — I thought it would kill me. Absolutely I thought, “What are the chances that I would lose my last surviving son? God in the universe wouldn’t do that to me. Not all that I’ve given this.” I’ve given this everything.

Helping other people actually helped me. It got me outside of my own grief. It got me outside of my own trauma.

I feared for both of my Black sons from the day they were born. I’ve always feared for my sons. When I was 8 years old, Easter Sunday 1975, my father was shot in the chest with a double-barrel shotgun in front of my family. July 1, 1991, I lost my only brother. He was 28 years old and he was killed over a girl.

So, I’ve always been very hypervigilant about violence, and I’ve always worked really hard to protect my children. I thought, my logic was, “If we could protect the community, then the community would protect my children.”

Margie Dillon, 57

Dillon’s son Ryan, 17, was killed in South Philadelphia on May 25, 2018.

I was the first one at the hospital. They put me in the grief room, and that’s not a good place to go, but I told myself maybe they just ran out of rooms. I seen the priest coming towards me, and screamed, “Please go away! I was brought up Catholic, I don’t want to disrespect you, so please get away from me!”

I’m looking for an answer, because I’ll never have closure, my son’s not here, but I don’t want this person that did this to think that it was OK, that you can get away with doing this.

I lost another son also. That was an accidental overdose. It’ll be two years.

I have two portraits that someone had gifted me after each boy died and I look at them and talk to them every morning. I ask them why they left me, and to help me handle it, to help me get through because I have a year-old grandson now, and I have two granddaughters and a great-grandson. So I ask them to help me be half of the person I was for them.

Evelyn Martinez, 55

Martinez’s daughter Michelle Gonzalez, 19, was killed in the Summerdale section of Philadelphia on Feb. 7, 2011.

The day she died, we were home, relaxing, having a good time. We were playing cards until around midnight. I went to bed, and she stayed up dyeing her hair.

That was the last time I saw her. The next day, the police were knocking on my door.

It’s been hard, it’s been really hard because I don’t know who did this. The person who killed my daughter could pass right by me, and I would never know. Can you imagine that?

I don’t understand so much, like the phone she had, it was mine, but the police never let me have it back, because supposedly there was calls and things they needed. But if they don’t want to give it to me because it’s evidence, then why haven’t they arrested anyone? It’s been 11 years.

It’s hard to relive everything. I don’t like even talking about it sometimes, because there are days when my mind just isn’t in a good place. I’m here but I’m not here, that’s how it feels.

I hope someone sees my photo, I hope they take pity on me and talk because there are people who know who killed her.

I don’t have money. I’m poor. I don’t have anything to give anyone to make them talk. I can only beg them to help me.

Lea la historia de Evelyn Martinez en español

Evelyn Martinez spoke to us in Spanish. Read her story in her language.

La hija de Martinez, Michelle Gonzalez, 19, fue asesinada en la sección de Summerdale en Filadelfia el 7 de febrero del 2011.

El día que la mataron, estábamos en casa, relajadas, pasándola bien. Jugamos a las cartas hasta alrededor de la medianoche. Yo me fui a dormir, y ella se quedó despierta tiñéndose el cabello.

Esa fue la última vez que la vi. Al día siguiente, la policía ya estaba en mi puerta.

Ha sido difícil, muy difícil, porque no sé quién hizo esto. La persona que mató a mi hija podría pasar a mi lado y yo ni cuenta me daría. ¿Puede imaginarse eso?

Yo no entiendo muy bien. Por ejemplo, el teléfono que ella andaba era el mío, pero la policía nunca me lo devolvió porque supuestamente allí habían llamadas y otras cosas que necesitaban. Pero si no me lo quieren entregar porque es evidencia, ¿por qué aún no han arrestado a nadie? Han pasado ya 11 años.

Es difícil revivirlo en mi cabeza. No me gusta hablar sobre esto algunas veces, porque hay días que mi mente no está en un buen lugar. Estoy aquí, pero no estoy aquí. Así me siento.

Espero que alguien vea mi fotografía, espero que tengan empatía y que hablen, porque hay personas allá afuera que saben quién mató a mi hija.

No tengo dinero. Soy pobre, No tengo nada ni a nadie que los haga hablar. Solo puedo rogarles que me ayuden.