If ever I felt as though what I have to say is like a broken record in my column, writing about violence definitely fits that bill. Each week for the past several months, it seems there has been a story in this community in this paper that makes my heart break a little more and my stomach clench while writing. And, not every story of violence has made it into print here, but there’s been even more each time we turn on the evening news.

A 22-year-old, a kid in my mind, was charged with carelessly pulling out a gun and killing an off-duty Lee’s Summit police officer in the middle of a crowded Westport hangout. A sixth suspect, 19-year-old Ketrail Collins (another kid) was charged in the beating of a Domino’s Pizza delivery man.

In Grandview, just on Monday of this week, two separate violent acts occurred. Outside an apartment in the 11900 block of Newton Ave., a disturbance resulted in a 33-year-old man being punched and taken to the ground by a 31-year-old man, and then he was stabbed by a 25-year-old woman. There was also a shooting in the 6100 block of 126 Street, where a 19-year-old man and a 39-year-old woman were injured and taken to an area hospital with non-life threatening injuries. Grandview detectives are in the process of investigating both crimes.

I could go on. There are plenty more, but I only have so much space to fill. A few weeks ago, I received a phone call from a reader who, it seemed, almost demanded a plan of action from me. “You report on the violence, but you don’t offer a solution. I’d like to see something done about this,” she said.

I’m not sure I’m the right person to come up with a solution. Sure, I have some ideas of things that could help, like better mentors for our young people, parents who step up and teach their children right from wrong, harsher punishments for violent crimes, mental health awareness and programs to help those suffering from mental disorders, funding for rehabilitation efforts, and so on, but I’m only one person. I can’t be the one responsible for an answer to the violence problem, and, as a member of the media, I’m certainly not at fault for reporting the news, as some would like to believe.

It’s going to take more than me. It’s going to have to be a community effort. Neighbors helping neighbors. Until we can work together, I’m afraid it will get worse before it gets any better.

I think that when all of us die, we’d like to be remembered for the good things we accomplished in life. We want people to fondly recall memories that include us. We want our loved ones to think of us, but we also want them to carry on with their lives without forgetting us. When our names are spoken, I think we’d all like for a smile to cross someone’s face, even if only briefly.

Each year, on September 11, I take a few moments to listen to the names. 2,977 names. Each one someone’s son or daughter, sister or brother, mother or father, or husband or wife. Each name with a story, a lifetime of accomplishments, heartaches, struggles, laughs and successes to tell. Every year, when I listen to the names, I can’t help but wonder who the person was behind the name. What did they look like? What made them unique? What difference did they make in the world? Who was their family and where did they come from? Their stories, I am sure, live on through their loved ones.

That fateful day back in 2001, I was in my freshman year of college in Maryville. I remember hearing a lot of commotion outside of my dorm room, and then my roommate, Melissa, turned on the television shortly before the second plane hit. It was as if I was watching a movie. It didn’t seem real.
Unfortunately, reality quickly set in, and I watched with the rest of the world in horror as the buildings collapsed. I began to see people jumping, people bleeding, people dying. And I was horrified.

I wanted to talk to my family, to know that I wasn’t alone in seeing what was unfolding before me. I tried calling my mom, who was in her classroom teaching back in Grandview. She wasn’t available. I tried calling my dad, who was already a few hours into his workday in Topeka. I left him a message. I then called my grandma Mary Ann, whom I knew would be home.

Grandma’s calm voice and optimistic spirit were exactly what I needed to hear. Far from home, she made me feel warm and sheltered. She assured me that, despite what was happening in the country around us, we were okay. Our family was going to be okay. My brother, who was in the Marines, would also be okay.

After 9/11, our country saw tremendous pride and brotherhood. It was humbling to see all of us come together. On September 11, 2001, it didn’t matter if you were black, white, purple or green, we all hurt together. And afterward, we forged on as one. United, in our differences and in our love for our country, we stood together.

My family was fortunate. I didn’t know anyone personally who lost their life on September 11, although the stories of those who did are not any less meaningful to me. 2,977 lives ended that day, but their stories are still being told. I eventually got ahold of my parents on September 11, after classes were canceled and I could do nothing besides watch the news. I will never forget where I was, how I felt and the way it changed me.

I think we all were impacted by September 11, whether directly or indirectly. We will always remember. We will never forget.