About Me.
I am a surviving sibling of gun violence. My brother, Arron Crable, died February 23, 2012, as a result of gun violence. I do not have all of the details of his death, I am not sure it really matters, but what I do know is that he no longer has breath in his body. He was 23 years old when he died, I was 25. Although we grew up in the same household, our lived experiences were very different. For starters, he walked this world as a 6’5, 290 lb. Black man. I, on the other hand, am a much smaller Black woman. When the world saw him, some may have seen fear. When I saw him, I saw a loving, respectful person. The kind of person that showed up to church service a little early to help the elderly off of the church van, the person who loved Christmas and made it a point to get the decorations up the weekend after Thanksgiving. He also would sign my gifts from celebrities - any given Christmas I would receive gifts from Beyoncé, Bruno Mars, President Obama, and the list goes on. The person who would drive me anywhere, at any time of day without advance notice (I did not get my license until later in life). My memories of Arron contain an endless amount of positive encounters.
I was living in Chicago at the time when I woke up one Saturday morning to missed calls in the double digits with somber yet calm voicemails from my parents stating that it was urgent and that I needed to call them back. It was then, I heard my mother say, “It is Arron, he is gone.” She explained a little more, but I had heard enough and started to tune her out as I began to process what she was telling me. The saying “you never know how much you love someone until they're gone” rang true. I was broken and no longer whole. Although he was my younger brother, Arron had always been my protector, calm presence, and comedic relief. He was gone, now what? I always say God works in mysterious ways - the weekend before he passed away, I “randomly” made a trip home to visit. Aside from my dad who dropped me off at the airport, Arron was the last person I saw that weekend. He gave me a big bear hug, and told me how much he loved me. The feeling was mutual, and I told him too. I will forever be grateful that those were our last words to each other.
I moved back home to Pennsylvania at the end of the summer of 2012 and started to plant roots. I started my dream job in advertising, I was dating an amazing person and everything I had worked for started to fall into place. However, I remained partially empty as I was back home and all was well, but yet there was something so large missing. When someone passes away due to gun violence, it feels different - to put it into words as best as I can, it is heinous, abrupt, and gut-wrenching. It can leave you lost and isolated, especially since that is not the type of real topic of conversation people can tolerate. I would find myself at the grocery store, work, riding in my car, wherever, and get reminders of Arron and immediately start crying. It is an indescribable pain that never really goes away.
Fast forward to a few years later. When you lose someone to gun violence, the funeral, and burial services are step 1, step 2 is dealing with the legal aftermath of who did it, and their consequence. All while trying to process this new reality. You are forced to relive the trauma over and over again. During the court proceedings, after the judge sentences the assailant, they let someone from the family make a public address. My Dad, who I would not consider a public speaker, made the most profound speech I have ever heard. He stood in front of the judge, officials, and the assailant and proceeded to address the audience. He began to explain his family tree, that he and his brother had daughters, and his sister has a mentally challenged son. Arron, from my father's vantage point, was the only mentally able male to carry on the Crable lineage. And this person, regardless of motive, simply destroyed an entire family.
Arron’s memory forever lives on in my heart.
