For what it’s worth, I admired Terrance Roberts. When word of his arrest first broke days ago, my first thought was, “Certainly this couldn’t be Terrance they were talking about.”
Roberts is that one-in-a-million kid who beat the odds, who freed himself from the stranglehold of gang control, who too often stood as one of the only consistent shields between Denver’s urban kids and the tenacious allure of gang seduction.
But it was true. There was Roberts, in a police mug shot, accused of shooting a younger man he had allegedly mentored after a unity rally he helped plan.
Sadly, it was at least the second time in just 14 months that we saw a peaceful gathering nose-dive into violence connected to gang activity. Last summer at City Park, a Denver police officer was killed after she tried to break up gang violence at a concert.
I met Roberts just weeks before that concert, as we prepared for a televised debate on race and our criminal justice system. It had been shortly after 17-year-old Trayvon Martin was shot and killed by George Zimmerman in Florida.
Roberts was one of four respected leaders of the black community to take part in the debate. I was the only white person on that TV stage. I was also the only one who hadn’t been shot myself, or had a young family member lost to gun violence.
Roberts jumped right in with the tough questions. He asked me: “Why don’t more white people care” about the epidemic of black boys being gunned down before adulthood? “Why aren’t more of you coming to the table?”
Perhaps I could have responded in a technical, academic tone. Just 14 percent of the U.S. population is black. It’s an easy but likely true response to note that people relate to each other’s experiences based on similarities. As President Obama noted, he could have been Trayvon once upon a time.
My response that night was likely more crude yet no less true than it is today. Maybe — no, certainly — the reason we almost always stay silent is because our views are too often dismissed as ignorant or bigoted. We can never be on equal footing in a debate or public policy conversation because of the pigment of our skin, with that relentless race card arrogantly dividing us.
Flash forward to today, as friends and colleagues affiliated with Roberts’ Prodigal Son Initiative speculate about what really happened. Some allege that the stress of supposed turmoil within his non-profit was getting to him. There is a consensus that he had legitimately feared for his life, even more than in the past, after death threats arrived at his front door through graffiti tags and bullet-stung windows. Others say he had become paranoid in recent months.
Allegedly, the young man on the other side of his gun had recently rejoined a gang after years spent following Roberts’ inspired path. Regardless of all of it — the motive, the cause, the intent, the remorse, or the defenses — the casualties will only fully be known in time.
Roberts has claimed he acted in self-defense. Maybe the victim first charged at him with a knife. Maybe Roberts cracked. But without a doubt, we are left waiting to see who will fill his shoes. According to his close friend, the Rev. Leon Kelly, Roberts is scared to return to the neighborhood.
We can only hope that the Prodigal Son and his alleged victim can both find peace again. As sirens and bullets continue to plague North Park Hill, a troubled population of kids moves forward without the guidance of one of their most devoted mentors.
For those of us watching from the sidelines, there is a sense of powerlessness.
In the end, and in this somber environment, is it right for a white girl to speak up at a table that seems suddenly all too empty?
