The Arms of an Angel

Remembering Robert Pierson.


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Published: Apr 18, 2007

The television mounted above the bar was airing a slide show of shiver-inducing images that will forever be linked to the day that brought us — for the time being — America's deadliest shooting spree. It took little time to realize the gunman wrought twice as much hell than Charles Whitman did from an Austin, Texas, watchtower, and left 19 more bullet-riddled corpses behind than a pair of lonely, deranged punks scattered throughout the halls of Columbine High.

But as coverage shifted toward placating America's inevitable need to assess blame — as if it's impossible for such horrible things to happen without someone besides the killer bearing responsibility — the attention of those in the bar already drifted up the block.

While 4/16 may enter the collective lexicon as the day of the "Massacre at Virginia Tech," the candles, balloons and dozens of teens gathering at the corner of 27th and Parrish streets weren't there to mourn a tragic loss 400 miles away. They were there to commemorate the anniversary of the violent death of one of their own, which, to them, was even more life-altering.

One year ago this past Monday, Robert Pierson, a popular 17-year-old from Fairmount, died in the hospital where he bravely battled for his life for several weeks after being shot at that intersection. (In short, a neighborhood dispute, perhaps spurred by a mugging attempt, turned deadly when local kids set out to protect their turf against peers who, tragically, were packing more than fists.) But even Robert didn't have enough strength to bounce back after a bullet, allegedly fired by a 16-year-old kid who lived a long mile away in North Philly, tore through his throat and lodged near his spine.

So for everybody there, 4/16 is and will always be about Robert, the 104th homicide of 2006. Considering that Philly has since seen 416 more homicides, this was an all-too- familiar scene on a citywide level, but not in Fairmount, which doesn't have many dots on those Inky murder-scene maps.

Perhaps that helps explain why the kids (both white and black), relatives and neighbors gathered didn't quite know what they were supposed to do in such a situation. Sure, they were united by tragedy, but as an ominous sky threatened to hurl another round of nor'easter at them, they milled about the corner talking, laughing and taking comfort in numbers. They handed out long white candles and punched holes in the bottom of the Styrofoam cups that, in theory, would stop the wax from dripping. As the wind kicked up and spat out a sporadic drizzle, they did all this to remember a friend, son, grandson, nephew and brother that was.

With candle and cup in hand, I talked about life and death with Robert's father and grandfather — having lived at 26th and Parrish for five years, I knew Robert in passing, and having written about his murder last year, I got to know the family — and came to a realization. Short of exiling the NRA's squirrely little minions to Elba and allowing Philly to make its own gun laws, putting these gatherings in more people's faces may be the only way to actually make a dent in this mess. This, I consider to be the case, even though Mayor Street took the news out of Blacksburg as opportunity to make the point that, "Gun violence knows no geographic boundaries. ... It's not just a city problem. This year 30,000 Americans will be killed — not by terrorists or the Iraq war — but as a result of an epidemic of gun violence in our nation." (He also urged everybody to work together. Problem solved.)

Ignoring, if we can, that true leaders take action to protect their house rather than pawning it off as everybody's problem, what's striking about these memorials is how they're among few violence-related events that are not about stats. They're about the faces, the lost futures, the people left behind. And by connecting with the violence on that level, a new, much-needed sense of urgency could take over this city. (As in, if you get a chance, go to one of these — even if you don't know the victim.)

When night started to fall, some 100 people crammed onto the southwest corner, diagonal from where, one year earlier, a police officer screamed at a dying boy "that he had to fight," before speeding him off to the hospital in a cruiser rather than wait for an ambulance. ("This," the officer later explained, "will really stay with me." And on Tuesday, he said it has.) The crowd almost spilled far enough into the street to block the northbound buses from which passengers — primarily the African-American women — watched with all-too-knowing expressions.

The chatter ended with a call for a moment of silence. Then someone held up a laptop from which a totally different kind of slide show emanated. Among the heart-wrenching images were pictures of Robert as a baby in a wagon and as a teenager on the pitcher's mound.

Soon, the strains of Sarah McLachlan's "In the Arms of an Angel" would be interrupted by the sobs of mourners who, despite suffering a tragedy that befalls too many Philadelphians, found some comfort here.

It's time for us, as a city, to find a way to do the same.

(hickey@citypaper.net)