Children, with guns, in your city

He came home from the movies around midnight; he’d seen some stupid mutant turtles thing, and he hadn’t liked it much.

He noticed the aftermath of a birthday party in the darkness of the common courtyard.

He said, “I came inside. My mum said, ‘I thought I told you to take out the garbage.’ ” That’s what good mums always say. He said, “I’ll go do it now.” That’s what good kids always do.

He is bright, well-mannered, handsome and thoughtful, a high school student. He said, “I took the trash, I threw it out. I was walking back, sort of looking at the ground. A red beam hit my chest.” A red beam hit his chest? “I thought it was my two friends trying to play a game.” He hoped it was friends playing games. He hoped that the red dot was from one of those dime-store laser pointer things.

“I was about to run. I stopped. I stood still.” He saw two figures approach from out of the night; not his friends. “They had blue bandanas over their faces.”

Blue bandanas; Crips colours. He is not a gangbanger, but he lives in a Bloods neighbourhood. And then he saw that one of them had a gun, a real gun with a laser sight; damn, damn, damn.

“The one with the laser gun came up and put the gun in my back. The other one took his gun out of his jacket and put his gun in my stomach. I was scared.” He says this calmly now. “They asked me where I was from. I said I lived here.” Here is in the north end, never mind where. I know most kids with guns don’t read the papers, but maybe they know people who do, and who knows how they might think about what they might read?

“They asked my name. I told them. They were asking for my friend. I said he moved, I don’t know where. I asked if I could leave. They said, ‘No, you’re coming with us.’ ” And they guided him through his neighbourhood in the darkness, steering him with their guns pressed in his back.

“They were asking me where people hang out, where the older guys chill and stuff.”

Not good, not good. “I saw a lady across the way that was trying to get in her house. One of the guys was telling her to get inside. She didn’t take it seriously. She sucked her teeth. “The wilder one ran up to her but the other one said, ‘We didn’t come here for that.’ ” What happened then? “She ran in her house.” This housing complex is an actual ghetto; from the outside, you wouldn’t know it’s there; from the inside, you are captive and cut off. “We started walking again. We came to an exit. They said I could go. They started walking away. “I saw my neighbour. She was going in that direction to her car. I told her no, there’s guys with weapons there.” The woman did not walk to her car. She came up to him and she heard the story of what had just happened, and she walked him home. She is brave. He said, “I came in and sat down at the table. My mum was upstairs. My neighbour told her what happened.” This story is two weeks old. I heard it in the young man’s living room. His mother, sitting on the couch, is still gripped by the details, awed by the luck, and struck by the danger. What did she do when she heard what had happened to her son? “I ran outside. I don’t know what I thought I was going to do.” She, too, is brave. She came back inside and started crying. She said, “He could have died. He’s not mixed up in those things. He didn’t deserve to feel that fear.” And then she put her finger on what is still a sore spot in some communities: “It’s not like Jane Creba. My son could die and be forgotten — oh, just another black kid, that’s what it would be.” What about housing cops? They are so scarce as to be invisible. His mother said, “If security is scared, imagine how we feel.” She wanted to call the real cops, then and there. Her son said no, because nothing would happen if the real cops came, and the kids with the guns would know who had called. He goes nowhere alone now. “I look behind my back. I have a lot of friends. We walk each other home at night.” This is your Toronto. Joe Fiorito appears Monday, Wednesday and Friday. jfiorito@thestar.ca