Pain, anger passed down

I was falling asleep when I heard some people yelling outside. It sounded distant, so I tried to ignore it. After about a minute the shouting got louder.

My street had been quiet for a long time -- so long that I didn't mention it to anyone in case something bad happened in the neighbourhood just to prove me wrong.

Some nights the police helicopter buzzes overhead, but it's become a familiar, almost endearing sound.

I went to the bedroom window and took a look down the street to see what the noise was all about.

I noticed some kids dressed in black, trickling down the street and shouting. There were about a dozen teenage boys, with a girl or two straggling behind.

The group seemed to be chasing a few other boys. One kid was moving fast; he ran up the stairs of a new infill house, then jumped down. One boy found a shovel -- a weapon -- and another boy ripped a post off a fence.

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A small group of boys had another boy on the ground and it looked like they were kicking him. It was time to call the police -- which I'm sure a few of my neighbours did, too.

I got dressed and ran downstairs to help, if needed. I'm no Good Samaritan trying to jump in the middle of a fight. I've got too much to lose. But I will do some CPR if someone is seriously hurt.

I opened my front door and a kid was right there, running towards my steps. For a second I thought he saw me and was going to run inside my house. Instead he kept sprinting by.

He was being chased by three boys -- one with the shovel. One boy grabbed something off the ground in front of my house and threw it at the boy he was chasing. I could hear their heavy breathing from the chase and see the focus in their eyes.

I just stood there like an idiot, watching. It's like I was frozen there when I realized what I was seeing.

This is the aftermath, running past me in full effect.

All that pain and anger, passed down from generation to generation, take your breath away when you see it played out right in front of you.

There are plenty of good kids in the North End, but it's the lost ones I worry about. There are kids who grow up in war zones right here in Winnipeg.

How many generations is it going to take to get things right again?

The kids continued fighting down the street, so I ran upstairs and looked out the window to keep an eye on everything. The police were on their way.

There was a kid in the middle of the street and he was bent over on his knees, clutching his stomach. He was crying out in pain and sounded like he was really scared.

A boy ran down the street, looked up at me in the half-open window and yelled "North side."

It's where we live -- North side.

The police arrived and everyone scattered, ducking into vacant yards and down other streets. Even the hurt kids got carted off by their friends.

It's tough to sleep after seeing what happened, but eventually sleep comes. It makes me think about wanting to move, which I haven't thought about in a few years.

The next morning a small news blurb said one kid was stabbed but in stable condition. He wasn't talking so he probably knew the kids he was fighting with. Another kid had a broken arm.

I tell this story not to get sympathy for the kids, to anger anyone, or even to make them care. I just want to remember it.

It would be easy enough to move away. Sell the house and find something nice in another area of Winnipeg. Maybe even move out of town. It could have easily been my son hanging out with those kids.

And what could have happened if nobody called the police?

Colleen Simard is a Winnipeg writer.

colleen.simard@gmail.com

Republished from the Winnipeg Free Press print edition December 24, 2011 I1