COVER -> American Dreams
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Billy played in a band I started as part of a summer youth project called the 'Musicians' Lab.' All the kids in the program were talented and ached for an opportunity to play music on instruments that were too expensive for them, their families, or the schools to buy.
He named his axe "Margaret Ray" after his dead grandma and me. He said she and I were the only people who ever "gave a rat's ass" about him. I turned him onto Muddy Waters and he took off. He played music with the same passionate tenacity as with which he infused the rest of his short and tragic life.
Billy lived up to his moniker. Kind and pleasant, his quirky good humor made practice sessions less tedious. He worked hard. He lead by example and the other kids were motivated to follow . . . truly, he was a joy.
Billy left his abusive family. His desire to survive and growİwas so strong that, rather than be a victim and allow himself to be exploited, he chose to be a "street brat". For awhile, until her death, he stayed with his grandmother. However, since shortly after he turned fourteen, he had lived alone.
Billy wasn't a big guy; what he lacked in stature, he made up for with style and savvy. He used his intelligence, wit, and common sense to make the best hand out of a bad deal. How he managed to go to school, work, and take care of himself is a story of coping and ingenuity that rivaled any ever told.
It's still small, but in 1978, the central Ohio town where Billy lived was even smaller. Then, as now, people in rural communities watch out for one another. All the regular cops liked Billy and were aware of his situation. When the weather turned nasty, the graveyard shiftguys would let him ride with them. He could stay warm and sleep through the night on the backseat of their cruiser.
However, just before midnight in early November, two rookies - new to the beat - arrested him for curfew violation. He was just hanging out - sitting on the same bench as in this picture taken the summer before.
Because he couldn't produce any ID or tell them where he lived, an observer said that one officer held him while the other cuffed him. They threw him in the squad car and then drove him to the County Jail where he was placed in general lock-up.
Note: Until the early 1980's, before changes were made to Ohio's juvenile justice code, youthful offenders were housed in the same facility as adult inmates - some think they should be still - supporters of this policy call it "Tough Love."
As soon as Billy was taken into custody, the on-duty officer told meİlater, he asked that I be called. But, according to the dispatcher's log and my silent telephone, they didn't make that call until 4:27 a.m.
When I arrived at the jail it was 5:10 a.m. and Billy was already dead.
After he had been beaten andİraped by one or more of the three white, adult men also in the holding cell, sometime between 3 and 5 a.m., he hung himself (or, was hung) with his Cleveland Browns sweatshirt. Suicide or murder, the coroner's inquest came back ... inconclusive.
The facts remain: no one tried to stop him, no oneİcalled for help.
My Billy Boy died because of violence, hate, and apathy! He was just seventeen.
To this very day, when I reflect on his last moments of fear, pain, and sorrow, my heart breaks anew.
- Did he think I didn't come to his aid because my sleep was more important than his plight?
- Did he think he'd been abandoned?
- Did he think no one cared?
Contrary to the adage, the longer I live the more things seem to worsen. Hatred, divisiveness, exploitation, evil - have they escalated? In the past, I argued that the increase in abhorrent behavior was just a logistical reflection of population increase and media emphasis. Don't worry, it's a numbers game, the world isn't really crazier - it just feels that way.
I've since changed my stance. Major social revision is long overdue.
It's been twenty-two years since Billy's death. Had he lived, he'd be forty-one.
I know that, given even half a chance, he'd have grown up to be a great man. This year, the anniversary of his death falls on November 7, our National General Election Day. When you vote, and I hope you do, as you stand in that booth with the curtains drawn, alone with your conscience . . . remember Billy. Do what you know to be right. --- I know I will.