For my whole life, the story our family told about our great uncle’s death was that it was from a car crash. He was 21, a UC Berkeley engineering student at the time. When we’d go to great-grandma’s house, his room was untouched from the year he died. His textbook was still open on his desk; a model airplane sat unfinished beside it. It wasn’t until I was in my 20s that my mom told me what the rest of my family refused to confront. Police killed my great uncle while he was robbing a liquor store to support his heroin habit. This was in the 1960s, decades before I was born, but the family is still too ashamed or in too much denial about it. It makes me wonder what else this family is hiding.
I Saw You is an anonymous “man on the street” column. Email your rants and raves about co-workers or any badly behaving citizens to [email protected], or send to 380 S. First St, San Jose, 95113. Submissions should stick to about 100 words.
