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[This I Believe] 【整理】2016-05-16&05-23 记得为死去的孩子献花

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[This I Believe] 【整理】2016-05-16&05-23 记得为死去的孩子献花

本帖最后由 qingchengshan 于 2016-6-8 11:50 编辑 “我的信念”是美国国家公共广播电台节目,每期会邀请来自各行各业、不同阶层的人士朗读自己的文章,围绕这个题目讲述个人经历和人生信念。在这里听一个平凡的美国人用自己的声音讲述他们的故事,从这里里发现、理解和相信自己成功的原因。大多的故事来自于美国人,但是对美好生活的追求和对幸福的期许,没有国界。

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Remembering All The Boys


Elvia Bautista was devastated when her brother was killed in a gang shooting. Now, she believes in remembering all the victims of gang violence even when doing so may endanger her own safety.


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I believe that everyone deserves flowers on their grave.

 

When I go to the cemetery to visit my brother, it makes me sad to see graves — just the cold stones — and no flowers on them.

 

They look lonely, like nobody loves them. I believe this is the worst thing in the world — that loneliness. No one to visit you and brush off the dust from your name and cover you with color. A grave without any flowers looks like the person has been forgotten. And then what was the point of even living — to be forgotten?

 

Almost every day my brother’s grave has something new on it: Flowers from me, or candles from the Dollar Store or an image of the Virgin Maria or shot glasses. There’s even some little Homies, these little toys that look like gangsters.

 

Once my brother’s homies even put a bunch of marijuana on there for him — I think my mother took it away. I think she also took away the blue rag someone put there for him one day.

 

Sometimes, when I bring flowers, I fix the flowers on the graves around my brother’s grave. Some of the headstones have birthdates near my brother’s; they are young, too. But many of them, if they have any little toys or things on them, those are red.

 

All around my brother are boys who grew up to like red, making them the enemies of my brother. My brother was 16 when he was shot by someone who liked red, who killed him because he liked blue. And when I go to the cemetery I put flowers on the graves of the boys who liked red, too.

 

Sometimes I go to the cemetery with one of my best friends, who had a crush on a boy who liked red, who was killed at 18 by someone who liked blue. And we will go together and bring a big bunch of flowers, enough for both of these boys whose families are actually even from the same state in Mexico.

 

There is no one but me and a few of my friends who go to both graves. Some people think it’s a bad idea. Some people think it’s heroic.

 

I think they’re both being siI believe that everyone deserves flowers on their grave.

 

When I go to the cemetery to visit my brother, it makes me sad to see graves — just the cold stones — and no flowers on them.

 

They look lonely, like nobody loves them. I believe this is the worst thing in the world — that loneliness. No one to visit you and brush off the dust from your name and cover you with color. A grave without any flowers looks like the person has been forgotten. And then what was the point of even living — to be forgotten?

 

Almost every day my brother’s grave has something new on it: Flowers from me, or candles from the Dollar Store or an image of the Virgin Maria or shot glasses. There’s even some little Homies, these little toys that look like gangsters.

 

Once my brother’s homies even put a bunch of marijuana on there for him — I think my mother took it away. I think she also took away the blue rag someone put there for him one day.

 

Sometimes, when I bring flowers, I fix the flowers on the graves around my brother’s grave. Some of the headstones have birthdates near my brother’s; they are young, too. But many of them, if they have any little toys or things on them, those are red.

 

All around my brother are boys who grew up to like red, making them the enemies of my brother. My brother was 16 when he was shot by someone who liked red, who killed him because he liked blue. And when I go to the cemetery I put flowers on the graves of the boys who liked red, too.

 

Sometimes I go to the cemetery with one of my best friends, who had a crush on a boy who liked red, who was killed at 18 by someone who liked blue. And we will go together and bring a big bunch of flowers, enough for both of these boys whose families are actually even from the same state in Mexico.

 

There is no one but me and a few of my friends who go to both graves. Some people think it’s a bad idea. Some people think it’s heroic.

 

I think they’re both being silly. I don’t go to try and disrespect some special rules or stop any kind of war. I go because I believe that no matter where you came from or what you believed in, when you die, you want flowers on your grave and people who visit you and remember you that way.

 

I’m not any kind of traitor or any kind of hero. I am the sister of Rogelio Bautista, and I say his name so you will hear it and be one more person that remembers him. I want everyone to remember all the boys, red and blue, in my cemetery. When we remember, we put flowers on their graves.lly. I don’t go to try and disrespect some special rules or stop any kind of war. I go because I believe that no matter where you came from or what you believed in, when you die, you want flowers on your grave and people who visit you and remember you that way.

 

I’m not any kind of traitor or any kind of hero. I am the sister of Rogelio Bautista, and I say his name so you will hear it and be one more person that remembers him. I want everyone to remember all the boys, red and blue, in my cemetery. When we remember, we put flowers on their graves.

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Homework

"Beliefs are choices, and those choices are never more vivid than in times of crisis. " A year and a half before she wrote this essay, Elvia Bautista’s 16-year-old brother was killed by a single bullet to the head in gang violence. As someone tied directly to gang culture herself, Elvia had a choice to follow a customary belief and revenge would find another way to make meaning from her loss.

“I believe that everyone deserves flowers on their grave. When I go to cemetery to visit my brother, it makes me sad to see graves just a cold stone and no flowers on them. They look lonely like nobody loves them. I believe this is the worst thing in the world, that loneliness, no one to visit you and brush off the dust from your name and cover you with colour. A grave without any flowers looks like the person has been forgotten. And then what was the point of even living to be forgotten? Almost everyday, my brother’s grave has something new on it, flowers from me, or candles from the Dollar Store, or an image of xx Maria, or xx glasses. There’s even some little homies. These little toys look like gangsters. Once my brother’s homies even put a bunch of marijuana on there for him. I think my mother took it away. I think she also took away the blue rag someone put there for him one day. Sometimes when I bring  flowers, I fix the flowers on the graves around my brother’s grave. Some other headstones have birth dates near my brother’s. They’re young too. But many of them, if they have any little toy or things on them, those are red. All around my brother are boys who grew up to like red, making them the enemy of my brother. My brother was 16 when he was shot by someone who liked red, who killed him because he liked blue. When I go to cemetery, I put flowers on the graves of those boys who liked red too. Sometimes, I go to the cemetery with one of my best friends who had a crush on a boy who liked red, who was killed at 18 by someone who liked blue. And we will go together and bring a big bunch of flowers enough for both of these boys whose families are actually even from the same state in Mexico. There’s no one but me and a few of my friends who go to both graves. Some people think it’s bad. Some people think it’s heroic. I think they’re both being silly. I don’t go to try and disrespect some special rule or stop any kind of war. I go because I believe that no matter where you come from or what you are believing, when you die you want flowers on your grave and people to visit you and remember you that way. I am not any kind of traitor or any kind of hero. I’m the sister of xx Bautista. And I say his name so you will hear it and be one more person that remembers him. I want everyone to remember all the boys, red and blue, in my cemetery. When we remember, we put flowers on their graves.”

Elvia Bautista of Santa Rose in California with her essay For This I Believe. Bautista is a care giver for the elderly and the mentally handicapped and has been working with a radio group called “Boys of Youth”. Her family moved away after her brother’s murder but she remained. And now she makes presentations to members of both the red and blue gangs. She takes her 3-year-old daughter Crystal because she says she melt the toughness.
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