"Please don't make me do it. Please don't make me see him covered in dirt." I trembled as I heard Debbie's cries.

Tears flowed down her face as her husband picked her up and carried her to the grave site. Debbie fought with all her heart not to see a casket holding her 17 year-old son Robert laid in the ground.

"You have to do this Debbie, you can do this," her husband said. I watched a mother praying to take her breath and give it to her child. She laid over his casket wanting him to breathe. It was painful.

For months I would see Debbie with a blanket lying on the ground where Robert took his last breath. I watched her go to the murder site and place a little white gate the size of a coffin where his body had lain.

She put photos of Robert’s smiling face all around the memorial and then she laid there sobbing.

A crew would remove her memorial and she'd go back and set it up again until she was told she could no longer set it up.

Debbie told me, "I moved here (to Meadowview from Oak Park) so he would live. I wanted him to be safe. There was too much violence in our old neighborhood". She cried, blaming herself. I held her and told her, "It's not your fault. The violence is everywhere we can afford to live".

I stood where 17 year-old LaMarr was shot and killed. LaMarr's body laid covered in a tarp in the middle of the afternoon.

He was shot and killed in the middle of a busy street. Teenagers walking from a nearby high school gathered and stood sobbing. There were no grief counselors.

In fact, during this time a Harry Potter film was being shown at theaters. I watched the news and saw grief counselors were sent so moviegoers wouldn't be traumatized when a lead fictional character died. I went to the county supervisors time and time again asking, “Where are our grief counselors?"

I never saw grief counselors at the sites where youth were dying -- where real humans laid dead -- gunshot wounds in the chest, back, head, neck.

Streets would fill with friends and families of the victims holding vigils.

At LaMarr's candlelight vigil, I looked over and saw Debbie. I went to hug her and she held me so tight and cried, "I didn't know him. But I had to come. I know how I felt at Robert's vigil and I wanted to support the family."

A mother whose son was murdered goes to the vigil of another murdered child and relives her pain over and over.

We lit a candle and said a prayer. I recall leaving Robert's memorial and going next to one for 18-year-old Shaneel. Shaneel and Robert were shot and killed a day apart.

Two families stood in vigil over the site where their loved ones took their last breath. It never surprised me to see the family of a murder victim in tears, supporting another murder victim’s family.

For a while after Shaneel died, someone in his family would hang a sheet on a pole near where he died. I would see youth standing there at the site. One boy would just stand and talk as if waiting for Shaneel to reply.

I spoke to the family of 19-year-old Derek. His sister held her younger brother as he lay dying in her arms. He looked up at her and his last words embedded in her memory are, "Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me."

She held him with his blood covering her shirt, screaming, “Where are they? Where are the paramedics?”

She cried, "No, Don't you leave me. I told you I won't leave you. Don't you leave me," as he took his last breath. I didn't know Derek. He died and I was two blocks away at another funeral. His family gave me a picture of him with members of his family in appreciation to a stranger who showed them love in the midst of so much pain.

I loved Jack with all my heart. He was a 16-year-old neighborhood youth with a smile like Denzel Washington. I was taking my son to the Folsom Outlets to buy a winter coat and Jack asked to ride along. When we got to the outlet store I pulled my son aside and told him, "I can buy you this one coat which costs a little more or I can buy two jackets, one for you and one for your friend Jack."

My son said, "I'll take the cheaper one. He doesn't have a coat." The boys wore the coats home, looking like twins, with smiles as radiant as can be.

I began writing of all the deaths. Jack smiled every time he came to the house and saw me busy at work. He said, "You are going to show me, aren't you?"

On March 11, Jack came to the house saying Dontehad been shot and killed that afternoon in an apartment complexthat was supposed to have a police substation.

The following day, Jack came to the house and said, "Deantwean was shot and killed. He was with a friend and he was shot, too."

The following day another 18 year old was shot in the head. By the grace of God, he survived. I wrote letters and e-mails, speaking of the deaths mounting in a community divided into victims and suspects.

I was on a Regional Transit bus about to go home. The street was filled with commotion. Youth were standing on both sides of the street. I asked the bus driver to stop.

I ran to the scene and heard: “It’s Jack. They shot Jack.” 18-year-old Jack lay at a mini-mall, gunshot wounds to the chest.

I held his 15-year-old friend, whose shirt was covered with Jack's blood. The ambulance drove away. I waited for the 15 year old's mother to arrive, then drove with a girl at the scene, to the hospital.

I ran to the registration counter and gave Jack's name. I was asked, “Are you family?" I said "Yes." They took me aside and said, "I'm sorry he didn't make it.”

Jack died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. I felt ill. Youth are not life-flighted to area hospitals. There were two hospitals close to where Jack was shot but he was taken by ambulance across town to the medical center, where he was dead on arrival.

I begin to wonder if Jack was closer to the truth than I. Does anyone care? Our children are dying. Families are mourning. People are suffering. Our cries echo from one Sacramento neighborhood to another.

I sat at David's funeral. Shortly after the funeral began, a petite woman walked to the microphone, hands trembling, and said softly, "I need this funeral to go as quickly as possible. I just buried his brother."

Her movements were so slow and painful. It appeared as though pain carried her. David's brother Damon was murdered less than two years earlier. Their mother then began to tell the people in attendance, “David was a good boy.”

A mother whose son was dead wanted people to know her son was a good boy.

I went for a walk early one morning and gazed down. Printed on the sidewalk were the words, "Here lays my 2 brothers Anthony and Albert shot and killed, They dead. They with God now."

My mind drifted to the family of 18-year-old Gregory and 20-year-old Hudson, two other brothers shot and killed, dying minutes apart. Another family having to bury two of their children in Sacramento, the city of Trees. A city with so many distractions that youth death and youth arrest always seem to get overshadowed with yet another agenda.

I spoke with 21-year-old Wesley’s father. He was in great pain: "I wanted my son to live"

Wesley’s body laid covered in blood on a grassy area in an apartment complex. There are two painful sides to a youth violence crisis: Families are mourning the loss of their beloved child -- dead. Families are mourning the loss of their child sentenced to live and die in a California state prison -- the walking dead.

In every violent death, the suspect was another youth. One dead on our streets and another walking dead in prison. I saw so many in a psychological frozen state.

Bodies found in dumpsters, gutters, middle of streets, schools basketball courts, fast food restaurants, gas stations, shopping malls, in their homes, outside their homes, on their front porch, running to make it home, North Sacramento, South Sacramento, East Sacramento and West Sacramento. I looked for a safe haven but there was none.

A Florin Honor Roll student, 15-year-old Shavtavia, was shot and killed as she left a graduation party. Phillip, 16, was shot and killed outside a birthday party. Three others were shot and survived, including a 14-year-old

Can you imagine opening the door to see your child dead and know they were running home to you, to safety?

Lenny, 13, stood with friends on a Sacramento street. Boom.He was shot and killed as his friends watched in horror.

Arturu, 11, was shot in the head. He lived but is blind. Curtis was another teen with a beautiful smile. At age 15, he was shot and survived. Curtis worked so hard at job skills classes and showed his life skills certificates to his grandfather. Just when Curtis was beginning to think of a future, he was shot again. He died at age 16. I will never forget his eyes. He would smile at me and his eyes would sparkle.

I received a call from Ralph. His 18-year-old son, Ralph Jr., had been shot and killed. "I had to go to the morgue to view my son's body. Eighteen bullets, bullets even in his groin."

A father cried as he spoke to me -- a stranger -- just wanting to talk to someone about the pain and suffering.

I went to the city of Sacramento seeking a Youth Death Review Team to save the lives of Sacramento's sons and daughters. But my efforts on behalf of the Youth Death Review Team were in vain. But I continue to labor through the pain.

I went to Donald's funeral. His mother, Toni, came and spoke at a rally I held. Toni was so proud of her son Donald. Can you imagine walking into the bathroom to find your son lying in a tub filled of blood? She can not get the memory out her mind.

The church was filled to capacity for Donald’s funeral. I attended the car wash by which his family, as so many others, are reduced to focusing on their inadequacies -- the fact they can’t afford to bury their child.

Can you imagine wanting and getting a job to buy nice things for your child only to have a job and not be able to afford to bury that child?

Natasha and her younger children were tied up. She will never forget the sound of the gunshot that took her son's life. When I look into Natasha's eyes, they are always teary and swollen in pain.

I can't imagine being tied up, wanting to help my son but not being able to break free, hearing him being shot, knowing that he died while I was in the next room.

Someone knocked on Debbie's door. Her son James answered it. Debbie was awakened by gunshots. She ran to her front door to find her 18-year-old son, James, dying in his younger brother's arms.

Debbie and Natasha have come to youth violence meetings seeking youth violence prevention.

I received a call from Carla. She cried, 'Rhonda, do you know what it's like to answer the phone and your sister tells you come over, your son is dying, shot dead"

Carlos is dead. I stayed on the phone for an hour and listened to her cries.

At 19-year-old Tyesha's funeral, her grandfather stood and said, "This is not a funeral. Tyesha is a Christian. She knows God. It's her homegoing."

And then the family asked for prayer for the youth who took their beautiful daughter's life.

Shirley has attended countless youth violence meetings. She has stood and addressed city officials in the midst of her own pain. At her son Michael's funeral I held a youth who was 19. When you look into his eyes you see the memories of death.

He spoke softly, "I've been to 20 funerals." A boy has been to more funerals than the number of years he's been alive. All this in the city of Sacramento, the city of trees, where it appears life and freedom are blowing in the wind. At every funeral, the church, hall, wake and cemetery are filled to capacity.

Often, youth lined up along the sidewalk because the church was overcrowded. Sometimes I'd see some familiar faces that I saw at other funerals and more often than not I saw a few hundred faces I hadn't seen before. The deaths affect so many people, so much pain.

It has been painful to write of Sacramento's sons and daughters who died a premature death as a result of youth violence in a city that appears to have other priorities, priorities that overshadow life and freedom.

Our mayor's priority is a "strong mayor" proposal. I don't share his enthusiasm on changing the charter of Sacramento. I'm far too busy wanting to change the tide of deaths as families cry rivers of tears, and drown in seas of neglect and oceans of pain.

I couldn't get the city to fund a Youth Death Review Team. But I've learned when the mayor wants a strong mayor proposal we quickly have a strong mayor Charter Commission formed.

Can you imagine how painful it is to walk for five years in the valley of the shadow of death and be right where you started seeking a Youth Death Review Team? I've walked in a circle. I must again plead with another Mayor for Sacramento youth to have life and know freedom.

The mayor looks in one direction -- suppression -- and looks to those who want more funding to saturate communities with armed patrol. I haven't met a family yet whose child has been murdered who has not preferred prevention over suppression.

Can you imagine the pain of seeing the mayor put a band-aid on a fracture and call it a day? Can you understand the anger of seeing yet another minimal effort that duplicates the efforts made year in and year out?

Can you imagine being in pain and seeing the crisis and tragedy in your community swept under a rug?

Can you imagine suffocating in misery, your pain blanketed until budget hearings are scheduled and a police union official says, “We need more money. If we get less we’ll do less." You and others are working with so much less and wanting to do so much more. Can you imagine seeing so many others being paid and the funding never quite reaches the community directly affected and exposed to the violence?

I used to be embarrassed that I was low income. At youth violence meetings I would wait until everyone had left before I walked out. I didn’t want them to see me walking home as they were driving away in their nice cars. I am no longer embarrassed. Being a resident of the low income community I learned to love unconditionally. Equally important I learned many of us are loved conditionally-- when and if funding is available.

Once I walked home from a youth violence meeting in the dark and the rain, but I didn’t feel rain drops falling on my head. I felt a steady flow of tears because I walked to the meeting with high hopes and sat through constant disappointment, learning it wasn’t even about us, it was all about money.

The truth is we need more resources and we are not getting them because in the city of Sacramento life and freedom takes a backseat to political games of greed and deceit. A community is divided by morgues, cemeteries, funerals, vigils, courts and prisons.

On this painful journey, I‘ve seen much love in the midst of so much sorrow. I've also stood at meetings and seen people focus on money and not on our pain and our deaths. I've seen the heartless and I've been embraced by the loving.

I stood in front of the mayor on Tuesday and he appeared to look right through me. It's painful. But I've labored for now five years without pay going to countless city hall, county supervisor, community town hall meetings, summits, workshops, funerals, vigils and car washes to bury the dead and I watched so many make everyone and everything else priority.

It seems crime does pay. A whole lot of folks are getting funding and we die. Poverty pimps circle over our dead as vultures trying to get funding for our crisis. And then we have elected officials who use the crisis, stating, "Public safety is our number one priority." But there are few doves of peace and many vultures. Public Safety is a priority for politicians to get into office and no longer a priority once in office.

Our children are dying. As I sat in City Hall attending a Charter Review Commission hearing, tears came to my eyes as I prayed perhaps one day we'll sit here for a Youth Death Prevention Commission. Tears came to my eyes as I realized I walked in a circle to again plead with a Sacramento Mayor to hear our cries and significantly address our suffering. 

I've prayed that one day I'll sit in a meeting that willaddress our pain and suffering. But I won't hold my breath. I might just end up like so many more -- breathless.

Our cries continue to echo from one Sacramento neighborhood to another. Wherever we can afford to live.

Rhonda Erwin

Community Activist / Mother living in a community divided into youth victims and youth suspects