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THE SHOOTING

By Mark Donald |

Things like this just weren’t supposed to happen. Not to a nice boy from North Dallas, not at a friend’s party only a few blocks from home. Not when you’re only 17, for God’s sake. Yet on August 31, 1990, Brad Lockridge* somehow managed to get himself shot.

Certainly, Brad and his friends weren’t perfect. They were about to become seniors, with all the attendant hormonal dilemmas. Still, they played out their adolescent angst within the sheltered environs of suburbia, dreaming the same middle-class dreams as their parents. They were privileged, invincible, and decidedly out of touch with the cruel realities confronting the less fortunate.

No one from Brad’s school, the Episcopal School of Dallas (ESD), had ever been shot-much less shot by a gang member. The reasons some kids join gangs-to survive on the streets, to belong, to get even-none of these held any consequence in Brad’s world.

The night of the shooting, a Friday, Brad and his ESD buddies thought they were going to a small gathering of 20 or so friends. What they found instead were nearly 100 kids, many of whom they didn’t know, drinking beer and raising hell. The party had gotten so out of control, neighbors had to call the police to curb the noise.

By 11: 30, Brad was walking to his car, saying his goodbyes. “I heard two loud pops that sounded like firecrackers, ” he explains. “The third pop hit my leg. ” When he looked up, he saw his leg covered with blood, the wound only inches from his kneecap.

Only when he went inside to clean the wound did he realize he’d been shot. “I don’t believe this, ” he told his friend. “I’m 17 years old, and I’ve been shot. “

But the dull pain coming from his leg made him believe-and made him mad too. He went to his car and grabbed his baseball bat, ready to claim revenge. Since the gunman was gone he could only smack the bat against some unsuspecting trees.

He drove to Medical City, where he was told the bullet had passed cleanly through his leg, leaving only a flesh wound, some damaged muscle. A Dallas police officer arrived soon afterward, gathering facts and telling Brad that gang activity was suspected. Still, there was little they could do. No one would come forward. He wasn’t seriously hurt, it was better to leave things alone.

Brad didn’t agree and spent the next several weeks trying to piece together what had happened. It seems this Hispanic gang showed up at the party uninvited and then got into a heated argument with a rival white gang. A fight broke out, and a big guy named Leon pulled out a. 22 revolver and fired at the ground, aiming to scare, but instead spraying the crowd with gunfire. Brad was hit along with two others, neither seriously.

At school, Brad became something of a hero. Everybody was anxious to see his war wound, to hear his tale of unintended valor. In chapel, the students received weekly lectures about their fragile mortality. But most kids didn’t buy it; they nicknamed Brad “bulletproof, ” joking about his brush with death.

After some initial euphoria, Brad began to struggle with his feelings. He grew angry at Hispanics for being in gangs. He was disgusted with the police for not stopping them. His own sense of helplessness enraged him.

Then last New Year’s, he had his chance. He and some friends were at a party when someone introduced him to Leon. “I just knew it was the guy who shot me, ” says Brad. “I wanted to rip off his arm and beat him with it. ” Instead, he just walked away. “Even if I had gotten the best of him, it wouldn’t be over. His gang might do a drive-by shooting. How could I jeopardize my family like that?”

The shooting taught Brad a new lesson. No matter how protected you feel, no matter how i sulated your life, outside forces exist that are simply beyond your control. “It’s actually matured him, ” says his mother. “But what a terrible way to have to lose your innocence. “

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