A Story No One Wants To Hear

On the afternoon of the inauguration, after a march downtown in honor of Martin Luther King, a young man, a local activist and friend of our grandkids, lit himself on fire in front of City Hall, on the site of the Black Lives Matter mural. He lit himself on fire.

Emergency personnel were able to put out the flames and airlift him to a treatment center. He survived, but healing will be long and difficult. He lit himself on fire. For over a week, there was no reporting on this event, perhaps at the behest of the family. The police may or may not be in possession of documents explaining his actions, but nothing has been released to the public. I think of him every day. 
I have said nothing, because his relatives seemed to want privacy. A few days ago his friends began to organize a vigil, a tribute, and over 300 people showed up Sunday evening to bear witness. There is only speculation about what motivated him. He lit himself on fire. A man, the age of my grandkids, lit himself on fire. Lit himself on fire. Fire.

No one knows exactly why. We can each pick our own favorite reason—there are plenty to choose from—but we don’t know what he wanted to say. What, in that last moment before the flames began to rise, was so impossible to bear? I know this guy because he’s on staff at the Farmers’ Market; I see him almost every week. I’ve watched him grow from a somewhat shy youth to an articulate confident young man who is an advocate for social justice. Something wasn’t working. He lit himself on fire.