Ethan

An American Tragedy

Conor Hepp
Nov 7 · 5 min read
“Shared Loneliness” by Vassilena

Its small. No larger than my thumb. Its edges are tattered and feel almost cloth like. Torn from the newspaper the day I read his story, it now threatens to dissolve and become nothing more than unidentifiable scraps. Time has a way of doing this to everything.

It’s odd to keep an image of someone you have never met. One that when accidentally seen can only serve to open a small wound in your heart. I understand that, but sometimes we need reminders. Monuments.

When I was little, younger than the boy in the picture, I noticed a small frame on my grandmother’s wall. It too held a scrap of newspaper, yellowed and frayed from existence. It showed a moment of pure joy. Captured on pressed fibers and dark ink was an image of a child hugging a pair of shoes. With his head tilted skyward, he smiled larger than one would think possible. In italics below read, “blind child receives his first pair of brand new shoes”. My grandmother had cut out that photo, framed and mounted it. She told me it was a reminder that things could be worse and that they could be better. That a simple thing could mean the world to someone. That a picture can help us remember to be kind. She had placed that frame where she would see it. Letting the universe decide when the other frames and decor that littered her home would disappear, and her focus would be drawn to the image. A moment of pure excitement of a child holding new shoes.

Names are funny things. Simple sounds thrust together arbitrarily into a rhythm that we chose for others because they please our ears. They are somehow expected to define us or prophesize who we will be. His name was Ethan. It means solid, enduring and permanent. These words echo hollow.

Ethan’s picture lives in my wallet. Once a repository for the male daily life, the value of wallets has declined. My family has moved to my phone. Images and clips from births to riding bikes can be brought to life with a scroll and tap. Business cards and receipts that once peeked through 1’s and 5’s now fill folders in inboxes. My wallet is so empty, I am no longer reminded to take it out when I sit down. Ethan still lives there. An IED of my own creation.

Shaded under an awkward small hat, his eyes squint. His squarish black glasses are a size too big for his face. They slide down his nose and tug on his ears. You can almost hear a child’s voice saying cheese when you look at his smile. It is forced the way only a 10-year-old can.

Ethan Okula and his brother were swept out of their family home at a very early age. Homes are supposed to be safe places. Ones that protect you from the cold and darkness that exists outside. Some parents are not careful enough and bring the darkness and cold in with them. Ethan and his brother were taken away to protect them from the abuse.

The two children were thrown into the foster care system together. A system that by many accounts is dangerous and unwatchful. Having someone to love and to protect you can be a saving grace. Yet man can show a manifest incapacity to care. After enduring more abuse in a foster home the boys were moved again, this time they were separated.

Ethan bounced from home to home. His moves were simple. He owned almost nothing. When he was told it was time to go, his few clothes and belongings fit into a trash bag. Children don’t know the meaning of destitute.

Children of abuse often suffer medical conditions. Stress and fear can fester when you don’t know how to handle them. Not surprising, Ethan had medical issues. When the school nurse called his foster mother saying Ethan was doubled over in pain, she was told not to call an ambulance and wait. Hours in a school office, writhing in pain, waiting for someone to care, must feel like an eternity. When his ride came to pick him up he was told that he better not throw up in the fucking Mercedes. He writhed in pain. At home, he was told not to throw up on the fucking sofa. He writhed in pain.

The ambulance wasn’t called until he stopped moving.

Three years after his death, the story of a child who experienced some of the worst this life of ours can offer ended. Those involved in ignoring his pleas for help or showing him a modicum amount of compassion were given parole and time served. Justice.

Ethan’s story is a horror. A wound that I rip open every time I dig into my wallet. His photo is a memorial I keep. One inch square, tattered and torn memorial. It’s a reminder that we must love and protect those in need. That I…you…every one of us failed this child. That we need better oversight in a system that is supposed to help the most vulnerable. It’s a reminder of a pain we all deserve to feel. For in this life we all walk, we know there are others that we could pick up and carry, yet we walk by.

Ethan's tombstone is littered with toys from those his story has touched. Gestures of kindness and sadness. Too little, too late.

“I hope that the world turns and that things get better. But what I hope most of all is that you understand what I mean when I tell you that even though I do not know you, and even though I may never meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or kiss you. I love you. With all my heart, I love you.” Valerie in Alan Moore’s V for Vendetta

Donate your time to a foster child — https://casaforchildren.org/

Donate toys to help families that cannot afford christmas presents — https://www.toysfortots.org/

Donate to provide legal help to protect those in need — https://kids-alliance.org/

Conor Hepp

Written by

Team builder and content creator who believes in the ridiculous idea that anything can be accomplished. https://www.linkedin.com/in/conorhepp

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