190 Days Without a Homicide

J enee Gragston dropped to the ground and held on to the grass as if it could save her life.

She yelled to her family members to get down.

She later told me that she didn’t know where the bullets were coming from, but she knew they were close.

When the firing stopped, the cries began.

She could hear her 4-year-old nephew howling: “Get it off me! Get it off me!” She wasn’t close enough to see what had happened, but it looked like he had blood on his chest.

A teenage boy was lying near the child.

The teenager “never screamed or anything,” she said.

“I can still see all of it.” It was a Saturday afternoon, mid-August in Lexington, Kentucky.

Hundreds of people had gathered in Charles Young Park to celebrate what’s called East End Day—a combination of family reunions, live music, and lots of food.

I grew up going to festivals in that park, though I lived on the west side of town, in the Charlotte Court housing projects.

Kentucky isn’t the most dangerous place in America, but it’s up there, with the 14th-highest rate of gun deaths.

Twelve years ago, my uncle was murdered in Lexington.

Three years ago, my sister’s husband was shot and killed there.

I worry about my brother, who still lives there.