By Patrick White, brother of Corey Nicholson
“I have to get this thorn out of my side,” my elderly grandmother said once. She was referring to the death of her grandson 15-year-old Corey Nicholson.
Without a doubt, death isn’t a new story amongst residents of South Los Angeles. It’s constantly accepted. But from that point, I knew it was a call to action. All I could think was there has to be a better way.
After Corey’s death, there were no visits from detectives or responses from police. The services were carried on without question.
I could not look at my mother. My mother lost her one-bedroom apartment after 16 years, and subsequently was unable to properly care for her son. The youngest of six, he was placed under the jurisdiction of the Los Angeles children’s welfare system.
Struggling to overcome her own personal battles with drug addiction and various levels of abuse, she went to the only safe place she knew. She had to rent out a room in her mother’s apartment. A few months later, the entire family was struck with the news: Corey was found dead on the steps of an apartment complex on Vermont Ave. and 83rd Street in South Los Angeles.
According to the autopsy, his death was due to a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. The bullet went straight through. He died at 2 a.m. The events leading up to his death have yet to be formally disclosed to his family.
If you ask any one of his siblings who Corey was, you would be bombarded with an array of answers. He was funny, big-hearted, bright-eyed, and intelligent…anything and everything a kid is supposed to be. He was also saddened, hardened and put off by what he had to endure to just fit in and to search for what so many people in their adult lives struggle to find: love.
I probably will never understand the impact his death had on my grandmother. The strongest member of the family, Gramma, pronounced “Gruam-ma,” was not only the backbone of this family, but the spirit as well. “Go to school, boy,” she often encouraged us to do. A woman of few words, Gramma’s lack of knowledge of our legal system was taken advantage of.
Labeled with the typical “…well, it-is-what-it-is” of the black community, some overlooked Corey’s death as a “minor tragedy.” But it has become clear that the process of healing is difficult, lengthy and different for everyone.
After finding out that Corey Nicholson had passed away, it was discovered that hidden cameras were placed in the family’s residence. Onlookers watched what was supposed to be a time of healing for my family, and our grief became a commodity. When the landlord was notified of the hidden cameras, he said that if that were true, he would remove them. On a latter occasion, the landlord retracted on his statement, indirectly acknowledging that hidden cameras were in fact in the resident’s home, who had occupied the space for approximately 25 years.
Looking at the autopsy report, the family had no choice but to accept what fate had dealt. But that was and will not be a part of our closure.
Closure came in my decision to fight, not only for Corey, but for everything I had been chosen to believe in and what this land is undeniably built on: a relentless pursuit of defining moments and the intangible notion of endless possibilities.
Project L.A. South, an organization that was started in 2010, is designed to help combat some of the very elements which were direct causes of Corey’s death. It launches campaigns such as the Breakfast program, Canvas L.A, Adopt-A-block, I Am L.A., and other initiatives.
Sharing one of their “Defining Moments,” celebrities and Hollywood stars such as Oprah, Celebrity Hair stylist Ken Paves, Radio Host Big Boy, Ricky Martin, Beverly Johnson, and others have already supported the efforts.
After more than three years, the family plans to move forward, first by having a benefit for Project: L.A. South. Through the benefit, the family hopes to find healing and a sense of closure while still reaching out. It is their hopes that the benefit will help build a foundation in South Los Angeles in the memory of Corey.
I know that no matter how much I speak about Kevin, it will never bring my son back. I know, because I’ve tried. And neither will a million tears. I know, because that’s how much I’ve cried. I also know that by sharing my story I can’t help Kevin, but I can help others to live.
