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The Other "Marios" Who Are Still Alive - The Case of Mario Madrigal, Jr.
By Eduardo Barraza August 25, 2006
For five consecutive years, the family
and friends of the deceased teen
have remembered his tragics death
in the same public spot where they
began their protests in August of
2003.
Photo by Eduardo Barraza | Barriozona
and friends of the deceased teen
have remembered his tragics death
in the same public spot where they
began their protests in August of
2003.
Photo by Eduardo Barraza | Barriozona
Published by the Hispanic Institute of Social Issues in Phoenix, Arizona
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Eduardo Barraza is a journalist and writer,
Barriozona Magazine's editor, and director of
the Hispanic Insitute of Social Issues.
E-mail: editor@barriozona.com
Barriozona Magazine's editor, and director of
the Hispanic Insitute of Social Issues.
E-mail: editor@barriozona.com
|
Mesa, Arizona. The blown-up image of Mario Madrigal Jr. imprinted on
a large vinyl sign stands out in the middle of the city of Mesa Police
headquarters parking lot, rising above the dozens of people who
have congregated to commemorate the five years since his tragic
death.
“My bloods claims justice!”, can be read in both English and Spanish
on the big banner, and the barely sketched semi smile of the teen
who’d die in a burst of bullets contrasts with the somber motive for
which his family, friends and members of the community have come
together on this sweaty summer’s afternoon.
The scene is anything but new. For five consecutive years, the
parents of the deceased teen have remembered his death in the
same public spot where they began their protests in August of 2003,
when Mario Madrigal, Jr. was shot and killed by Mesa Police officers.
A five-year period some think should have by now closed the
wounds, faded the pain, and quenched their hope for justice.
The time that passed by has had an opposite effect, however, since
five years later, the memory of the way and the circumstances in
which Mario Madrigal, Jr. was killed has gradually increased in
strength, to the point of becoming not only a case that resists to be
forgotten, but it seems to have taken the form of a permanent
struggle.
Officially, the case of the 15-year old teen who was under the effects
of alcohol, supposedly attacked the officers who were called to take
him to a rehabilitation center, was impacted with taser guns, and
finally shot to death with bullets at least ten times, is closed. The
family’s version was rebutted and denied.
Nevertheless, by demonstrating each year Mario and Martha
Madrigal, Mario’s parents, have been able to keep a flame alight, and
in doing so, they are continuously reminding the community,
fundamentally, about their son’s death. At the same time,
symbolically, they continue to remind us about the death of a
troubled teenager who struggled with alcohol, and desperately
needed help. Even more poignantly, they have been able to maintain
the pressure on the fact that a high school’s junior -who would have
turned 21 this September- was brutally shot and killed by the police.
Whatever the outcome of an upcoming case in a federal court this
September, the death of Mario Madrigal, Jr. refuses to be erased
from the collective memory of a community that tends to forget too
soon. Perhaps the death of the boy who stills timidly smiles from the
picture on the banner can help us all -directly or indirectly, as parents
or just as members of the society- to think about the “Marios” who
are still alive today, whether we are providing alcohol to a minor who
has to go to school tomorrow, calling 911 to plea for help, or wearing
a police badge and a gun.
a large vinyl sign stands out in the middle of the city of Mesa Police
headquarters parking lot, rising above the dozens of people who
have congregated to commemorate the five years since his tragic
death.
“My bloods claims justice!”, can be read in both English and Spanish
on the big banner, and the barely sketched semi smile of the teen
who’d die in a burst of bullets contrasts with the somber motive for
which his family, friends and members of the community have come
together on this sweaty summer’s afternoon.
The scene is anything but new. For five consecutive years, the
parents of the deceased teen have remembered his death in the
same public spot where they began their protests in August of 2003,
when Mario Madrigal, Jr. was shot and killed by Mesa Police officers.
A five-year period some think should have by now closed the
wounds, faded the pain, and quenched their hope for justice.
The time that passed by has had an opposite effect, however, since
five years later, the memory of the way and the circumstances in
which Mario Madrigal, Jr. was killed has gradually increased in
strength, to the point of becoming not only a case that resists to be
forgotten, but it seems to have taken the form of a permanent
struggle.
Officially, the case of the 15-year old teen who was under the effects
of alcohol, supposedly attacked the officers who were called to take
him to a rehabilitation center, was impacted with taser guns, and
finally shot to death with bullets at least ten times, is closed. The
family’s version was rebutted and denied.
Nevertheless, by demonstrating each year Mario and Martha
Madrigal, Mario’s parents, have been able to keep a flame alight, and
in doing so, they are continuously reminding the community,
fundamentally, about their son’s death. At the same time,
symbolically, they continue to remind us about the death of a
troubled teenager who struggled with alcohol, and desperately
needed help. Even more poignantly, they have been able to maintain
the pressure on the fact that a high school’s junior -who would have
turned 21 this September- was brutally shot and killed by the police.
Whatever the outcome of an upcoming case in a federal court this
September, the death of Mario Madrigal, Jr. refuses to be erased
from the collective memory of a community that tends to forget too
soon. Perhaps the death of the boy who stills timidly smiles from the
picture on the banner can help us all -directly or indirectly, as parents
or just as members of the society- to think about the “Marios” who
are still alive today, whether we are providing alcohol to a minor who
has to go to school tomorrow, calling 911 to plea for help, or wearing
a police badge and a gun.
