My little brother Arthur Sturdivant, Jr. died by homicide on June 8, 2021. I was there when he went, lying in the street in Selma. Police arrested the man who shot him, but the ambulance arrived too late. Arthur was 21 years old. I was 25.
Arthur left behind a family who loved him, including a sweet son who I am now helping to raise.
Death doesn’t stop the rest of life from carrying on, or bills from coming. Arthur’s son, who was a toddler when his father died, had doctor’s appointments. He needed clothes and diapers, and food and a roof over his head.
Funerals are expensive, too.
After Arthur died, I barely had time to grieve because I was so busy trying to make sure everybody was OK. Financial worries, paperwork, administrative delays, and the lack of clear direction about who could help manage it all made that hard moment much, much harder.
Arthur’s death generated anger and sadness. The district attorney condemned “gunslingers” and sought the death penalty against the 26-year-old man, a classmate of mine, who shot him.
In short supply, though, was the kind of support that Arthur’s family – me, my parents, Arthur’s son, his partner – desperately needed. In the years since, I have spent time thinking about what the state of Alabama could do to make the aftermath of homicides a little less terrible.
The most obvious thing is to ensure that needed services are easily and timely accessible. After Arthur died, I filled out paperwork to apply for assistance from the Alabama Crime Victims Compensation Commission, which helps pay for things like funerals, medical expenses, and other costs that can come with experiencing violence. Among other things, my family needed help paying for Arthur’s funeral.
It was more than a year before I heard back from the Commission. During that time, the funeral home threatened to take my family to small claims court. That threat added financial stress to the grief and anger we were already living with. We couldn’t understand why it took so long. It made us feel like we didn’t matter to the people in charge.
I’ve since learned that the Crime Victims Compensation Commission is underfunded. For nearly all of its history, its funding has come exclusively from fines and fees paid by people who have committed crimes – almost like the people who designed the system are banking on crime continuing to make sure that families like mine can pay our bills after losing loved ones. Most of this funding is earmarked to go victim services, and federal law requires it to ensure funds go to underserved communities exactly like mine.
But recent reporting has made it clear that delays like the one my family experienced are common, and a major reason for that is budget issues. The Commission has asked lawmakers to allocate $3.1 million in their 2024 budget, which it says will support operating expenses, reduce delays, and free up existing dollars to be spent on victims instead of staff.
In addition to adequately funding the Crime Victims Compensation Commission, lawmakers should spend some time listening to crime victims and talking directly with us about what we need. They should make sure they are hearing from people like me whose communities are disproportionately affected by violence because we know better than anyone what’s not working and what’s most needed.
My experience is like that of far too many Black women in Alabama, and across America. Black Americans are more than four times as likely to die by homicide than the U.S. population overall, and nearly seven times as likely as white Americans to die by homicide. These victims leave behind family members like me who are left to pick up the pieces, hold ourselves together, and move forward.
I’ve found ways to do all those things. In the two years since my brother died, I have found joy in building the small business he always encouraged me to start, helping raise my nephew, and finding community with other women who have lost loved ones to violence.
But people like me need more support, and we need it to come from people who decide how money is spent and resources are allocated. In the aftermath of violence, “justice” means more than just pouring resources into punishing whoever committed it. It means listening to victims, meeting their immediate needs, and working proactively and creatively to support communities where everyone can thrive.
This article was published by Alabama Reflector.
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