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Stories
PNW Family Circle
Learn more about our loved ones and the work we are doing to receive justice in their memory.
We understand your pain and struggle. We have been through the same. These are our stories
My Sons's name is Bodhi Phelps.
Once upon a time there was a boy named Bodhi. Bodhi was liked by all who knew him. He was loved very much by his family. He spent much of his time with his family and wouldn't have it any other way. As Bodhi grew up, Bodhi, like many kids, got into some trouble. He was working on fixing that and was proud of himself for doing so. He wanted to go to college, get married and have children. He couldn't wait to be a father so he could be a coach like his dad was.
One night Bodhi was out with his beautiful girlfriend. They were going through rough times and were trying to work things out. But this night they were arguing. A couple of young girls heard the arguing and called the cops. They said that Bodhi was trying to kidnap his girlfriend. They were just arguing over who was going to drive. These young girls jumped to conclusions.
Soon the Gresham Police officers showed up and Bodhi ran. He was scared. One cop followed him and shot him in the side of the back. That cops name was Gavin Sasser. Officer Sasser didn't assess the situation he just ran right for Bodhi. Then Officer Kevin Carlson showed up. He also joined in the chase. Bodhi was shot 11 times. One in the backside, once in the wrist and once in the thumb because he had his hands up. Then he was shot 8 more times in the chest.
It took only 30 seconds from the time the cops showed to the time they shot and killed Bodhi. They had alternative means to subdue Bodhi and yet they did not use them. What threat was Bodhi to anyone when he ran away? He was unarmed! He wasn’t a threat! The officers lied about Bodhi having a weapon and lied about why they shot him.
Bodhi was murdered and will never return to see his family. His mother would do anything to see Bodhi again. She misses him terribly. His entire family misses him. This story does not end with happily ever after. Instead it ends with injustice. His mother will fight until Justice is found for Bodhi Phelps! Bodhi you are never forgotten and always loved!
My son's name is Christopher.
Christopher Kalonji was a 19-year-old who was profiled and beaten by Portland police, leading to a court date. Before that day, teachers, friends, and family knew Christopher to be a kind and thoughtful teen with no mental health conditions. After the beating, though, he became more and more anxious.
By his court date on Jan 28, 2016, Christopher was in a mental health crisis. He called 911 for help. Clackamas County Sheriffs came to his home where no one was in danger until they arrived. Instead of getting Christopher the mental health care he needed, they shot and killed him. At the time, he was alone in his bedroom and stripped down to his underwear to prove that he was unarmed.
I miss my son.
My brother's name is Brad Lee Morgan.
He was mighty, he was a soldier.He was a knight in shining armor. He was everything his girl wanted him to be, even if she didn’t realize it. He was a father, a brother, and a son. He was family, he was a friend, he was loved. He was happy, he was amazing, he is missed. We are all lost without him. He is and will always be, Brad Lee Morgan. My one and only brother that I’ll ever need and ever want. Although someone took him away from me and everyone he knew, know we will cherish the legacy and memories he has left behind for people to witness. He is who he is and was he was. He was a miracle, to me, and everyone around him. He was a gift and he was way higher than anyone I have ever known. He surpassed most people in knowledge and in respect. He was highly thought of, admired, and we will all hold him dear to our hearts. We all miss you, Brad Lee Morgan.
My child's name is Patrick.
How does a mother experience the state-sanctioned homicide of her eldest child, her only son? There are lost dreams, an infinite future without him, a kaleidoscope of images, emotions. Why couldn’t I protect him?
Dates—so many dates. Every year so many dates.
The date he died, the date he was born, the date we created him.
The date he got second in the state high jump competition. Six feet, nine inches. I have a picture.
The date he graduated from Ohio State University. An Electrical Engineer, like his mom.
The date we convinced him to take medication for his schizophrenia. Cautious optimism. Eight years later, the date he stopped taking medication for his schizophrenia. Helpless.
The date we called our therapist to tell him Patrick had been shot and killed, and he cried. “The F***ers,” he said.
The date of the memorial service; and the very next date is his sister’s birthday—her day of celebration forever woven next to her brother’s day of mourning.
The date of the 15-hour marathon settlement conference that ended our lawsuit. Did we do the right thing? Better to settle or go to trial?
The date of our anniversary; and 37 years later that same date I picked up his ashes at the morgue.
The date we moved to Springfield, Oregon. Remind me again, why did we do that? Maybe we should have stayed in Virginia.
So. Many. Dates.
Names—what is in a name? Patrick. Stacy. Both. And. He wants the family to know Patrick; she wants the public to know Stacy. What gender do you want on the death certificate, they ask me. Wait, why is there a death certificate? There must be a mistake.
Confusion-- Who do we believe? What really happened? There is the District Attorney’s version: a press conference with sanitized events, strategic omissions, red herrings, and intent to mislead. So divorced from reality that she refused to put it in writing. Then there is our attorneys’ version—a meticulously documented, blow-by-blow, taser-by-taser, bullet-by-bullet description, correlated to the time-stamped 911 audio recording. A slow dawning of what truly happened, what didn’t have to happen, what shouldn’t have happened. The added trauma of finally realizing we’d been duped and feeling so stupid for believing the lies.
Depositions. Surreal. One by one we are across the conference table from the four men who took my son’s life, and the Chief who allowed it. They are answering questions. We are excused each time the pictures come out.
The largest police wrongful death settlement in Oregon history. Eight demanded changes in police policies and procedures. Our story on the front page of the Washington Post. A podcast about it, integrated with the 911 audio. “MotherF***er” the officer says before he shoots him. The last words my son hears. Finally, an accurate representation of what happened. But suddenly I’m on the floor, curled in a ball. Somehow it makes the listening easier.
Trauma—I didn’t understand that at first. Everyone kept talking to me about grief. What is grief? I know Patrick is gone. That’s not the problem, that’s not helping! The problem is the violence he experienced, the violence that was not acknowledged, the violence that is acceptable in this society. The problem is everything I thought I knew about the world is wrong.
Harm. I want them to acknowledge the harm. The irresponsible, irrevocable, inconceivable harm to Patrick. The harm to his younger cousins, who now wonder if the police will kill them. The harm to his grandmother, who was already reeling from the recent loss of her husband. Even the psychological harm to the shooting officer, who ended a life that day. How is this public safety?
Justice. Why are the bereaved in charge of ensuring accountability and forcing change? Will our settlement fix a broken system? Or did we only contribute band-aids, continuing to hold together a fundamentally flawed construct? Did we negotiate hard enough for the right things?
Healing—how do we heal?
I heal with Kindness: Meals from neighbors for a month. A candlelight vigil in my neighbor’s living room. Visits, phone calls, and genuine compassion. “I’ll take care of Patrick’s car for you,” he says. This is important; Patrick was shot in his car. And new friends whose support means more than they could know.
I heal with Empathy: People telling me they cried when they heard my legislative testimony. My seasoned attorney choking up when he tells me he has read my journal. An email from the shooter: “I am sorry,” he says. A phone call from the new police chief on his first day: “My condolences on the loss of your child,” he says. Thank goodness the old Chief is gone.
I heal with Nature: Floating down the McKenzie in the solitude of the river and the birds. The beauty of the mountains and the forests.
I heal with Service: Helping other mothers who suddenly find themselves like me. Working for change so there won’t be so many other mothers like me.
Am I healed? I don’t know. I just know I’m learning to live with the scars, and I have to keep trying to make things better.
My son's name is Daniel.
He was unarmed when he was killed by police officers.Dan was unarmed when he was killed by Lakewood, WA police officers David Butts and Ryan Hamilton on his way home from the hospital with injuries from a motorcycle accident. He had broken ribs, a broken collar bone, and a concussion. He was on his way home when 911 was called to send help for him. Within a few seconds of the arrival of those police officers he was shot seven times. They called no one to help him for thirty minutes. By the time someone did come to help, it was too late and I tell you the truth, my heart drips tears of blood everyday for missing my only son. I grieve.
My grandson's name is Moose.
17-Year-Old Quanice “Moose” Hayes: A Missing Star in Our FamilyQuanice, known as Moose by family and friends, was a funny person. Moose got a laugh out of the ones he loved and who loved him back. Whether it was a cookie he held in place with his butt cheeks or twerking for pizza, he only ever wanted to get a laugh. When he was around, we were sure to laugh. From his birth, he made us laugh. He looked just like Bullwinkle the Moose and we started calling him Moose right away. I never called him Quanice until after he was killed by officer andrew hearst [As the author of this story, Donna has intentionally not capitalized the names of people for whom she has no respect.] As Moose’s grandmother, I miss the times we had to be alone. I could talk to him about anything. We talked about the latest music, because at my age, I was behind the times — pretty much stuck on music from the 80s. He introduced me to Jesse McCartney’s song, Beautiful Soul. He was so sure I would love this song. And I do. I play it now, and it breaks my heart, because he had a beautiful soul.
If he had bad times with his mother, I could show him her side and reasoning. Our conversations often ended with Moose saying, “Grannie, let me go talk to mom.”
Speaking of the word Grannie, the first time I heard the word, it came from his mouth. Now it’s a staple among the rest of my grandchildren. My grandchildren had a hard time with using grannie when my mother was around — they figure they had to call her Grannie, too. Well here is where Moose stepped in. He started calling her Gee Gee for great grandmother. Now they all call her Gee Gee.
Quanice was a talented young man. Dancing and sports were his greatest achievements. Whatever the new dance was, he could do it. All you had to do was ask him to do it, and you saw how it was done. He was great at traditional sports… basketball, football and baseball. But he also played non-traditional sports like lacrosse. Not only did he play these different sports, he was good at each one. Moose was a natural athlete.
I remember him being such a little guy when he played football. He was running with the ball and was tackled. His mother ran out on the field and started pulling kids off of him. Well, that was an embarrassing moment for him, and Coach told him his mother couldn’t come to any more games. This is one of the moments we relive when we think about him.
Moose was a hero to his siblings. His sister has to step into a role that isn’t hers nor is she ready for. She was the sibling that was always at odds with her brother. They played practical jokes with each other just to see who could best each other. His little brothers looked up to him, and when they had a problem, they ran straight to Moose. When they thought their mother was wrong, they went to him, and he in turn, went to his mother to hash out the problem. He now has a brother who will not know him and how Moose cared about him. Moose changed him and the others’ poopy diapers, too, so he loved his siblings. Now they have lost their hero.
One of the hardest thing was to tell them that Moose is not coming back. Every once in a while they inquire on whether Moose is coming back. His siblings feel his loss terribly, as we all do. Just as we cannot understand why, they have it the worst, because they don’t understand the idea of death. Hearing us talk about police, they’ve grown an unhealthy fear of law enforcement.
Quanice also had seven uncles, a cousin who acted like another uncle, and one aunt among them. We often lived in the same house, and they grew up together. What I remember fondly is her having him calling her Auntie. This didn’t last long, because his mother reminded him that they were just six months apart, “Just call her Mimi”.
Also, we think about how, as a teenager, people would ask him how he wanted to spend his birthday. It was always a family affair. He kept it simple. The last birthday we celebrated with him was at the park. Just like he wanted, we laughed, played games, and barbequed. Now, when August 2nd comes around, we think about his birthday. This year, as a family, we celebrated at the cemetery; sitting on his grave, singing happy birthday to Moose — a missing star in our family.