Power to the peaceful Stolen Lives Pics

Thanks for commenting on something that you don't know anything about without bothering to actually look anything up. there is an epidemic of murder by law enforcement in this country. People with mental illness, people of color, and young people are being killed in situations in which violence and killing are uncalled for.

I just saw the face of an old, old friend of mine on that wall. I was looking at how few white faces they were on the wall of those killed when I noticed one, then noticed how familiar he looked, then looked close enough to recognize that the photo of Michael Tebbs Nunn is the same photo I have of him in my scrapbook.

He was one of my best friends in high school in the early 80s: a fellow punk, a conoisseur of cheap beer and pot, and a brilliant young man. An immensely talented artist, he was murdered by the NYPD a year and a half after entering the Parsons School in NYC.

The last person to see him alive saw an NYPD car following him along the East River, the cops inside taunting him via the PA system.

He went missing that night.

Days later they fished his body out of the East River. The condition of his head wound indicated he was struck across the head and ended up in the river. The condition of his clothes indicated he regained consciousness underwater, but had gotten snagged on something and died probably no more than a foot below the surface.

Cops murdered my best friend because they were cruel and bored. I think about Mike now and then, but it's always on my terms. It's always when I see his picture on my bookshelf that I make a little time to remember his the Rock Against Nowhere music festivals he used to put on at his place in the middle of nowhere or the wicked satirical pictures he used to draw of guys in our school. Getting surprised like this...at work and twenty years later...do you know how hard it is?

It's hard.

...not half as hard as it is for Spike & Becky (his folks) and his sister Ashley.

...not half as hard as it was for Mike the night cops murdered him in New York.

LOUISVILLE, Ky. -- Nineteen-year-old Michael Newby was the seventh black man fatally shot by Louisville police in the past five years. The officer who shot him three times in the back is the first in any of those cases to face criminal charges.

I was sitting here on my computer and typed in the name of Michael Tebbs Nunn.....this man was my boyfriend when I was 16......but he is one of my bestfriends even now.....imagine my surprise when i came upon this website. I spent so many happy times the summer of my 16th year in White Stone Va.....with Mike, Ashley, Spike and Becky, memories that I will cherish forever.....to you all that remember Mike.....remember the outrageous parties, his warped sense of humor, his contagious smile, and his love of life......i learned so much about differences in people that year, and I also learned what it was like to have a true friend.....another quick funny note about Mike.....on our first date....he showed up at my house....decked out as only Michael could be......scared the hell out of my little sister, and then at a party that night.....i learned never to tell Mike to "Bite my Ass!!!" Because he did!!!! I was hooked on him after that.....I Love you Michael and you have always and will always hold a special place in my heart.....All of my Love forever......Sheila Adele

My brother was home from college and there was a party in no-man's land--Northumberland County. Everyone we talked to in Lancaster and, even some people from Middlesex, said knew about it. I don't remember all the cast and characters from the van ride that night, but if I had to guess, I'd say we picked up William Abbott, Crystal Jett and maybe Chris Jones on our way to the party.
As Dash parked the orange VW van, I scanned the field for cars I recognized. We were 20 miles from home, from our county, where everyone knew my brother. I didn't see anyone familiar. There were a few people milling outside near the fire, but the music and whooping was coming from inside the dilapidated house. We grabbed the 2 12 packs of The Beast and headed in.
When we came through the door, it seemed like everything stopped, although I think that was just me bracing for what I imagined was coming, I was tuning into every minute detail, the body language the glances and, definitely, the stares.
"What the hell is that?" said a tall mustached guy who stood right near the door. He looked to be in his twenties and he was gesturing towards my brother. By this point, I was so on edge, I exploded, "For your information, he's from New York City--not some stupid small town redneck like YOU!" Suddenly my brother was in between the two of us, eyes absolutely filled with glee. "Ashley, It's ok...Hey man," he was almost laughing as he talked, "This is my sister. She's kind of protective of me. How's it going, bro?" My brother extended his hand. The mustached guy, looked at my brothers (fingerless gloved) hand for a moment, back at my brother's face, then a smile spread across his face, revealing a missing tooth. He reached out and shook my brothers hand, "Hey Man, You're from New York City? Is that how they dress up there?" Mustache and my brother both laughed as my brother shrugged, palms up. "Well, welcome to Northumberland County!" said Mustache, slapping my broethers back. "Get yourself a cup, we got 5 kegs out back."
When we left the party well after 2am, my brother told me in the car, after we dropped everyone off, "Damn little sister, that mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble someday." he chuckled to himself, as he looked out into the night over the steering wheel of the orange VW van.

I remember the day I found out that Mike Nunn died as if it were yesterday. Two friends from home, Dave and Bert, were down at mine and Kevin’s house in Radford, where I was going to college. The boys were worried about Mike–nobody knew where he was, nobody had heard from him, nobody could find him. I assured them Mike was ok. If there was something wrong, I thought, we would be able to feel it. Perhaps I had just watched Star Wars and thought that I would be able to feel a disturbance in the force... I don’t know. But I do remember really believing if Mike were dead I would just know.

A few days later, I was in my Wednesday night History after 1776 class when I noticed Kevin outside the door. He came in and asked to speak to me, and as I walked into the hallway I remember feeling the heavy blanket of panic and anxiety and sadness fall onto my shoulders. There, slumped against the wall, heads down, the bad news physically pulling them closer to the earth, were my friends. Nothing needed to be said, I knew I had been wrong.

The drive home for the funeral service should have taken us five hours, but instead took something like nine. At a little before ten the boys picked me up from class (I had a Photography exam I couldn’t get out of) and we headed out of town, with a quick stop at the local Mom & Pop grocery store for supplies–a twelve pack of Milwaukee’s Best and tiny cans of tomato juice. If we were going to be morning drinkers, we were going to go about proper-like, with Red Eyes, the breakfast of champions and college drop-outs alike. Since we obviously didn’t bring pint glasses, we chose to mix the beer with the tomato juice using the Pound-and-Swish method: pound half the beer in one swallow, pour in the can of tomato juice, swish and enjoy. The four of us were crammed into Bert’s tiny little car with barely enough room for all of the beer we had purchased, but we made it work. We were dedicated.

We must have stopped ninety times to either pee or buy more beer. We laughed, we told stories, we sang, we reflected, we cried. We peed. We stopped at every rest area along the way, open or closed, and once we pulled over and peed in the woods. When we finally arrived at my house we poured ourselves out of the car, spilling a sea of beer and tomato juice cans out at our feet. My father didn’t seem pleased to see me at all and I remember being so drunk that I didn’t even care. I was home for a funeral, we were going to stay at the Walton’s, that would probably be best. My father has a long history of making me feel unwanted, a tradition he continues to this day, and no death or funeral or drunken sadness was going to melt is icy resolve or remove his discomfort regarding my presence in his life. Mrs. Walton, on the other hand, welcomed our drunk asses into her overcrowded home with open arms.

The next day we all climbed back into Bert’s car and headed over to White Stone for the service. I remember it was a pretty, sunny, warm day. I remember walking into the room in a building next to the church and seeing Mike’s coffin, surrounded by his art. I remember I couldn’t breathe, or walk, or move. I remember the tears just came, huge and hot, pouring out of my eyes and across my face, into my mouth and down my neck. I remember just standing there, in the aisle, in the way, by myself, silently crying, thinking, My friend is in that box. My friend is in that box and he will never leave it. My friend is in that box and he will never paint again, or laugh again, or wear pointy black boots again. I remember I could not make myself move any closer to that coffin, so I just stood there and cried for what seem like forever.

I don’t remember much of the service. I am not a religious person and churches tend to make me a bit uncomfortable. I do remember there was a lot of crying, especially up there in the balcony where I was standing, probably due to the fact that practically everyone else up there was a girl younger than myself. I do remember leaving at one point to go get tissues for everyone, only to come back with about fifty yards of toilet paper I took from one of the bathrooms. I remember that the service moved outside and when it was over Kevin refused to leave until they put his friend in the ground. Unfortunately, they weren’t going to do that until everyone had left, so there was this weird stalemate between Kevin and the guy in charge of the burial. Some part of me thinks there is still a stalemate going on between Kevin and the world.

Mike was my friend, and the truth is over twenty years later I still think about him. I occasionally wonder where his talent would have taken him, or what the art he would have been able to produce would have looked like. I thought about him a lot when I lived in Philly, so close to New York, so close to Parson’s, so engulfed in that city’s art. I do miss him, probably not as much as some, but maybe more than others.

When I think back to my early teenage years, I have many memories and friends that I cherish. One person in particular was my best friend's brother Dash. He was labeled with many descriptive adjectives...Punk rocker, smart, A Student, musician, artist, creative, tall, unusual, you name it. But the description that I think of when I think of him is "warm hearted". I have two stories to tell that will back this up. We had all been experimenting as teenagers do. It was late night, most of the party goers has already gone home. There were just a few of us left. I had stole one of Becky's 12 inch long brown cigarettes and was trying to act as if I was really enjoying it. There were only a few of us still there. Dash, Ashley, myself, and a few others. Someone gave me and Ashley a "white cross", which was a stimulant that could be purchased at any 7-11 in America. The purpose of this pill was to keep you awake as it contained Effadrine and caffeine. Not long after I took it I starting feeling "funny". My head was reeling, my hands were shaking and my heart began racing. The others who took the pill had no ill effects. A few hours later, everyone went to sleep, but I was a wreck. I was shaking all over, and my heart was racing beyond control. I was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket when Dash walked by. He asked me if I was OK. I told him, "No" that I was not feeling well at all. He held me in his arms with warmth and caring talking to me to calm me down. He stayed up all night long with me. Finally, after 3 hours my heart stopped racing. The sun was coming up and he and I walked outside with a blanket wrapped around both of us. After our night together, we were comfortable in our closeness. We watched the sun come up together shining beautifully over the river. He hugged me, gave me a kiss on the lips, and went upstairs to his bedroom to go to sleep. I don't know how I could have made it through that night without my knight in shining armor. Dash's caring and selflessness meant a lot to me that night, and still means a lot to me as I tell this story right now. He was a warm and caring young man. I loved him with all my heart, as a brother, friend, mentor, and with a bit of a teenage crush (especially after the kiss). He was the first person that I knew well and loved that died. It broke my heart. My heart was also broken for the pain that Spike, Becky and Ashley have had to endure with his loss. Ashley worshiped the ground he walked on. My heart has healed, but I think that the family of Nunn's carry a scar on their hearts that may never completely heal. Many years later, when I started taking diet pills, I started passing out on a regular basis. I found out that I had an irregular heart beat, that was triggered by stimulants such as caffeine and Effadrine which was in the "white cross" pill. His staying up with me may have even saved my life. The second story is a simple short one. I had once again stayed the weekend with Ashley and on Sunday morning we went to church. After church, we all went to have Sunday brunch at a restaurant must have been an old house. The place was packed and the tables were very close together. From across the room, an old lady started in our direction. She squeezed past quite a few tables with "excuse me, pardon me" as her cane would get in her way. She finally made it to our table. "I want to talk to that young man right there!" she exclaimed in a booming voice. I was sure that Dash's green or purple or color of the week mohawk was the reason she had singled him out, and he was in for a tough lashing. This was, of course, the small country town of Lancaster, VA. I was entirely wrong. He had just graduated at the top of his class and she was coming over to congratulate him. I don't know who she was or how they knew each other, but when she got to him he stood up grinning from ear to ear. He gave her a bear hug, then rested his arm around her shoulders the whole time the were talking. It was a sight to see. Him in his punk rock gear, and her in her granny Sunday suit with gray/blue hair all done up for church. They were as different as night and day, and yet they were two of a kind, thrilled to see each other. This was the Dash that I choose to remember. A warm hearted, full of life young man. You will always be missed.

Don't know who Michael Newby is, but the rest of the posts, Mike, Dash and Michael are all about my brother. Thanks for posting.

Yesterday while at home, I thought of my dear friend Michael & cried. Michael & I met in college, I went to Eugene Lang College & he Parsons. I remember we talked about our backgrounds, he was from the South & me being African-American my roots were southern too. We had a few classes together & one time after class we walked around talking & he carried my books for me. He also walked on the street side. He once took me to a punk concert on Ave. A & split some Coors, well he drank most of it. When the next semester came we didn't see as much of one another. The last time I saw him was after class. I had to go but he told me he loved me. I smiled & told him the same. Once before class I asked where was Michael? I was told he was dead, gone. A mututal acquaintance escorted me out of class because I thought I would die too. Shortly after I met Mike's family when they came to NYC & loved them. It made me float when they told me they loved my poem I wrote for him. I have two drawings I jokingly commissioned him to do on the spot for me while we were both bored in class. I'm now 50,almost 51, the age he would've been. Older, a little grayer, somewhat wiser & seasoned with some of the cares of life. But Michael will always be a part of my heart, my youth, & unlike me, he remains youthful & idealistic always. My love to the Nunns, especially Ashley, Spike & Becky, & know as long as God gives me breath & life I will always love Michael & all of you.