still able to tell his story to the cops before the inevitable happened. As it turns out, the seven individuals never even saw the little boy. All they saw was a white teenager in a predominately black neighborhood and decided he needed a beating. They called him all sorts of names while kicking him in the ribs and face, never once making mention of the little boy. It’s sad to think some of the last things my friend heard were racial stereotypes. Being called “white-boy” and “trailer-trash” while nearly being beaten to death is something no one should have to go through.Sadly, my friend only lived for about twelve hours after the attack before succumbing to his injuries. I was notified by his mother and arrived at the hospital about half an hour too late. My friend died for stupid and inappropriate reasons. The little black boy, however, was still barely clinging on to life. Both of his kidneys were ruptured in the car accident, and if he didn’t get a kidney transplant soon, he was not going to make it.Although I am young I understand that there aren’t many things more painful than having one of your children die, no matter how senselessly. And although I know his parents were grieving and beyond thinking of other people but their son, I took it upon myself to go and ask questions about the little black boy. When I found out his condition, I knew I needed to do something.I went to his parents, both good friends to my family and I, and I told them of the little boys’ condition. My friends’ death, no matter how tragic, should not have been in vain. Regardless of any racial spite my friends parents or I may have momentarily had, I convinced them to donate my friends organs, namely his kidneys. One of them went to an elderly man, but the other one went to the little boy my friend tried to help in the first place.I am ashamed to admit the fact that I momentarily felt outrag...
