The loss of a good person, neighbor, and friend cannot be truly measured. Even so, the loss of another feels exponentially magnified when caused by senseless violence. I do not want to speak on behalf of Renee when so many already have, so I opt instead to magnify the words of the person who knew her best.
The following excerpt is from a statement written by Renee’s wife, Becca:
“This kindness of strangers is the most fitting tribute because if you ever encountered my wife, Renee Nicole Macklin Good, you know that above all else, she was kind. In fact, kindness radiated out of her. Renee sparkled. She literally sparkled. I mean, she didn’t wear glitter but I swear she had sparkles coming out of her pores. All the time. You might think it was just my love talking but her family said the same thing. Renee was made of sunshine.”
I refuse to give space to discuss Renee’s murderer, nor will I acknowledge those who believe her death to be justified. She is a martyr. She is a victim of concentrated hate and unchecked state violence. However, no matter how senseless this all may seem, Renee died doing what many of us would not do. She came to the aid of her neighbors without hesitation. This is a lesson we should all remember, even when we find ourselves outnumbered and outgunned.
Renee cared about the world she lived in and her spread of love is apparent. She was a gift to her community. She was a wife, a mother, a neighbor, a friend, a writer, a Christian, and a human being. Do not forget her. I leave you with one of Renee’s poems, a remarkable and award-winning piece titled, “On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs.”
i want back my rocking chairs,
solipsist sunsets,
& coastal jungle sounds that are tercets from cicadas and pentameter from the hairy legs of cockroaches.
i’ve donated bibles to thrift stores
(mashed them in plastic trash bags with an acidic himalayan salt lamp—
the post-baptism bibles, the ones plucked from street corners from the meaty hands of zealots, the dumbed-down, easy-to-read, parasitic kind):
remember more the slick rubber smell of high gloss biology textbook pictures; they burned the hairs inside my nostrils,
& salt & ink that rubbed off on my palms.
under clippings of the moon at two forty five AM I study&repeat
ribosome
endoplasmic—
lactic acid
stamen
at the IHOP on the corner of powers and stetson hills—
i repeated & scribbled until it picked its way & stagnated somewhere i can’t point to anymore, maybe my gut—
maybe there in-between my pancreas & large intestine is the piddly brook of my soul.
it’s the ruler by which i reduce all things now; hard-edged & splintering from knowledge that used to sit, a cloth against fevered forehead.
can i let them both be? this fickle faith and this college science that heckles from the back of the classroom
now i can’t believe—
that the bible and qur’an and bhagavad gita are sliding long hairs behind my ear like mom used to & exhaling from their mouths “make room for wonder”—
all my understanding dribbles down the chin onto the chest & is summarized as:
life is merely
to ovum and sperm
and where those two meet
and how often and how well
and what dies there.
Rest in power, Renee. We will not forget you.
