A Life So Short, a Loss So Hard

Deseree Witrago sleeps on her dead baby’s blankets.

She has saved the 10-month-old girl’s last bottle with its last ounce of milk. The baby’s shoes, stained with dried blood, are in the bedroom closet. Her daughter’s little clothes are neatly folded in a dresser drawer.

Witrago’s baby, Kylah, was killed in a drive-by shooting in Compton a year ago Sunday.

As with any child’s death, the pain has been unbearable at times. The teenage mother had written a poem for Kylah before her death. It read, in part: “Baby girl, you make my world shine, and at night, you twinkle more than the stars up above will ever.”

But as fate would have it, Kylah became the only child under age 5 to die in a drive-by shooting in Los Angeles County last year, according to the coroner’s office.

Law enforcement and crime experts nationwide say gun-related tragedies involving children so young are extremely rare.

But far too often, they say, gun-related deaths can be traced to urban areas devastated by poverty.

“There is no question about it,” said Billie Weiss, director of the Injury and Violence Prevention Program of the county Department of Health Services. “Low-income neighborhoods and neighborhoods in poverty suffer from all kinds of public health issues,” Weiss said. “The people there are disadvantaged, and it’s where guns are being distributed.”

There is no question that Deseree Witrago, nicknamed China because she resembles a porcelain doll, was struggling long before she lost Kylah.

When she was younger, Witrago ran away from home often. She lived with foster families. Eventually, she spent time in Juvenile Hall for assaulting or threatening others, including a social worker in a group home for young women. She and Kylah’s father did not stay together.

If her life had gone differently, Witrago would be finishing high school soon. She currently attends Tobinworld in Glendale, a nonprofit school for youths with behavioral problems, and says she has managed to stay out of gang life despite knowing many gang members. Her oldest brother, a gang member, was shot to death two years ago.

She speaks of attending college and becoming a nurse’s aide, perhaps in a convalescent home. But Witrago also says she may quit school and live off welfare for a while.

Despite her small size, she can be aggressive. If provoked, she will fight back--either physically or verbally.

Three weeks ago she kicked a teacher’s aide in the groin. She said he was rude to her.

Standing before school Principal Charles Conrad, hands on her hips, she flatly told him she was not going to take that from anyone.

Conrad gently advised her against such behavior.

She listened politely, her almond-shaped eyes fixed on Conrad. Then she repeated that she would not tolerate rude treatment.

“Everybody messes with me, and I get tired of it,” she said later, still unapologetic.

Witrago’s tough stance is common among young women who grow up in gang-infested areas, said Meda Chesney-Lind, a University of Hawaii criminologist who specializes in studying girls, gangs and violence.

“In her community, you will not survive if every time something bad happens, you sit down and cry,” Chesney-Lind said. “There is this rush to judgment and demonization for girls that are in those communities. They have had to survive a world we can’t imagine and have suffered things that we can’t imagine.”

Witrago, who was living in a maternity group home last year, never liked taking Kylah outside. She was as worried about germs as she was about the dangers of the streets.

But last April 29, while visiting her mother, Penny Morales, in Compton, Witrago stepped outside with Kylah around 3 p.m. She was joined by her sister Lisa Morales, 28, Lisa’s 3-year-old daughter and two male friends.

Kylah reveled in the attention she received from the group. She showed off her new baby teeth. When Kylah got tired, Witrago strapped her into a stroller and gave her a snack.

Across East Cypress Street, the music was thumping. Children played and rode their bikes.

Suddenly, the leisurely Saturday afternoon conversations were interrupted by racial epithets yelled from a passing car. Someone in the vehicle fired a gun.

One bullet pierced Kylah’s little skull. She died instantly.

Lisa Morales, shot in the leg, remembers bullets barely missing her own child. A neighbor, Francesca Azebedo, was busy cleaning inside her apartment when a bullet grazed her right shoulder.

Witrago remembers struggling with her stroller’s safety belt, picking up her bloody child and running away screaming, already knowing in her heart that her baby was dead.

“Please wake up, Kylah!” she pleaded. “It’s time for your bottle!”

At Superior Court in Compton last month, Witrago listened intently to the forensics expert’s clinical explanations of how her precious baby’s life was lost.

At times Witrago’s tattoos were visible--Kylah’s name is on her left arm, her deceased brother’s name is on her right arm, and her nickname is spelled out on her hand.

Her only bit of solace came when Jesse Michael Sosa, 21, a longtime gang member and himself the father of a 10-month-old daughter, was found guilty of first-degree murder, four counts of attempted murder and assault with a deadly weapon.

Sosa, who the prosecution said was driving the car used in the shooting, is scheduled to be sentenced June 12. He faces life in prison without the possibility of parole. The person who actually fired the gun remains at large.

Witrago said her hate for Sosa remains intense.

“I want to see justice done,” she said. “I hate him for the fact that he won’t tell who did it.”

Witrago, who now lives in another Compton apartment with her mother, stepfather, uncle, two siblings and a family friend, plans to visit the scene of the shooting on Sunday. She will drop off flowers and spend the day there with friends.

“I’m going to show respect for my daughter,” she said firmly. “I want to be where my daughter was a year ago.”

Witrago continues to search for the same feelings she had when she could hold Kylah, play with her and dress her in pretty outfits.

“When I had my daughter, that was my childhood,” she said softly. “I got to play with Barbie like I always wanted to. I couldn’t wait to get up in the morning. I couldn’t wait to give her a bath.”

Witrago believes she has found a way to ease the hurt in her heart.

She is six months pregnant. Doctors say she will have a boy this time.

“I want to be the best mom I know I can be again.”