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I hate that Kyla O'Neal can just be erased days after her death because we're so used to this.
I hate that Kyla O'Neal's story can become another digital headline you have to find in the archives as we all move on to the next tragedy. Because we're used to this.
But the 31-year-old, a pregnant mother of four who was shot and killed, allegedly by the father of her then-unborn child, in the parking lot of the Amazon Fulfillment Center in Lakeville last Sunday, is more than 400 words in a news story, two minutes in a video or a spate of social media posts.
According to a GoFundMe established by her oldest sister, she was known as "Princess Dior" to those who loved her. Her youngest child — she'd named him Messiah, per family members — was delivered at a local hospital by cesarean section and continues to fight for his life. Donte R. McCray, the child's father who told police multiple stories about the incident, has been charged with second-degree intentional murder. He admitted, according to police, that he had a weapon in the vehicle and discharged the gun after he and O'Neal had argued. Police officials have not released all of the evidence against McCray, but family members said he threatened her and them.
It's a familiar story. But I won't get used to this, the ongoing partner violence by men that cost women their lives. Data from the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence shows that 1 in 7 women have been injured by an intimate partner and more than 20,000 calls are made to domestic violence hotlines every day.
I do not know the particulars of O'Neal's relationship with McCray beyond the ominous environment family members said McCray — who allegedly told O'Neal, according to family members, that he would kill her if she ever had another man around their kids — created. I only know how their relationship ended.
O'Neal, a hairstylist who was nine months pregnant as she studied to be a nurse, had ambitions. And then, they were dashed by violence.
Her death magnified my concerns for my three daughters. I know I can help them navigate a predominantly white landscape. I feel confident in that. I have those experiences. But my greatest fears center on their future relationships and interactions with men.
I felt so prepared to offer advice and perspective when they were younger. When I read stories about women such as O'Neal, however, I understand that racism alone is not their greatest obstacle. It's also the men they will meet and our collective history of destruction over love.
Whenever you write a column like this one, the "alpha males" show up in the comments and accuse you of patronizing or saying things to impress women or earn their favor or admiration. They believe their emotional stagnation, uncompassionate mannerisms and apathetic nature exemplify a preferred version of masculinity — the same masculinity that killed O'Neal and other women like her.
I've met a multitude of women who were harmed by those men.
I was 14 years old when a friend — I had a crush on her, but she introduced me to the friend zone years before it became a thing — told me she'd been sexually assaulted at a party. I have a friend now who has a concealed weapon in every room of her home, years after a violent assault from a former boyfriend changed her life. I know another woman who did not tell a soul about her husband's abuse for nearly a decade.
I did not understand then how those interactions with men could shape a woman's responses and reactions.
Years ago, I was in San Diego when I got into an elevator at a hotel and stood next to a woman I didn't know. We both pushed the button for the sixth floor. In a random scenario, our rooms were next to each other's. As I trailed her on my way to my room, her walk became a strut and then her strut became a sprint. She ran into her room and slammed the door.
I told a nonwhite friend of mine about the incident and assumed she'd tell me I'd just experienced a racist encounter.
"Get off on another floor next time," she said.
What?
Why should I have to adjust? Why do I have to …
"We don't know who you are in those situations," she said. "We only know what you could be."
The women I know have a set of safety mechanisms I'm sure my daughters will develop, too. But they don't always guarantee their security. They can smile at someone at work and that can become a precursor for harassment. They can tell a man they don't want to date him and that can put them in danger. They can post a photo on Instagram and their DMs might fill up with creeps.
O'Neal trusted a man, a violent man. I look at her photo and see the brightness and sunshine her friends and family members have described. O'Neal had plans.
Today, three children and a fourth still battling to survive have all been left behind. I'm not just sad. I'm angry.
I always assumed a racial slur would constitute the scariest N-word in my daughters' lives.
I never imagined that word would be "No."
Myron Medcalf is a local columnist for the Star Tribune and a national writer and radio host for ESPN. His column appears in print on Sundays twice a month and also online.
