Jonathan Dos Santos, 16, had only been dead a few short hours in June 2015 when the Boston home where he lived with his parents and 9-year-old sister began to fill with relatives.

His mother, Laura, was inconsolable, crying out her only son’s name over and over again: “Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan!” The boy had been fatally shot while riding his bicycle to a relative’s house just a few blocks away.

In the kitchen at the Dos Santos house, a mercy meal that would go on for days had started to take shape. It was simple, just a box of pastries  from Dunkin’ Donuts. Mourners were probably also served coffee, if they felt up to tasting it.

My job as a reporter for The Boston Globe brought me to this sad scene. As often happens, I was dispatched to the home to try to interview a family who had been plunged into indescribable grief by an act of street violence.

The scenes inside these homes share some common threads. There’s lots of anguish, and there’s also a lot of food. The act of gathering around a table to share bread is basic to human beings, and in  times of grief, food can help heal the wounds inflicted by loss and violence.

But what I’ve learned in my years covering crime and the people it touches is that sometimes taste has no bearing on food’s ability to alleviate pain.

Several days after Dos Santos was murdered, I returned to his family home, because two teenagers had been arrested in connection to his death. The kitchen table that had once held just a single box of doughnuts was now crammed with plates of couscous and tins of fried foods.

Mourners told me about who had been at the house to pay their respects since my last visit, and the food and drink they brought with them to ease the heartache.

At every turn, someone asked me if I wanted something to eat. I demurred. But, at some point, I was presented with a plate of food and felt I could no longer decline. It wasn’t about food anymore; it was about connecting with a family in their grief.

The elements of the plate made no sense: there were room temperature chicken nuggets with dipping sauce, slices of cheese, and a slice of peanut butter pie, drizzled with chocolate and caramel, for dessert.

I couldn’t even remember the last time that I had tasted chicken nuggets.

After I finished my interviews, I retreated to my car. Raising the hatch of my Ford Escape SUV, I climbed into the back so I could file my story before deadline.

One of the Dos Santos cousins passed by and told me she was en route to get more food. She returned a short time later with a fresh tray of sandwiches and asked if I’d like to try one.

I politely declined. I had already had my first chicken nuggets in years. They had hit the spot and will always remind me of Jonathan Dos Santos.  

 

 

Laura Crimaldi ’01 is a Metro reporter for The Boston Globe who has been covering news in New England since 2001. She is graduate of Smith College where she majored in Comparative Literature  and spent her junior year abroad studying in Geneva. Crimaldi lives in Winthrop, Mass., with her husband, photojournalist, Mark Garfinkel.

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