1
It was the Summer of 2009. I was sitting in a corner at Dead Poet Books in Las Vegas, reading from a pile of books, magazines, and binders of clippings that the store owner had introduced for my research. I was looking for the biographies of the artists that have died young to write for a radio show episode I was co-producing and co-hosting those days. A little newspaper clipping caught my attention. The store owner came over to check on me and see if I was still good with the material she’d given me. “That’s Lin Newborn.” She said she sensed I might need more info when I didn’t move.
The words on the paper both made sense and did not. The smartphone’s influence to look up everything immediately wasn’t in full effect then, and something about the story had brought back too many thoughts and emotions. I listened to her recollection of Spit’s life and death, a young artist with a loud mouth against inhumane thoughts and deeds that harm others; his poetry and singing were fiery and sharp, and he was fearless. He was also only 24 when he was murdered. I counted. We were the same age. My childhood and adolescence were tainted with loss and tragedy due to war, political turmoil, and mass executions. Here’s the thing, though: a child’s mind mainly sees and seeks life . As a grown-up, and especially after being hit with the universality of thinking more about mortality due to becoming a parent myself, these stories also hit differently. Lin “Spit” Newborn’s had found its spot in my thoughts. What if he were still around? Would I have met him, being a punk rock fan, loving poetry, and living in Vegas at the time?
2
A few years later, one of my closest friends mentioned his friendship with Spit. Since I don’t live in Vegas anymore, we decided he would tell me the story with all the details during my next visit. One evening before that visit, a former student of mine messaged me. A part of his message was about the unsettling thoughts after he had read about Spit’s story and how young he was. I counted. My student was born in the same year that Spit’s life was taken. During my next Vegas visit, I recorded my friend telling the story of Spit to show it to my former student and to work on it as a project later, hopefully.
3
Fourteen years after that summer day at Dead Poet Books, a friend and colleague invited me to help make a documentary on the culture and events that led to Spit’s murder. Many things have changed during these years, but the hatred that harmed and took lives, like Spit’s and his friend who also got murdered, still exists. Now I have walked on the same streets Spit had, have friends who called him brothers and sisters, and have also met Spit’s sister. An encounter I’ll never forget.
Dead Poet Books closed shop. Those who know the owners have many tales about the magic of that place, and I’ll cherish mine. I was supposed to be there on that brutally hot August Vegas day, so a fairly-like lady would tell me the story of a young man who loved humanity fiercely. And he’ll live on so long as we continue to tell his story.
Learn more about our entire filmmaking team or how you can contribute to the production of Murdered on the Fourth of July.