Not a Moment, a Movement

West End families and friends rally after the shooting death of 11-year-old Domonic Davis and say, ”enough.”
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(From left) Ali Rivzi, Issac Davis, Mitch Morris, and Rev. Todd O’Neal

Photograph by Devyn Glista

Issac Davis and his son Domonic practiced a favorite Friday night ritual. As Issac dressed to go out, his son—the boy he described as “my little stylist”—would offer fashion tips. “Wear those glasses, Dad.” “Try that jacket.”

Friday nights are quieter these days in Davis’s Fairfield house, his faithful shadow no longer by his side. Domonic was killed November 3 in a drive-by shooting at a playground just a hopscotch leap from his West End home.

Domonic was a sixth-grader at Cincinnati College Preparatory Academy, a fun-loving kid who dreamed of growing up to become a basketball star or a rap artist or maybe even a barber like the dad he adored. He was 11 years old.

Sometimes Davis senses his son’s presence when he gets ready for a night out. “Domonic is still helping me out,” he says. “I still hear his voice.”

People all over the city, it seems, continue to hear Domonic’s voice, as a shocked community has rallied to reduce gun violence following the mass shooting that took his life. Four other children and one adult suffered gunshot wounds when an assailant in a dark sedan fired 22 rounds into a crowd of children in the Laurel Playground.

The tragedy proved to be part of a disturbing trend in 2023, which saw a 29-percent spike in shootings in Cincinnati involving youths 21 and under. The previous year, the city’s gun homicide rate (19.4 per 100,000 population) was the 15th-worst for U.S. cities with populations larger than 250,000 according to gun-safety group Everytown USA.

Mayor Aftab Pureval called the November shootings “sickening and unimaginable.” Veteran activists have joined forces with young volunteers to combat the problem that many have called a public health emergency. It’s as if the community collectively declared Enough.

A Cincinnati newcomer,—Ali Rizvi, was so moved by Domonic’s death that he organized the March to End Gun Violence in April. “There was something about the death of a young boy that galvanized a lot of people,” says the Cincinnati Public Schools social worker. “An 11-year-old is about as innocent as humankind can be.”

“This is not a moment, it’s a movement,” Bishop Ennis Tait said in an emotional speech opening the Anti-Gun Violence Summit in June. He summoned a minister’s eloquence as he closed his remarks: “God will hold you to account not just for the things you have done, but for the things that you haven’t done. God will call you out for those omissions. Every movement needs energy to stay alive. I urge you to leave this room committing yourselves to doing more.”

Davis, 48, has taken that message to heart, emerging as a prominent presence in this new movement despite his crippling grief and a lifelong struggle with stage fright. “My son did not deserve to die, and I feel like I should advocate for him,” he says.

Issac Davis and his son Dominic.

Photograph courtesy Issac Davis


Marchers thronged the streets of the West End on April 6 as the Cincinnati College Preparatory Academy band kept up a joyful beat. They gathered at the school auditorium for a town hall meeting in which residents and community leaders brainstormed strategies for change.

Rizvi could hardly have imagined this moment when he and his wife, Emily, moved from New York City to Cincinnati in August 2023 to start new jobs as social workers for Cincinnati Public Schools. Activism wasn’t on their agenda; the couple was too preoccupied with unpacking boxes.

That all changed when Rizvi came to work at Hays-Porter Elementary School the Monday morning after the mass shooting. Sadness hung over the school like a dense early morning fog. “Even though Domonic attended a different school, they all knew each other,” he says. “The West End really is like a village.”

Some of Rizvi’s traumatized students—pre-kindergartners through sixth graders—had been on the scene at Laurel Playground. “You would think they were living in a war zone,” he says. “The way they approach things psychologically is a state of disaster preparedness.”

Nearly every kid in the West End knows someone who has died. Schoolchildren hear gunfire as routinely as they hear a car backfiring—and they can tell the difference. “My students are growing up believing they have a life expectancy of 21,” says Rizvi. “They are experiencing a mid-life crisis when they’re 8 years old.”

When Pureval held an assembly at Hays-Porter addressing the issue of gun violence, Rizvi privately asked him, “What can we do? I am at a loss.” When Rizvi suggested an anti-gun violence march, Pureval promised, “I will be there.”

Rizvi anticipated that he would take a back seat to more seasoned Cincinnati activists. When it became clear he was expected to assume the reins, he leaned heavily on his friend and mentor, the Rev. Todd O’Neal of the House of Joy Christian Ministries, a longtime civil rights activist. “Hey, Rev, I need your help,” he told him. “I don’t have roots in the community, and I don’t want to be the outsider coming in and telling people what to do.”

O’Neal supported Rizvi every step of the way, ultimately taking part in the march and leading the prayer at the town hall event. “That was crucial,” Rizvi recalls. “I had never tried to lead anything like that, and I was definitely outside of my comfort zone.”

The larger Cincinnati community also stepped up in a big way. Members of City Council, the Cincinnati Board of Education, and the West End Community Council jumped on board, as did U.S. Rep. Greg Landsman and State Rep. Dani Isaacsohn. The city’s special events department made a donation of $5,000 to cover permit costs and other fees, while the police department waived fees for a police detail and used special events officers instead of charging organizers for off-duty officers at an hourly rate. The parks department and traffic and engineering department also waived their permit fees.

“Cincinnati is relatively large, but it has this tight-knit community feel, almost like a neighborhood,” says Rizvi. “I realized that if you call your elected officials and say something with some level of sincerity and passion, nine out of 10 will be there to support you.”

Rizvi opened the town hall with a moment of silence for Domonic and for other loved ones taken by gun violence. “Your presence today is heartwarming because it represents the strength, unity, and determination of your community,” he said. “And it’s profoundly sad because Domonic should still be with us. We are here because our kids deserve to grow up in a world where the fear of violence isn’t part of their daily lives. Our children deserve a future filled with hope, not heartbreak and grieving.”

The march was conceived as a one-day event to plant the seeds for future projects and new partnerships. Like many of the city’s longtime activists, Rizvi remains laser-focused on creating change at the neighborhood level—in his case the West End—by fostering mentorships and youth activities, from the arts to gardening to basketball to culinary school.

“My primary focus is getting kids involved with things that give them a sense of purpose,” he says. “A kid who isn’t bored is a kid more likely to be on right track. I know this from my own life. In high school I got involved in some dumb things, and my parents and a few mentors saved my life. Without them, I would have nothing meaningful now.”

Rizvi advocates for common-sense gun laws that protect children, but acknowledges that legislative change is only part of the solution. “We adults and kids alike must also call for an immediate ceasefire in our community,” he said at the April rally. “We understand that much of the violence in the community stems from the cycles of retaliation and vengeance for past injustices. This retaliatory violence only fuels more suffering, more loss, and more heartbreak.”

Domonic’s shooting death sparked the March to End Gun Violence on April 6.

Photograph courtesy Ali Rizvi and Issac Davis


Bishop Tait struck an inspirational tone in welcoming remarks at the June 1 Anti-Gun Violence Summit, illuminating the collaborative nature of the community’s fight against gun violence. “We are talking about a different fentanyl, the drug of despair,” he said. “We are talking about a different crack, the drug of character assassination. And we are talking about a different weed, the drug of weariness. When we abuse those drugs, it brings on violence.”

Panelists throughout the day-long event in Avondale featured survivors, activists, and city officials—including Pureval—as well as Hamilton County Sheriff Charmaine McGuffey and Capt. Mark Burns and Health Program Manager Karen Rumsey from the Cincinnati Police Department.

The participants’ diversity demonstrates the way that various agencies have been working together to support the family since Domonic’s death, says Rumsey. “In the past everyone was more in our own silos,” she says. “Since Domonic’s death, agencies are coming together more, talking together more, and there is room for everybody at the table. We can’t do this work alone.”

Issac Davis struggled to say the simple words “Good morning” as he took the stage along with other survivors. “I haven’t been able to say Good morning since November 3,” he said. “Domonic’s killer is still out there. He could kill more kids.”

Nearly a decade ago, Davis lost another of his children, then-3-year-old daughter Iyana, to brain cancer. For more than a year as she fought cancer, he stood vigil at her bedside every day.

Iyana’s illness inspired Davis to turn his life around. He’d been running the streets during his youth in Price Hill, even spending brief periods in jail. “I sold drugs and carried guns to protect myself,” he recalls. “When my daughter got sick, that’s when I really changed. I just focused on her. I couldn’t be in jail.”

With Domonic’s death, the family experienced a different kind of grief and shock. Davis doesn’t remember his frantic drive to the hospital after receiving the news that his son had been shot. “I don’t know how I made it downtown,” he says. “It’s all a blank.”

He hadn’t reached the hospital when a second call came in: A sheet had been draped over Domonic’s body. “I didn’t get to say goodbye,” says Davis. “We had to wait for three days to get his body. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”

And that was only the beginning of the family’s ordeal. Davis has grown increasingly frustrated that the murder remains unsolved and that few witnesses have come forward. “My son grew up in the community, and you would think that people would want justice,” he says. “I understand that they’re scared because they live here, but we cannot continue to allow these guys to control our community. If we keep being scared, then the next time it could be your brother or your nephew or your son.”

The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives has issued a $5,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of anyone involved in the mass shooting. “Why is the reward only $5,000? You would think my son was out there committing crimes,” says Davis. “You would think he was the intended target instead of an innocent 11-year-old who loved living downtown and loved his neighborhood and his friends.”

Where’s the urgency, Davis asks, that would have resulted if five children had been shot in an affluent neighborhood such as Wyoming or Mariemont? Why are the sentences relatively light when a young Black man is murdered? “This keeps happening time after time,” he says. “These guys are still on the street. Are they waiting for them to strike again?”

It’s not only young people’s physical safety that haunts him; it’s the psychological well-being of children like his son’s schoolmates. “They don’t realize they have been in trauma or how much this affects them,” he says. “When you look at them, they’re still giggling, still playing. They are so used to the violence, and it’s become a part of their lives. That’s terrible.”

Davis’s concerns were borne out by statistics gathered and presented at the June summit by Carole Womeldorf, director of operations for the Community Peace Builders Network. It’s an umbrella organization for community youth outreach agencies such as Positive Force in Avondale, Save Our Youth Kings and Queens in Winton Terrace, and Peace & Hope Lifestyle in East Westwood.

“This is a public health emergency that stems from adverse childhood experiences, such as abuse and neglect,” says Womeldorf. Citing the Center for Community Resilience at George Washington University, she adds, “It stems from incredibly ready access to cheap guns, addiction, incarceration, environmental racism, homelessness, and violence or mental illness in the home. The antidotes are safe and stable neighborhoods, community advocacy and agency, connectedness, good schools, living wages, affordable housing, fair policing, and access to money.”

From May to October, every year since 2019, Womeldorf notes, Cincinnati averages 44 shootings per month. Such statistics, disturbing as they are, don’t begin to capture the scope of the problem. “Each shooting affects so many people,” she says. “Imagine if you’re the mother, other schoolkids, medical professionals, or first responders. The violence against children hits people in a way they can’t shake off.”


“There is so much pain out there,” says Mitch Morris. “Every time another life is lost, I think about all the mothers and fathers who’ve lost a child.”

Photograph courtesy Ali Rizvi and Issac Davis

The excitement was palpable as the chartered bus pulled away from the Save Our Youth Kings and Queens office on July 18. “Washington, D.C.!” the kids shouted as they headed out for their first visit to the nation’s capital.

“Who says you can’t have a fun trip and learn things at the same time?” Markayla Alexander says now, describing how she was awed by the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial. Justyce Davis, a huge fan of the musical Hamilton, marveled at the marble statues of the Founding Fathers in the U.S. Capitol. “It was an incredible experience to be not just outside of Winton Terrace but outside of our city,” Alexander says as she prepares to record a podcast about the student trip.

That’s exactly the kind of impact Mitch Morris imagined when he founded Kings and Queens five years ago. “I want them to know there is more to this world than what they see every day in this neighborhood,” says Morris, who has been working for 40 years to end gun violence. In 2022, he was invited to the White House for the signing of the Safer Communities Act.

As a mentor and recruiter for the Phoenix Program at Cincinnati Works, which assists people living in poverty find employment, Morris responds to shootings and sponsors community events aimed at stopping gun violence for young adults. The Kings and Queens program was born when younger children started approaching him, asking, “Mr. Mitch, what about me? I need something, too.”

Today the program, located in a Winton Terrace civic building, welcomes about 65 neighborhood children a day for free meals and a wide variety of activities and services: karate classes, dance lessons, tutoring, a computer lab, video game room, cosmetology space, and a recording studio. It’s a place, Morris says, where kids can be kids for a few hours, no matter how dire their situation at home.

“There’s a king or a queen inside of you,” he tells his young charges. “It’s a matter of surrounding yourselves with the right people to bring out the king or queen in you.”

Ending gun violence has been a lifelong mission for Morris, 67, who’s comforted far too many grieving mothers and fathers. “There is so much pain out there,” he says. “Every time another life is lost, I think about all the mothers and fathers and the look on their faces when they realize they’ve lost a child.”

Mental health counselor Sherri Heidelburg is one of those grieving mothers; her 21-year-old autistic son, Key’olvonte, was shot to death in Avondale in 2021. She volunteers with the Kings and Queens program after work, hoping to serve as a mentor to young people just as so many others mentored her son. “What Mitch is doing is really close to my heart,” she says. “It’s needed more than people know. You hear about gun violence all the time, but you don’t really think about how many people are impacted. The reach is so wide—my whole church family, hundreds of people—and that was just my child.”

The Kings and Queens program takes a holistic approach involving the entire family. Morris is focused on ending the cycle of revenge killings, warning young men not to seek vengeance for a friend or family member who has been killed. “If you have two brothers and one of them has been killed,” he says, “I will tell the surviving brother, You are an uncle, so help to raise your brother’s kids. That’s what your brother would want you to do. Your mother doesn’t want to lose another son to the penitentiary or the graveyard.”

Morris isn’t speaking hyperbole; he knows one mother who’s lost three sons to gun violence. “This is a crisis in our community,” he says. “I’m embedded in this fight, and I’m going to stay in it as long as the good Lord gives me the strength to stand.”


“We are here because our kids deserve to grow up in a world where the fear of violence isn’t part of their daily lives. Our children deserve a future filled with hope, not heartbreak and grieving.” —Ali Rizvi (left in tie)

Photograph courtesy Ali Rizvi and Issac Davis

Reminders of Domonic are everywhere during the Davis family’s road trip to Clearwater, Florida, in August: a framed photograph enshrined in every hotel room, pillows that his brothers and sisters brought from home imprinted with his image, the names “Domonic” and “Iyana” etched in the sand on Clearwater Beach. “We were definitely missing the life of the party,” Davis says of his son.

Yet it was a healing trip in many ways, a chance for carefree days at Universal Studios and the beach after so many months of anxiety. The hubbub provided a welcome respite from the unaccustomed quiet at home. On his 30-minute drive to work at the barber shop in Clifton, Davis no longer plays music in his car. He says he drives in silence, reflecting on life and loss.

Davis has already lost two children and can’t bear the thought of losing another. “I’ve been on pins and needles about the safety of my other kids,” he says. He lectures the older children in much the same way that he once lectured Domonic: “These streets are real. You can’t get involved with stuff. Don’t get caught up in the beef between Evanston and downtown. Be careful with your social media posts.”

The family celebrates Iyana’s birthday every year, raising money for other families at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital and releasing butterflies or balloons at her gravesite. Domonic no doubt will be remembered with similar rituals. In mid- August, Davis sponsored a youth outreach event at the Neighborhood House in the West End, offering free food and free haircuts and hairstyles. But the most profound part of Dominic’s legacy may be the efforts of his family and his community to prevent such a tragedy from happening to anyone else.

“I have been here for a long time working in the Cincinnati Police Homicide Unit and have seen these movements come and go, but usually very quickly it dies down,” says Rumsey, the police health program manager. “But since the horrible death of Domonic, this time it seems to be building rather than diminishing.”

That’s thanks in no small part to the courage and devotion of survivors like the Davis family, who have come forward to share their stories. Rumsey tells survivors, “When you speak out, you are helping to keep that person’s memory alive and bringing more meaning and purpose to a life cut short by violence.” She reminds them that everyone’s journey will be different, “but as a survivor you are the only voice for your loved one.”

As long as Cincinnati continues to lose young people to gun violence, Davis will be Domonic’s voice. “I owe it to my son,” he says.

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