Shortly after four o’clock one cloudy day in mid-March, Maria Jose Gonzalez noticed something odd. Her 15-year-old son, Derbing, hadn’t been in touch on his way to soccer practice like he usually would. “I always knew that at that time he was on the bus,” she recalled, speaking in Spanish.
”He always sent me text messages every day,” Gonzalez said. “That day he didn’t send me one.”
Instead, she got a call from one of Derbing’s three friends. They were walking to soccer practice in East Oakland when another teenager approached them from behind with a gun. He demanded Derbing’s backpack, then shot and killed him.
That night, community members, teachers, coaches, family and grieving teenagers came to leave tributes for Derbing outside his home and at the site of his shooting. In the days and weeks that followed, those memorials kept growing. He was buried on April 1, when his family began a nine-day novena prayer which is traditional in the family’s native Nicaragua.
Today, their small apartment hosts a quieter memorial. In one corner of the living room, a large portrait of Derbing overlooks a stand filled with framed photos and candles, with flowers gathered on the floor around it.
New beginnings, shattered futures
Gonzalez and Derbing Alvarado Sr., Derbing’s father, came to the United States from Nicaragua two decades ago. Derbing was their firstborn and the best surprise for his newlywed parents who quickly settled into a routine of work and family life after he was born. Alvarado Sr. said his son’s arrival prompted him to leave bad habits behind so he could be his best example.
Gonzalez and Alvarado Sr. have vivid memories of the delicate, precious life that had filled their arms and days. They’d frequent the hospital as new parents because Derbing’s cries always worried them. “There were sleepless days and nights with him, because [as new parents], [we didn’t know] whether he cried with joy or cried because he was hungry, but we’d run to the hospital with him,” Alvarado Sr. said as he glanced at Gonzalez with a soft laugh. “Because we loved him, because we wanted the best for him,” they said.
Fifteen-year-old Derbing was a sophomore at Cristo Rey De La Salle East Bay High School in Oakland and a student-athlete of the Oakland Genesis youth soccer program. He loved listening to corridos and wanted to become a lawyer or a detective.
“He played music on his speaker that I gifted him and he’d hung it in the bathroom and played only music by Fuerza Regida or by Eduin Caz,” Alvarado Sr. said.
His dad had been teaching him to drive and had hoped to buy him a car so he could get to school safely. But he wouldn’t get around to it.
Instead, Gonzalez and Alvarado Sr. marked Derbing’s birthday at the cemetery, three weeks away from his 16th birthday. “If I give you a photo [from last spring] you’re going to get scared,” Alvarado Sr. told El Tímpano, explaining how his son’s death affected his health and even his appearance since.
A singular loss, a systemic tragedy
Derbing’s death was emblematic of a broader and all-too-frequent reality: Gun violence has significant and widespread effects that go beyond fatalities and cause lasting health problems across families and communities. A public health report from June 2025 by the Alameda County Public Health Department explains that gun violence is linked to increased rates of heart disease, stroke, diabetes and asthma among families, friends, and those who witness a shooting or hear gunshots.
For young people, the effects are especially profound. Children who live in neighborhoods with high levels of gun violence often experience repeated trauma from hearing gunshots, witnessing shootings, or losing loved ones. The ripple effects of gun violence include declines in academic achievement among young people and poor psychological, emotional and physical health across the lifespans of family and friends of the victims.
Nathan Montes, 15, recalls spring breaks spent playing video games all day and night with Derbing, his best friend. “We played video games from like 4 pm to 4 am,” he said. “We wouldn’t go to sleep, and we had to put bedtimes on ourselves. That was fun.”
The tragedy has devastated his tight group of friends and soccer teammates. Montes’ daily life has radically changed. The first day of spring break coincided with Derbing’s birthday, and he spent the day at the cemetery with their friends.
They met as four-year-olds in preschool and instantly clicked. They attended the same elementary, middle and high schools.
“It’s like we were twins – we didn’t look like each other – but we thought about the world the same way, we had the same goal,” Montes said. That goal was to get their families out of Oakland. “It’s hard to explain,” Montes added. “Like I don’t see myself anywhere other than Oakland, but I see me getting my parents out.”
Most gun homicides in Alameda County are concentrated in Oakland, according to the Alameda County Public Health Department report. In 2023, there were 110 gun homicides there; the rest of the county had 31. Even when considering the total number of people present between different cities in the county (including those who live there and who are there during the day for work, school, and other activities) Oakland’s rate remains significantly higher than any other jurisdiction.
“I be getting sad,” Montes said, speaking softly and looking down at his hands. “Most of the time it happens whenever I just turn to his [soccer] team, and I don’t see a big guy there. It hurts.” He’s lost motivation for activities he and Derbing once enjoyed together, like playing video games and soccer. It’s not the same without him.
Montes says his friends have helped him navigate the aftermath and that a city-funded program has also taken him and Derbing’s closest friends on outings as a distraction. His parents are now afraid to let him leave the house.
“We are sick from sadness”
The city funds various programs and initiatives to support youth affected by gun violence, especially community healing services offered by organizations such as CURYJ, Restorative Justice for Oakland Youth, Urban Peace Movement and Youth Alive.
They support by helping victims complete compensation applications, submitting relocation requests, paying funeral expenses, as well as offering therapeutic support like healing and restorative activities. They also organize events such as Town Nights, a series of community gatherings held on Friday evenings during the summer months to provide a safe space for people of all ages to come together, socialize and play.
But the harsh reality of youth violence continues to weigh heavily on families across Oakland. In the case of Gonzalez and Alvarado Sr., the emotional and physical toll of losing their son has been devastating. Grief has disrupted their lives in every way. Alvarado Sr. lost his job after taking time off. “They told me they were very sorry, but it was a long time [to have to wait for me],” Alvarado Sr. said. “But how was I going to work?” When Alvarado Sr. felt ready to return, his employer told him they no longer had a job for him.
Families are often left with few options after a loss. Bereavement leave policies vary by workplace. In California, under current law, employers with five or more employees must allow eligible employees to take up to five days of unpaid leave. Time off for mental health impacts, like grief, depression, anxiety or disruptions caused by a family member’s death may be covered by the State Disability Insurance. But this benefit doesn’t guarantee job security, and if the employee isn’t actively being treated by a qualifying physician or practitioner, they can be denied State Disability Insurance coverage.
Since losing Derbing, Alvarado Sr. says he has had a hard time focusing. “ I forget things. I forget everything because I’m so devastated,” he said. He hadn’t slept in days before his interview with El Tímpano. As he spoke, he often pulled out his phone to show photos of Derbing. He held back tears. Other times, a small smile would slip through as he talked about how good his son was, and how proud he was of the way they raised him.
“ We are sick from sadness. We are drying up like plants, withering,” he said.
Soft-spoken Gonzalez is often holding her hands together in her lap as she talks. But there’s a persistent undercurrent of sorrow in her voice. “It’s learning to live with the pain and the absence of the child in the home and the complete change in life one undergoes,” she said.
Her daily routine has changed significantly. She frequently visits the doctor now, and a caseworker visits their home once a week to help her cope with the emotional aftermath. Gonzalez says she draws strength from their daughter, 11-year-old Allison, who seems to be coping with her brother’s loss without fully understanding it yet. “Half of my life went with him,” she said. “The other half is here with my daughter.”
The system isn’t built for survivors
Tinish Hollins has seen the long-term mental health effects of trauma on families, including her own. Growing up in the Bayview-Hunter Point neighborhood in San Francisco, she witnessed a rise in violence, particularly gun violence, in the 1990s and early 2000s. She saw how the Black and brown communities affected by it were often blamed for the violence they experienced. Families losing loved ones were not treated with dignity or given the support they needed.
“I lost a lot of close friends, people I grew up with,” Hollins said. “One year we had 101 homicides, and 22 of those homicides were people that I had direct relationships with, grew up with, went to school with. Families came up together and I started this work actually supporting their mothers.”
Hollins, who is the Executive Director of Californians for Safety and Justice, lost two of her brothers to gun violence, one in 2013 and another in 2017.
“I thought I knew a lot until I went through it personally,” she said.
It opened her eyes to the systemic issues present in neighborhoods more vulnerable to gun violence. The fact that her brothers were incarcerated—they were both on probation at the time they were killed—meant she and her family became criminalized, as well. Hollins and her family wouldn’t be eligible for burial assistance and later she found out that their family was also ineligible for victims’ compensation.
“Our whole identity as survivors was erased,” Hollins said. “So many things were put on the shoulders of me and my family.”
Under-resourced communities, despite being exposed to high levels of trauma and violence, often have limited access to resources from the state. There are barriers to culturally-appropriate care, such as mental health services, and families may face difficulties accessing compensation, Hollins said.
Victims of violent crimes may be eligible for compensation through the Office for Victims of Crime, part of the U.S. Department of Justice. The agency manages the Crime Victims Fund, created by the Victims of Crime Act of 1984, financed by fines and penalties from federal criminal convictions.
Typically, the fund’s resources are distributed through state-run crime victim compensation programs. Across the state, the California Victim Compensation Board (CalVCB) provides financial assistance to help cover medical expenses, counseling services, lost wages and funeral costs.
But in most cases, families must pay their expenses upfront and then provide receipts for reimbursement. For low-income families who are not in a financial position to do this, especially right after a traumatic event, the emotional toll can be steep, Hollins said. Even after bills have been submitted for reimbursement, CalVCB can approve or deny the claims within three months of receiving the application.
This summer, Californians for Safety and Justice advocated for a Flexible Cash for Survivors Program which would have provided $50 million in grant funding to community organizations, particularly in neighborhoods affected by violence. This flexible cash assistance would allow survivors to receive direct financial aid for needs such as having to relocate due to safety issues without requiring a police report or jumping through extensive hoops.
Hollins said a program like this one is particularly important for Black and brown communities and immigrant families who are less likely to receive help through existing systems. “When we don’t get help, it just keeps the cycle,” she said. “A lot of trauma comes from the aftermath–there’s what happened, but then there’s also how you have to live with what happened,” she added. “Your finances are affected, you can’t move, you can’t work, you can’t go to school. For young people there’s even greater challenges because they have to rely on people whose lives have been destabilized.”
Funding for the Flexible Cash for Survivors Program was not included in this year’s state budget, and the program remains on hold.
Remembering Derbing
Derbing’s death catalyzed many responses: the city organized a ceasefire walk, uniting community members in a call to end gun violence and bring peace to their neighborhoods. On May 15, Mia Bonta, Assemblymember of District 18– encompassing the East Bay, including a large portion of the city of Oakland–adjourned the senate session in memory of Derbing, with his parents in attendance.
On May 20, the City of Oakland adopted a resolution declaring April 12 as “Derbing Alvarado Day”, honoring his life.
A 16-year-old boy has been charged with killing Derbing. Gonzalez and Alvarado Sr. are asking the district attorney to charge him as an adult. “We hope they truly understand the seriousness of the matter, that it wasn’t just something that happened, or news that has come and gone,” Gonzalez said. “But something we experience every day. He did something very serious to us, something that left its mark on us.”
Alvarado Sr. said he liked one of Derbing’s corrido songs, and he’d ask his son to play it for him. “I told him, ‘If you don’t play it for me, the day I pass, you’ll see.’ It was the other way around. It’s hard,” Alvarado Sr. said.
