No one expected fifty bikers at Mikey’s funeral. There was no sound in the cemetery, not a whisper, not a prickle of a breeze and no one thought anyone would hear the thunder of the many Harleys that would echo through the cemetery as they drowned out the silence that followed my son’s death. Certainly, no one would have thought a father’s quiet grief would be answered with roaring solidarity by a leather clad force of men.
When Mikey took his own life at the age of 14, he was my son. He left behind a note that came up with a four boys, senior, athletes, sons of privilege for that pushed him past the edge. He wrote, I can tell you, that they tell me to kill myself every day. “They’ll be happy now.”
It was called a tragedy by the school. It was called unfortunate but not criminal by the police. Thoughts and prayers, plus a suggestion that the funeral take place within school hours ‘so as not to inject any incidents.’ I had never felt worse. In life, I’d fail in protecting him and again death did not afford justice.
Then came Sam.
It was a man at a gas station we had used to go to after Mikey’s therapy sessions, Sam was just a man. He walked into my door a tall bearded man wearing a leather vest. He added that his nephew died the same way. Same reason. Different school. The only thing he said to me was ‘No one defended him.’ He handed me a number. “Call us. Just presence, no hassle.”
I never called, but the night before the funeral I saw Mikey’s journal. Screen shots of messages urging him to die, to ‘do everyone a favour’ on page after page of torment. I dialed the number and my hands shook.
The next morning, they came. It was 50 bikers, who had formed a silent honor guard. Steel Angels. I also wore leather vests and sun worn faces, military patches and quiet eyes which told me they had been here before. They were not there for intimidation purposes. It was their duty to lay eyes on this. To remind the world that Mikey had mattered.
Their parents brought the four boys with them. They were now seeing who had gathered and their arrogance dissolved. That was the point. Not revenge—consequence.
The Angels stayed after the funeral. According to them, they would be speaking at the school. The principal would either let them in or else the media will get Mikey’s journal, so I warned him. He caved.
It was the first time ever in that school that something was so quiet that when Sam took that microphone, they had never heard silence. He told them Mikey’s name. Gave them what those boys had done. They told me about the cost of the silence. It went from the stories, sons and daughters lost, wounds wrought by words, not fists.
Students cried. They confessed that they had known, seen, and will to must did not say a word. It was too late for Mikey. But not for the next kid.
Ne’er did the boys go to school again. Steel Angels appeared at the games and events, watching, not threatening. A silent deterrent. Now, three districts have their anti bullying program. The principal resigned. Real change came on the agenda and the leadership changed too.
As for me, I left my job. I sold the house. I ride now, with the Angels. I ask other grieving fathers what it’s like to grieve a young black male. I give them my hand. My name. My story. I hear what they cannot speak yet.
When I hear thunder now I am not afraid. It’s not just weather. It’s a sound of something arriving.
That is the sound of not being alone.
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