He was labeled the class clown almost instantly. He always seemed to argue with my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Bars, never considering her pregnancy. I remember one class, he had her chase him around the classroom while he screamed, “I’m Jerry, you’re Tom, chase me!” She, unfortunately, resigned the next week. On the playground, he would torment other students and then show off his ridiculously good gymnastics skills, as if he didn’t just make a little girl cry just because she was on the slide.
You might be wondering who this terrible child is. His name was Ricky.
I remember when he first came into room 221; I was livid. I already knew what his plan was, and as Mrs. Bar's favorite student, I could not allow that to happen. So when the principal came in and requested him to be my “buddy,” I was ready for the challenge. I knew what to do: lay down the guidelines, don’t become friends with him, and ensure we both completed our work. This plan was easy since I was on the outside. Not knowing who he was, I assumed that he was a student who had no respect for those around him, judging him based on how he acted because it was simple. Instead of just digging deeper, I created a persona about him and decided to stick with it. I treated him just like an outcast and laughed at him, instead of with him, whenever he made his jokes. I wasn’t anticipating that 7 years later, I would write an essay about his significance to me.
The plan failed the day he put down the mask of being the “class clown.” I can’t remember exactly how it happened, but I’m pretty sure we were working on our timetables and he was struggling to complete them, and he was scared to ask me for help. Not only because he didn’t want to feed into that persona that I had created for him, but he’d also created a personality for me that I didn’t necessarily fit. We both judged each other before truly getting to know one another. I wasn’t the mean girl he assumed I was; he was a lonely kid who just needed someone to talk to.
When helping him with his multiplication, I realized that I was completely wrong about him. Ricky did care about those around him. He wanted to get an education; he just didn’t know how. He didn’t know how to be a rational and calm person because he was never able to see it in his environment. I realized that Ricky didn’t grow up in a home like mine. So after that day, I swore to help him know that he was smart. I calmed him down when he began to get angry. I helped him understand the work, building up his confidence to know that he could get somewhere in life. But I also became his friend. I became someone who he could confide in, and vice-versa. We would laugh and talk for hours during recess, getting to know each other more and more every day. Ricky became my closest friend.
You might be wondering who this terrible child is. His name was Ricky.
I remember when he first came into room 221; I was livid. I already knew what his plan was, and as Mrs. Bar's favorite student, I could not allow that to happen. So when the principal came in and requested him to be my “buddy,” I was ready for the challenge. I knew what to do: lay down the guidelines, don’t become friends with him, and ensure we both completed our work. This plan was easy since I was on the outside. Not knowing who he was, I assumed that he was a student who had no respect for those around him, judging him based on how he acted because it was simple. Instead of just digging deeper, I created a persona about him and decided to stick with it. I treated him just like an outcast and laughed at him, instead of with him, whenever he made his jokes. I wasn’t anticipating that 7 years later, I would write an essay about his significance to me.
The plan failed the day he put down the mask of being the “class clown.” I can’t remember exactly how it happened, but I’m pretty sure we were working on our timetables and he was struggling to complete them, and he was scared to ask me for help. Not only because he didn’t want to feed into that persona that I had created for him, but he’d also created a personality for me that I didn’t necessarily fit. We both judged each other before truly getting to know one another. I wasn’t the mean girl he assumed I was; he was a lonely kid who just needed someone to talk to.
When helping him with his multiplication, I realized that I was completely wrong about him. Ricky did care about those around him. He wanted to get an education; he just didn’t know how. He didn’t know how to be a rational and calm person because he was never able to see it in his environment. I realized that Ricky didn’t grow up in a home like mine. So after that day, I swore to help him know that he was smart. I calmed him down when he began to get angry. I helped him understand the work, building up his confidence to know that he could get somewhere in life. But I also became his friend. I became someone who he could confide in, and vice-versa. We would laugh and talk for hours during recess, getting to know each other more and more every day. Ricky became my closest friend.
It’s hard for me to recognize things while they’re happening—and even afterwards, it still might take time for me to truly catch on. For example, I might not catch onto someone’s tone until I get home when I replay the conversation 30 times in my head. Then I’d catch the way they said that one word and how it might not have been the kindest interaction, even though I smiled the whole time.
That’s how it was on the last day of 4th grade. As Ricky and I hugged each other, I never thought it would be the last time. I simply continued my day as if it were a normal one, walking to find my grandma and tell her all about the last day of school and how excited I was to finally move up to the 3rd floor (5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th graders were located on the 3rd floor. This was basically what made you cool). Even once the new school year started, I still didn’t catch onto the fact that he wasn’t there. I was so caught up with my own life that I didn’t realize that they never said Ricky’s name during attendance.
It would take me 5 years to realize that I might not ever see Ricky again. I have no way to figure out where he might be now; I can’t even remember his last name. No one else had any connection to him because I was his only friend.
Was. I was his only friend. Why do I say that? Why do I assume that he had no life after 4th grade? Or that his life ended shortly after? Why can’t I say I was his only friend then? The “then” makes such a difference. It adds years to his life, even though I wasn’t there to witness it. It allows me to create a reality where he grows up and graduates high school.
But I just can’t do it. Ever since I started to remember who Ricky was, I’ve only thought about him in the past tense. Obviously, I can only talk about the past because that was the only time I knew him, but I talk about him in a way as if he’s dead. As if he added to the statistics of “children who don’t make it out of the south side of Chicago.” It’s not that I want Ricky to be dead. Of course not. I unimaginably miss Ricky and I want nothing more than to recognize him on the streets. I want to catch up with him and ask him how he’s doing and if he finally escaped the hellhole he lived in.
But that’s not common. I don’t come from a neighborhood where many people escape it. Even if Ricky isn’t dead physically, he might not be the same person I hoped he would be.
***
In Tyler, The Creator’s song, “911/ Mr. Lonely," he says, “I say the loudest in the room / Is probably the loneliest one in the room.” That was Ricky. I never really mentioned why he didn’t have many friends or why he acted the way he did. Of course, you might assume that it was stuff going on at home, but it was deeper than that: Ricky was going through stuff that ten-year-old me could never imagine. I mean, of course, I went through stuff too. At ten years old, I was pretty mature because of the stuff I was forced to live through, but that’s how it was for everyone at Stagg Elementary School. But for Ricky, it seemed to be ten times worse. He didn’t have anyone to lean on like I had my sister. He didn’t have caring grandparents like mine, that could protect him from his parents. He didn’t have anyone, it seemed like. He didn’t have the chance to receive what every child should be promised, love, and that’s why he acted the way he did. He sought attention from anyone who could give it to him and that resulted in him acting out every day in class. He was obnoxious because he realized that was the only way he could get someone to care. He was the “loudest” in the room because no one ever paid attention when he was quiet.
Violence and gang life engulfed us as kids, and without the right guidance, it seemed impossible to escape. Unlike me, he didn’t have parents who shielded him away from the violence that swept through our neighborhoods. Instead, he was constantly exposed to the gang life that my mom forced me to ignore. I didn’t realize that I was one of the few students who was able to get lucky, but even then it still didn’t do much. Even now I walk home fearful for my life, though I attend a highly selective school. I still attend the funerals of my loved ones who were shot and killed because that’s just how it is. You can take the kid out of Chicago, but you can’t take the Chicago out of them. No matter where you go, your life at home will follow you and that’s what I’ve realized. As I continue to open Instagram, I’ll continue to see R.I.P. posts of friends who I haven’t seen in years. Death amongst my peers has become the new normal, so I have no other choice but to assume that Ricky is dead or at least involved in that lifestyle. There’s a higher chance that he might be in jail than sitting in a classroom, remembering to breathe before acting.
I explain the topic of this essay to others and they view me as a crazy person. “Dead?” they say. They don’t understand the weariness I have of holding hope of someone surviving the streets of Chicago. They don't understand that success is not common. That Ricky did not just move states and lose contact.
Or maybe he did. Maybe this is where it starts. Maybe me writing this essay is the reason those around me continue to lose their life on the streets of Chicago: Believing that you can’t escape allows for death to hold a sense of power over you.
But what other choice do I have? There has been no help given to my city. There has been no improvement since 2016; instead, it’s gotten worse. Instead of grieving one, I grieve five in the same year. How can I think positively when the statistics are true? How can I believe that Ricky and I are different if we lived the same life as Te’arra? If we all started at the same place, isn’t it expected for us to end up there as well? The reason why my mind goes straight to death is because it’s not an extraordinary experience. It’s something that we’re supposed to be prepared for. Death is so common in my life that there aren’t many other options.
As I write this essay, I still hold hope for Ricky, though. I hope that wherever he is, he’s happy. That he remembers me because I remember him. I hope that he remembers all the times he’s made me laugh and how he taught me the importance of memory. I hope he knows how thankful I am for him and how I’d give anything to see him again. Just to make sure that he found his friends and he’s able to have that support system that he craved.
Ricky is a strong person. A strong person who lives through me, even if he is still here. He’s taught me more than I could ever teach him. I’ll always remember Ricky and wonder where he is.
That’s how it was on the last day of 4th grade. As Ricky and I hugged each other, I never thought it would be the last time. I simply continued my day as if it were a normal one, walking to find my grandma and tell her all about the last day of school and how excited I was to finally move up to the 3rd floor (5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th graders were located on the 3rd floor. This was basically what made you cool). Even once the new school year started, I still didn’t catch onto the fact that he wasn’t there. I was so caught up with my own life that I didn’t realize that they never said Ricky’s name during attendance.
It would take me 5 years to realize that I might not ever see Ricky again. I have no way to figure out where he might be now; I can’t even remember his last name. No one else had any connection to him because I was his only friend.
Was. I was his only friend. Why do I say that? Why do I assume that he had no life after 4th grade? Or that his life ended shortly after? Why can’t I say I was his only friend then? The “then” makes such a difference. It adds years to his life, even though I wasn’t there to witness it. It allows me to create a reality where he grows up and graduates high school.
But I just can’t do it. Ever since I started to remember who Ricky was, I’ve only thought about him in the past tense. Obviously, I can only talk about the past because that was the only time I knew him, but I talk about him in a way as if he’s dead. As if he added to the statistics of “children who don’t make it out of the south side of Chicago.” It’s not that I want Ricky to be dead. Of course not. I unimaginably miss Ricky and I want nothing more than to recognize him on the streets. I want to catch up with him and ask him how he’s doing and if he finally escaped the hellhole he lived in.
But that’s not common. I don’t come from a neighborhood where many people escape it. Even if Ricky isn’t dead physically, he might not be the same person I hoped he would be.
***
In Tyler, The Creator’s song, “911/ Mr. Lonely," he says, “I say the loudest in the room / Is probably the loneliest one in the room.” That was Ricky. I never really mentioned why he didn’t have many friends or why he acted the way he did. Of course, you might assume that it was stuff going on at home, but it was deeper than that: Ricky was going through stuff that ten-year-old me could never imagine. I mean, of course, I went through stuff too. At ten years old, I was pretty mature because of the stuff I was forced to live through, but that’s how it was for everyone at Stagg Elementary School. But for Ricky, it seemed to be ten times worse. He didn’t have anyone to lean on like I had my sister. He didn’t have caring grandparents like mine, that could protect him from his parents. He didn’t have anyone, it seemed like. He didn’t have the chance to receive what every child should be promised, love, and that’s why he acted the way he did. He sought attention from anyone who could give it to him and that resulted in him acting out every day in class. He was obnoxious because he realized that was the only way he could get someone to care. He was the “loudest” in the room because no one ever paid attention when he was quiet.
Violence and gang life engulfed us as kids, and without the right guidance, it seemed impossible to escape. Unlike me, he didn’t have parents who shielded him away from the violence that swept through our neighborhoods. Instead, he was constantly exposed to the gang life that my mom forced me to ignore. I didn’t realize that I was one of the few students who was able to get lucky, but even then it still didn’t do much. Even now I walk home fearful for my life, though I attend a highly selective school. I still attend the funerals of my loved ones who were shot and killed because that’s just how it is. You can take the kid out of Chicago, but you can’t take the Chicago out of them. No matter where you go, your life at home will follow you and that’s what I’ve realized. As I continue to open Instagram, I’ll continue to see R.I.P. posts of friends who I haven’t seen in years. Death amongst my peers has become the new normal, so I have no other choice but to assume that Ricky is dead or at least involved in that lifestyle. There’s a higher chance that he might be in jail than sitting in a classroom, remembering to breathe before acting.
I explain the topic of this essay to others and they view me as a crazy person. “Dead?” they say. They don’t understand the weariness I have of holding hope of someone surviving the streets of Chicago. They don't understand that success is not common. That Ricky did not just move states and lose contact.
Or maybe he did. Maybe this is where it starts. Maybe me writing this essay is the reason those around me continue to lose their life on the streets of Chicago: Believing that you can’t escape allows for death to hold a sense of power over you.
But what other choice do I have? There has been no help given to my city. There has been no improvement since 2016; instead, it’s gotten worse. Instead of grieving one, I grieve five in the same year. How can I think positively when the statistics are true? How can I believe that Ricky and I are different if we lived the same life as Te’arra? If we all started at the same place, isn’t it expected for us to end up there as well? The reason why my mind goes straight to death is because it’s not an extraordinary experience. It’s something that we’re supposed to be prepared for. Death is so common in my life that there aren’t many other options.
As I write this essay, I still hold hope for Ricky, though. I hope that wherever he is, he’s happy. That he remembers me because I remember him. I hope that he remembers all the times he’s made me laugh and how he taught me the importance of memory. I hope he knows how thankful I am for him and how I’d give anything to see him again. Just to make sure that he found his friends and he’s able to have that support system that he craved.
Ricky is a strong person. A strong person who lives through me, even if he is still here. He’s taught me more than I could ever teach him. I’ll always remember Ricky and wonder where he is.