I heard a voice arise behind me as the kids excitedly funneled into the classroom. My second year as a substitute teacher. It was a child from a middle school art class that I taught the previous season. I recall that we were listening to music as the class worked on their project.
He said in a low voice to another student, “Bruh, isn’t that the sub who has a son that’s a rapper?”
I tucked that away for a moment, like a secret note passed
from one to another. Folded it into my heart, as I often do when overhearing
snippets of adolescent conversations that tug at my heart.
During the bustle after the bell rang to begin class, he
walked from his desk and asked me,
“Isn’t your son a rapper?”
“Not anymore,” I said.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he said in a hushed tone. His eyes
crinkled together above the bridge of his nose, wincing as if he shouldn’t have
asked.
“He died, remember?” I said, half smiling. My eyes softened and
brightened with the memory.
“Where can I find him? I-I mean his music?” He stammered.
“Just look up Cheddar Cho.” I said, as if responding to an
English class inquiry about vocabulary.
And in the breath between that answer and my next class
announcement over the din, I asked myself, what was with that? Why were you smiling as you answered him?
Perhaps for the comfort of the student. Would he think me insensitive? Uncaring? And
as soon as that thought made its way from mind, a new one arose in its place.
It was the honest answer:
Because Jonathan would have loved that he had been
remembered by a young stranger.
Jonathan the rapper.
Jonathan the son. Jonathan the father and Jonathan the
grandson. Jonathan the friend. The student. The dreamer. The addict. The
dealer. The liar.
The anger. The love.
Jonathan the human. The laugh. The goof. The suave. The
comforter. The beloved.
Jonathan the mine.
Jonathan the his.
Jonathan the theirs.
Jonathan the gone.
Jonathan the always.
