Today, I attended the funeral of a man I’ve never met, but I left there feeling as though I did; and knowing that I have lived a woefully inadequate life. He was the husband of my dear friend, Alishia. It may seem strange that she is my dear friend, and I’ve never met her husband, so I’ll explain.
In the Summer of 2006, I was standing in line with 400 people in the hot sun at 8:00 am waiting to get into a Baton Rouge high school to take a test so that I could be certified to be a school administrator. After a while, I felt a tap on my shoulder, so I turned around. Standing behind me was a young lady and her friend. She asked, “Is your name, Ganey?” I replied saying that I was. She went on, “I’m Alishia…Richard. Went we to school together. “
It had been twenty-two years since I graduated from high school, but I remembered her, well. She sat behind me in class and would poke me in the back, or tap my shoulder to remind me that I should be paying attention. I enjoyed our visit that day, and remember thinking on the way home how strange it was that our paths had crossed so many years later, in a town in which neither of us lived. I live in Lake Charles; she, in Lawtell near Opelousas.
A few years later, we connected again via Facebook, along with her sister, Daphne. In 2015, I switched from one teacher union to another, and in June of the following year, I attended my first conference. I was pleased to see both Alishia and Daphne in attendance. After the first long day of sessions, we all met for drinks. We were cutting up and laughing, and a mutual friend said, “This is so cool. How do you know each other?” Alishia looked at her with a straight face and said, “He’s my brother.”
So, that’s how she became my dear friend, and while we only communicate on Facebook or text, and see each other at conferences, we always make sure to take a family picture. During a tense moment at the last conference we attended, just last month, she sent me a simple text, “I NEED MY BROTHER.” I looked at her across the room and could see that she needed to talk, so…we did.
I’m telling you all of this because I want you to understand why I found myself at the funeral of a man I have never met. I wanted to be there for my friend, but I left there feeling that had I not gone, I would have never known Don, and the man that he was.
Don lived his entire life suffering from Sickle Cell disease. The pain he endured is unimaginable, to me. He was the president of the SWLA Sickle Cell Anemia, Inc. He was an advocate for all who suffered chronic illnesses and pain, and he lobbied the legislature for the passage of medicinal marijuana. He was a mentor to countless young men and women and believed there was nothing you couldn’t do, if you wanted to do it.
As you might expect, there were many people lined up to share their kind words and memories of Don, but there were two in particular that stood out. The first was a young niece who stood tall and pretty. With the biggest smile, she told stories about the uncle she referred to as her “kindred spirit.” She left the podium, and a nephew came up to share his very emotional story. When he finished, the young lady returned and one by one she read the letters of her cousin lined against the wall who couldn’t find the strength to read their own words. She exhibited true Grace.
When the other notable speaker stood at the podium, a wave of silence came over the church as though the heavens had sent down a giant, “Shhh!”
District 40
“Let my actions speak for me.” He said. “Say it with me, again. Let my actions speak for me.” The entire church said it with him. State Representative Dustin Miller shared a few stories about Don and how he had no reason to boast or brag because the way he lived his life told the world who he was. He recalled that while attending a Sickle Cell fundraiser, he saw Don hiding from the sun under a tree with a wet towel around his neck. He was concerned and expressed to Alisha that he felt Don’s condition warranted medical attention to which she replied, “YOU go tell him.”
I have a student who suffers from Sickle Cell, and I’ve seen first hand how it can wear a person down. A few years ago, I lost a significant amount of blood, and was severely anemic for about six months. I can’t imagine having it for a lifetime.
It may not have been clear to me why I ran into Alishia thirteen years ago, but I know that today was meant for me to know Don. A man’s man. And a true warrior.
Please consider making a donation in Don’s name to the Sickle Cell Disease Association.
