We Don’t Know Who Davion Would Have Become

There’s a story here in Greensboro that I just can’t get out of my mind.

A 15-year-old young man named Davion Fewell played football for Page High School.

Fifteen years old.

Think about that for a second.

When you’re 15, your whole life is still out in front of you.

You’re thinking about Friday night.
You’re thinking about football.
Your friends.
School.
Girls.
Getting your driver’s license.

Maybe college.

Maybe one day getting married.

Maybe having children of your own.

You’re certainly not thinking about dying.

And neither are your parents.

When you watch your kid run onto a football field, you’re thinking about whether he’s going to make the tackle.

Whether his team is going to win.

Whether he remembered his damn mouthpiece.

You’re not thinking that this might be one of the last times you ever see your child doing something he loves.

And that’s what I keep coming back to.

The promise of a young man cut short.

We don’t know who Davion would have become.

Maybe he would have played football in college.

Maybe football would have ended after high school.

Maybe he’d have become an engineer.

A teacher.

A carpenter.

A businessman.

Maybe he would have coached football himself someday.

Maybe he’d have become a father and stood on the sidelines watching his own 15-year-old son play.

We’ll never know.

And that’s part of what makes the death of a young person so incredibly difficult.

You don’t just lose the person who existed.

You lose every person they might have become.

And unfortunately, we see young lives cut short far too often.

Sometimes it’s on an athletic field.

Sometimes it’s an automobile accident.

Sometimes it’s illness.

And sometimes it’s gunfire.

Different circumstances.

Different stories.

But somewhere there is always a family whose world has suddenly stopped.

And then something else happens.

The loss starts moving outward.

Like dropping a stone into a pond.

First, there’s the family.

Parents.

Brothers and sisters.

Grandparents.

Aunts and uncles.

People who knew this kid from the day he was born.

Then there are his teammates.

Young men who stood beside him in the locker room.

Practiced with him.

Sweated with him.

Laughed with him.

Maybe complained about the coach with him.

They put on the same uniform.

And now one of those uniforms is empty.

Those kids are going to remember this for the rest of their lives.

Then there are the students at Page.

His friends.

His teachers.

His coaches.

The faculty.

People who may not even have known Davion personally but walked the same hallways every day.

And then the circle gets even bigger.

Because now people like me—people who never met this young man—are thinking about him.

That’s the strange thing about tragedy.

It reminds us how connected we actually are.

We spend so much of our lives dividing ourselves.

This neighborhood.

That neighborhood.

This school.

That school.

This race.

That race.

This political party.

That political party.

And then something terrible happens to a 15-year-old kid…

and suddenly none of that matters very much.

He’s one of ours.

A Greensboro kid.

And a family in our community is hurting.

Thursday night, people will gather at the Page High School stadium for a candlelight vigil.

And I suspect there are going to be a lot of people there.

Some knew Davion very well.

Some barely knew him.

Some may never have met him.

But they’ll stand together.

They’ll light candles.

They’ll hug one another.

They’ll tell stories.

There will probably be tears.

And for a little while, a community will stop what it’s doing and remember one young man.

Maybe someday there will be a plaque.

Maybe his number will be remembered.

Maybe there will be some other permanent tribute.

That’s for his family, his school and his community to decide.

But I think there’s another kind of memorial that’s even more important.

What do the living do tomorrow?

Because somewhere tonight there’s another 15-year-old kid putting on shoulder pads.

Another kid walking home from school.

Another kid sitting at the dinner table arguing with his parents.

Another kid dreaming about a future he assumes he’s going to have.

And maybe the lesson isn’t complicated.

Maybe it’s simply this:

Pay attention to each other.

Look after each other.

Talk to each other.

Tell people you love them while they’re standing in front of you.

Because none of us knows how much time we have.

Davion Fewell was 15 years old.

His life was far too short.

But judging from the people gathering to remember him, his life mattered.

And Thursday night, when those candles come on in that stadium, I hope Greensboro remembers something else too.

Behind every one of those little lights is a person.

A family.

A story.

A future.

A promise.

And although we can’t give Davion back the future he should have had…

we can make damn sure we don’t forget that he was here.