“We don’t meet people by accident. They are meant to cross our path for a reason.”
I never knew his name, but after seeing a photo of him in The Washington Post, I recognized Reggie Brown as the 64-year-old senior with disabilities who was stomped to death by a group of teenage girls last year on October 17. The story of Mr. Brown’s tragic demise came to light again two weeks ago after police arrested three of the girls charged with the horrific crime. Numerous media outlets, including People.com, carried the story.
Like many other people in the neighborhood, I was acquainted with Mr. Brown. Because I saw him hanging around the same spot, I suspected he was a transient until later learning from news reports that he was not. It will be a while before I forget Mr. Brown’s cocoa chocolate face, downturned smile, and dark eyes that revealed years of sorrow. His aura was one of humility. I didn’t perceive him to be aggressive or threatening.
On most mornings near dawn, when I was going to and from the gym, I would see the frail-looking man standing near the McDonald’s drive-thru. I think he fancied himself to be an unofficial traffic controller. He would signal exiting drivers when it was safe to merge onto the avenue or extend a palm on an outstretched hand, instructing them to wait for pedestrians to cross. Some drivers would stop at the curb, lower the window, and hand him money before driving away. Others rolled out without acknowledging him. If their ingratitude angered him, he never showed it.
Whenever I passed him, he always politely greeted me. I admit, the first time I encountered him, I was reluctant to return his greeting because I suspected his next move would be to ask me for money. He never asked. That was just as well because I rarely carry more than my ID, keys, and gym essentials when I go to work out.
One day, as I left the gym, I followed a few steps behind three girls who appeared to be young teens; they were perhaps around 13 or 14 years old. Since they were wearing backpacks, and at least two wore uniforms, I suspected they were students stopping at McDonald’s before heading to school. Mr. Brown greeted them as he often did me, with a cordial “Good Morning.” Instead of returning his greeting or ignoring him, one girl responded with an expletive, “F*** you!” as one of the other two in front of her pulled open the door to the restaurant.
Instead of reacting negatively, as they might have expected, Mr. Brown kept his cool and asked, “How would your mother feel knowing you talk like that?” That provoked the teen to repeat the swear word before the trio entered McDonald’s. All of them were laughing as the door closed behind them.
As I passed him, we briefly made eye contact, and I sensed that Mr. Brown, like I, was wondering why so many young people today are insolent and disrespectful.
Months later, when I learned that three teenagers were arrested and charged with second-degree murder, assault, and conspiracy in Mr. Brown’s death, I was pleased. I also learned something about Mr. Brown.
According to his family, he was not homeless. He lived in the neighborhood with his sister. He had schizophrenia. He also had only three fingers on each of his hands. The missing digits had been amputated because of lupus. He suffered blackouts because, at some point in his life, he fell and injured his skull; that accident resulted in a metal plate being placed in his head. He also had cancer and had chemotherapy earlier on the day of his fateful encounter. According to his sister, walking made him feel better after chemo treatments, and he had gone out for a walk near midnight on the evening when he was pulled into an alley by an unidentified young male, senselessly beaten by a group of teenage girls, and left to bleed to death.
When I learned how young they were, I wondered if they were the same girls I had seen curse at Mr. Brown in front of McDonald’s, but of course, I don’t know.
Police would not reveal the girl’s names because they are juveniles. District law states children under 15 cannot be charged as adults. It sickened me to learn that they were charged as juveniles with second-degree murder and said to be too young to be prosecuted as adults. If convicted, the maximum penalty they face is confinement to a youth rehabilitation facility until they turn 21, after which, by law, they would have to be released. Mr. Brown’s family is pushing for adult charges. His sister said, “They do adult things; they should be treated as adults.”
I’m with her. I think leniency is one reason this city is rampant with juvenile crime. If you commit a major crime, you should do major time.
Every day, we randomly encounter people whose journeys differ from ours. Sometimes, they are street people, invisible to us until something significant happens, making us see them as fellow human beings struggling to get along in a hostile world. We don’t know the burden they carry any more than they know of our load.
The numerous times that I exchanged greetings with Mr. Brown, I saw him, but I never really saw him until after I learned of his brutal murder. If nothing else, I like to think that my morning greetings, as minuscule as they were, added some brightness to his day.
