I've mentioned him once before, but he is so ingrained in my mind that I often think about him. When we first moved here, I was about ready to turn six. The first peer I met was an African American kid who lived down the hill from us. His name was Marcus Johnson, and he was, and he grew into a great young man. We moved from there to another house, but I still saw him at school, and we had sleepovers at each other's homes. I left the area for college at 16, and in my third year, what was unthinkable happened. I was at school and could not be there. My father

called me and told me that night. He was at a public gymnasium in the small town I grew up close to. He was playing basketball and had a genetic heart defect that had gone undetected. He fell dead on the court from a massive M.I. (Heart Attack). Each of us was 19 years old, and it was something. There was so much potential for such a great young man. I never got to say goodbye to him or hear him call me "Brainiac" ever again. What a frightfully terrible thing, I will never get over it.