No one expected fifty bikers at Mikey’s funeral. They all thought no one would hear the thunder of the Harleys through the cemetery and follow the silence after my son died. Of course, no one thought that a loud and unashamedly leather clad army would answer a father’s quiet grief.
Mikey was my son, aged 14 when he took his own life. He left a note naming four boys, seniors, athletes and sons of privilege, as the ones who pushed him past the edge. He wrote that they tell him to kill himself every day. “They’ll be happy now.”
It was called a tragedy by the school. Crime unfortunately it was not, but the police called it that. Thoughts and prayers, and the idea of having the funeral during school hours because ‘to prevent incidents.’ ” I had never been so powerless. It was denied to me that I failed to protect him even in life and in death justice was denied.
Then came Sam.
After Mikey’s therapy sessions, we used to visit a gas station that Sam was just a man who was at. Tall with beard; he comes to my door wearing a leather vest. His nephew had died exactly the same way, he said. Same reason. Different school. “He told me: “No one defended him.”” He handed me a number. “Call us. Just presence, no hassle.”
I didn’t call until Mikey’s journal the night before the funeral. Screenshots of messages: Wherever you tell him to die, where you’re begging him to ‘do everyone a favour,’” placed one screen after another into torment. I dialed the number and my hands shook.
The next morning, they came. A silent honor guard of fifty bikers. Steel Angels. Some were in leather vests, some had sun worn faces, some military patches, and some had quiet eyes that said that they had been here before. They were not there to intimidate. It was to be a witness. It was to remind the world that Mikey mattered.
Their parents brought up the four boys. As they saw who had gathered, they watched their arrogance dissolve. That was the point. Not revenge—consequence.
The Angels stayed after the funeral. Oh, they would be telling me that they were scheduled to be speaking at the school. If the media got Mikey’s journal…, I warning the principal, they had to let them in. He caved.
Sam took the microphone and that school had never heard silence like. He told them Mikey’s name. I told them what those boys had done. I told them of the price of silence. And then the stories, of sons and daughters lost, and of wounds not made by fists but by words.
Students cried. They said some had confessed they knew, had seen, had stayed silent. It was too late for Mikey. But not for the next kid.
The boys failed to return to school. They showed up at games and events in the Steel Angels uniform and WATCHED, not threatened. A silent deterrent. Now, three districts are required to engage in their anti-bullying program. The principal resigned. The real change was on the agenda, and new leadership took over.
As for me, I left my job. I sold the house. I ride now, with the Angels. I am one of those fathers who are grieving. I give them my hand. My name. My story. I listen when there is no sound yet.
Ever since I heard thunder, I don’t flinch. It’s not just weather. Something is the sound of it coming.
It is the sound of not being alone.
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