Roosevelt Darby Jr.

Shortly after we got married 11 years ago, my wife asked me, “Why don’t you have any friends?”

The answer was simple. Most of the people I’d called “friends” were females. If our marriage was to succeed, the females had to go. I never said that out loud, but my wife’s a pretty smart lady, so I think she figured that out eventually.

Most of the male friends I’d had in my B.M. days (that’s Before Marriage for those of you who are suppressing your gag reflex) were ne’er-do-wells. They were guys who were best left behind in the same streets I’d abandoned. I left them behind because my mother often told me, “People will drag you down before you can lift them up.” And my mother, I discovered when I had kids of my own, was always right.

There were people I met along the way who managed to stick around, to make an impression, to do something selfless. Those people were rare. They were special. They were friends. And Roosevelt is that type of guy.

I met Roosevelt when we were both much younger. He was already a shining example of how a life can turn around and become a force for good. He was already in the light. Me? I was stumbling through the darkness, trying to find examples who could show me what was possible. I was looking for people who were fun and funny and real; people who could show me that it was possible to live a normal life without some crutch to lean on. Roosevelt is that type of guy.

I met him in a place that ironically was called a home group. A bunch of us met there in that church basement on Sunday evenings to talk about what real life felt like when you could actually feel it; when there was no mind-numbing substance to make the manic outweigh the depressive, to make the highs seem more significant than the lows; to make life seem more desirable than the alternative. I would walk into my home group and look for people who made that church basement feel like home. Roosevelt is that type of guy.

I would listen to him speak about the mundane and the humorous, and I would hear this well-spoken, intelligent man. In listening to him I knew that I belonged. I knew that it was more than a home group. When Roosevelt spoke, it was home.

Over the years, as I drifted away from the group I’d known as home, I’d occasionally see the people I’d come to know there. They’d greet me with a hug and a smile. They’d speak to me with pride and affection. They’d show me unconditional love. There are many people who’ve typified that kind of kinship for me, but if I wanted to show you an example of what it looks like, I’d say Roosevelt is that type of guy.

When I graduated from college and got a job that I hated, I told Roosevelt. He helped me to get a job at the place where he worked—the Philadelphia Committee to End Homelessness. It was a place where we helped men like us to stand up to life and fight. It was a place where we made a difference.

When I got married and needed groomsmen because, well, females make lousy groomsmen, I nervously asked Roosevelt if he would be stand beside me at the altar. Without hesitation, he did. Because Roosevelt is that type of guy.

Today when my wife asks me about my friends, they are still few and far between. But if a friend is someone who makes you feel at home, who exudes a sense of kinship, who helps you when you need it, who stands beside you on a special day, then Roosevelt Darby is my friend. Because Roosevelt is that type of guy.

By: Solomon Jones