On the night of March 15, 2005, I began a journey that would take
me around the world and, ultimately, bring me back to the steps of
Bishop McNamara High School.
of Sao Vicente in the city of Mindelo. As a history major with a
concentration in African American Studies, I felt the need to
experience my studies before I could call myself truly knowledgeable.
I was getting ready for bed when I received a call that I will never
forget. Sitting at the top of my steps, I braced myself for what I
was about to hear. Eboni Charley’s ‘00 first words to me were, “they
think they’ve found him.” My heart dropped as she proceeded to tell
me the details of his mutilated body. The horrific details of Randell
Duncan’s death left me empty of words and full of emotion. All I
could think was that whoever did this did not know him. What
was seemingly a random act of violence took away one of the most
unique, creative, and genuine people I’ve ever met.
I worked in a boys’ village called Centre Juventile Nho Djunga.
This village housed more than 100 adolescents, who ranged in age
from infant to 18. My job mostly consisted of tutoring and creating
positive extracurricular activities for the young men. Though I
enjoyed my work there, my passion since childhood had been to
teach.
Youth violence is a serious issue in America. It often gets a snarl
by the elders and a shake of the head. “Times sure have changed,”
I’ve heard. “It is a shame what happened to that young man.” And
the next day there is another story involving another youth that
has committed or is a victim of youth violence. We have allowed
ourselves to become numb to the tragedies around us.
With this in mind I, along with the class of 2000, could not allow
the memory of Randell Duncan to fade away. Together, we created a
scholarship in his name. This way, Randell’s legacy could continue to
live on in a positive light and not in the darkness of his death.
Randell was one of my best friends. His life and death have
impacted my life beyond measure. He passed on a Monday and by
that Friday I was sitting in Ernest Waddell’s ‘00 NYU dorm room
filling out an application for the Peace Corps. I real