In loving memory of Christopher D. Henry

"Death is a commingling of eternity with time; in the death of a good man, eternity is seen looking through time."

— Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

It has been 29 years since the telephone rang in my Kilgore Hall dorm room where, on the other end, was Leslie Jones, my dear childhood friend whose voice was somewhat muffled due to her struggling to form the words that my BEST friend from my youth, Christopher D. Henry, had just died back home in Tallahassee.

The late Chris Henry

I am no stranger to death; from my grandmother Helen's passing in 1980 to today, I have lost hundreds of family members and good friends, including my father, Charles, who died in 2000. While reverential, I am almost stoic when it comes to the final transition that awaits us all, so much so that I have been emotionally numb of late when news hits my ears that yet another friend or kinsman has joined the ancestors in eternity.

But Chris Henry's death hit differently in so many ways and nearly three decades later, his was a loss that cannot be measured—and is one that quite likely will never be assuaged.

Where I struggled with Chris's death is that he was only 19-years-old and today, nearly 30 years later, it is so crystal clear to me that he was robbed of a chance to live, to grow, and to share his many gifts with the world.

Chris with a young lady near Jones Hall on FAMU's campus circa ‘91

Those who have followed my annual tributes to Chris already know that my friend, without question, was the most well rounded individual that I knew while growing up in Tallahassee. Now, I was blessed to grow up around legions of Black boys and girls on the Southside who were talented and gifted, and many of those childhood friends have grown up to become amazing educators, business leaders, doctors, nurses, pharmacists, lawyers, engineers, movie directors, and NFL stars, to list a few...

But there was something different about Chris, a difference that I learned to appreciate early on; differences that I miss to this very second.

So, for the majority of our childhood, Chris was the smallest boy in our class, but his physical size did not keep him from boldly challenging any who dared question his greatness. While some of our friends never conceded this point in our youth, the truth is that Chris was the smartest student, the best musician, the best dancer, one of the best artists, and without question, the most popular with the girls who loved him—and who he loved back 😆.

Chris, second from the left, and me, fourth from the left wearing a hat, circa ‘87

Earlier this week, I recounted another story in my youth where I described how when I was in first grade in Maryland, some of the older boys tried to condition us younger ones to believe that any boy that liked hanging around girls was a "sissy." I rejected that foolish notion then and rejected it still a few years later when I enrolled as a fourth grader at Lucy Moten/FAMU High and became friends with Chris. Now, I remember how Chris would be right out there playing ball and rough housing with the rest of us despite his smaller size, but he also spent quite a bit of time talking with and hanging out with many of the girls that the rest of us boys had crushes on—but most were too timid to talk to. Thus, as I grew older, I watched and listened to how Chris talked to girls quite carefully and, much like the fictional Christian who leaned on his friend Cyrano De Bergerac to pen idylls to Roxanne, when I grew old enough to "talk to," "go with," and "date," many of my best loving expressions were "borrowed" liberally from my best friend Chris 😆.

Of the many memories that I still cherish of my friend Chris, one that stands out to me was his love of music, in general, and love of Prince—specifically. Now, Chris and I both started playing drums together in 6th grade Beginning Band and we would remain section mates until I became one of our band's drum majors at the end of 9th grade. But while we both won honors at District and State solo and ensemble festivals and participated in our region's honors band as percussionists who were mentored by the legendary FAMU Marching 100 percussion professor Dr. Shaylor James, Chris was so gifted that he taught himself how to play the piano and the guitar—and play them exceptionally well!

Along those lines, I often smile when I remember the day in 10th grade when Chris told me and our "skip partner" and other ace, Illena Renee Williams, to come to the bandroom and listen to a double cassette that he had just purchased—the incomparable "Sign O' The Times." The first song that he cued for our ears was what would become arguably the greatest love ballad of our era if, not all time, "Adore," a song that, in my perspective, still defines perfection in practically every way.

At Tom Brown Park before 10th grade with my classmates (from left) Jason Ward, Sterling Hollingsworth, Chris Henry, Ken Rice (behind Chris), Fred Higgs, and me (arms folded behinded Higgs)

Chris, too, was practically perfect in so many ways but looking back, his perfection at times intimidated some of our fellow students—and befuddled some of our teachers. I will never forget how Chris would skip his Algebra II class on occasion in 9th grade to play hits like Lisa Lisa and Full Force's "All Cried Out" and the Force MD's "Tender Love" in the cafeteria or bandroom to adoring crowds, only to show up on test days and make straight A's—and how his frustrated teacher reduced his grades for failing to show up daily and comply. As an adult, I understand why this teacher was upset, but I also realize that she missed the fact that Chris was simply bored, unchallenged, and way ahead of his time.

Sigh...

For years, I have regretted beyond measure that Chris didn't come to Morehouse College with me after we graduated high school in 1990. Chris received a prestigious Life Gets Better scholarship from Florida A&M University President Frederick Humphries that year—one that was FAR too lucrative to pass up. But my regret, one that I've never publically mentioned until this day, is that I've often thought that had Chris come to Morehouse, that he would have been in Kilgore Hall playing John Madden or studying with me and Victor Owens and all of the Florida Boyz and ATL Crew, and not in the wrong place at the wrong time back home. When this thought enters my mind, as it often does, I remind myself that our lives are fleeting, our days are numbered, and that God's will, not ours, must be done.

Still, the simple truth remains that when Chris died, those of us who loved him lost so very much. His family lost a son, a grandson, a brother, and only a few months after he passed, his own son, Chris II, lost a father that he would never come to know. The world lost a brilliant light who undoubtedly would have done his part to advance the causes of mankind. His FAMU High and FAMU classmates and countless others lost a great friend whose passing left a void that is still felt at both in-person and virtual reunions or group text chats.

Chris Henry II pictured with Uncle Chuck circa ‘19 during the FAMU High May Day Festival

But for me, well, I lost a best friend who challenged me, inspired me, and counseled me on matters great and small during our friendship. To be honest, 29 years ago I was mad at God and questioned His will and His judgment for a long time afterwards. But as I continued in my maturation to adulthood and with my spirituality, I learned to humbly accept His will for my boy's life and, ostensibly, for my and my friends who still can only ponder "what if" when it comes to the late Christopher Henry. A pondering that, occasionally, draws a smile when I see red Cardinal or a Monarch Butterfly on a picturesque day, or the occasional vivid dream where Chris's image reminds me that while his physical being is no more, that he will remain a critical part of who I am until the end of all time.

Until then, rest well, old friend....

Christopher D. Henry, Sr: Sir "S.O.P." Kappa League Fall '87

December 20, 1972-October 12, 1992

One of the last pieces of art that Chris created, venom, was gifted to Florida A&M President Emeritus Fred Humphries in ‘92. May they both rest in eternal peace…