What Happened to Michael

One night, when I was on my way to my girlfriend’s place  I stopped by Berkeley Gas & Smog to fill up my tank. It was winter and the holidays were approaching. It was one of those cold nights where it would take a couple of minutes for the windows to defrost, and lord knows my 98’ Camry was on its last legs. 

After exiting the car, I was immediately approached by this African-American teenager. He couldn’t have been older than 16, yet I could see that the bags under his eyes told a different story. He asked me if I needed anyone to wash my windows for $5, 

“No.” 

As I filled my tank, I saw him ask other people in that same, bleak, gas station to wash their windows as well. They also gave him a cold rejection, and I couldn’t help but feel compelled to call him over. I first asked him how old he was, to which he replied that he was the age of 17. I then asked him how much money he usually made on nights like tonight, “Usually about $40 for the night,” my heart sunk. He then went on to explain how he was a full-time student, and although he wanted to work an actual part-time job it wouldn’t have ever worked with his school schedule. Instead, he chose to hang around this popular gas station in the cold asking strangers to wash their windows until late hours [by that point in our conversation it was already 11:00 P.M]. I found out that he also went to Berkeley High [a school where I had previously tutored at] and the reason he was working was to save money to attend an acting school in Southern California. “I’ll tell you what,” I said, “Tell me your story while you wash the window, and I’ll give you $30.” At the time, $30 was all the cash I had in my wallet. As a first-generation student who pays their own rent and tuition, I didn’t necessarily have much money to give. Typically, I found myself on the other end of the question, the one asking others how they could possibly understand my life. In this instance though, I was the privileged one. 

He told me his name was also Michael, and he went on to tell me his story. As he washed the windows, Michael told me about his previous affiliations with gangs. He had a close friend who died in an act of gun violence, and ever since his friend's death, Michael swore to do better. I commended him for walking away from that type of life because I know well enough how easy it was to get in coming from someone of similar background. I told him that his mom would be proud of his decisions. “No. She doesn’t really care if I’m in a gang or not. She doesn’t think I’m smart enough to get into college anyways.” I was speechless. I didn’t know how to respond to a statement such as that. Although I’ve had many challenges in my life, I’ve always at least had a mother that cared. Michael didn’t mention anything about his father, and he didn’t need to. 

I gave Michael the $30 and went to my girlfriend's place that night. My last parting words to him were to hold onto his pain and use it for good. This is the only advice I could have given him because it’s the only thing that pushes me toward my achievements.  I found success in using my trauma to fuel my ambitions. Yet, at the same time, I also understand that money would have been a better gift than this piece of advice. If I was wealthy enough, I could have made a more significant impact on Michael’s life.

But I’m not.

So I don’t know what happened to Michael.