No one expected fifty bikers at my son’s funeral, especially the four teens who bullied him.
My 14-year-old son, Mikey, took his life after being relentlessly harassed. The note he left named the bullies. The police called it a tragedy, not a crime, and the school did nothing.
Then Sam, a biker I knew from the gas station, showed up. His nephew had taken his life too. “Nobody stood up for him,” he said, offering his support.
I didn’t call at first, but the night before the funeral, I found Mikey’s journal—proof of the torment he’d endured. I dialed the number.
The bikers arrived the next day, standing guard at the chapel. When the bullies arrived, their confident smiles turned to fear.
I should’ve noticed the signs earlier, but I didn’t. Mikey had withdrawn, and I believed his lies. When I found him in the garage, there was no note—just silence.
Three days after Mikey’s death, I found his note: “I can’t take it anymore, Dad. They won’t stop. Every day they tell me to kill myself. Now they’ll be happy.” He named four boys—popular seniors.
I took the note to the police. Officer Brandt said cruel words weren’t a crime. At the school, the principal suggested counseling for the bullies, ignoring the fact that my son didn’t have a future.
Then Sam Reeves, a local biker whose nephew had died the same way, showed up with a number for the Steel Angels Motorcycle Club. “Call if you want presence,” he said.
The next morning, the bikers arrived, forming a protective line at the funeral. When the bullies showed up, Sam made it clear: “We’re here to remember a boy who deserved better.”
During the service, the bikers shared their stories and reminded everyone that words matter. When one boy’s father tried to defend him, I told him to leave. Sam stood firm: “This day is for Mikey. If you can’t respect that, go.”
Halstead took Drew and left, followed by the other families. After the burial, Sam gave me a card signed by the bikers, telling me they were visiting Mikey’s school to talk about bullying. He reminded me to live for my son.
The next day, I stayed home, unable to face the school. Later, Principal Davidson called about fifty bikers outside the school wanting to speak to the students. I insisted they be let in, threatening to release Mikey’s journal if not. Davidson reluctantly agreed.
At the school, bikers lined the front, and Sam spoke about Mikey’s death, naming the boys who’d bullied him. The bikers shared their stories of loss, and some students confessed they knew about Mikey’s bullying but stayed silent. The event ended with a moment of silence.
The boys who bullied Mikey transferred out, and the Steel Angels’ anti-bullying program became mandatory in several districts. I resigned from my job, sold the house, and set up a scholarship in Mikey’s name.
I occasionally call Sam or ride with the bikers to other funerals, keeping Mikey’s memory alive. We’re like thunder, a reminder that someone is listening.
For Mikey’s sake, I believe that’s true.
Leave a Reply