By Greg T.

A month before Kobe Bryant’s tragic death, I learned about the passing of an old friend. He was not as famous as Kobe, but his life was just as impactful. He was a true legend to his family, friends, and the residents of the city he loved.   

If we were going to die at all, it was supposed to be before the age of 25. That was a constant message we heard when we grew up in the DC area in the 1980s. Young black males back then were bombarded by low expectations of reaching adulthood unscathed. I remember a junior high school teacher had all of the males in the class stand before counting us off in groups of three. After instructing all the ones and twos to take a seat, she told the threes to remain standing. “Look around the room,” she said. “One out of every three young men your age will either be dead or in jail by the time they turn 25.” I heard the misleading statistic so often that I began to internalize it. On my 25th birthday, I drank myself into a stupor celebrating my sudden imperviousness to bullets and immunity to committing crimes that would have me warehoused. Not only was my car insurance rate reduced, but I became invincible at midnight. Years later, other male friends would share with me similar stories of reaching that magical age. In cities across the land, the same statistical sledgehammer pounded young black men daily.

In the early 1980s, DC was well on its way to earning the dubious distinction of the nation’s “Murder Capital.” During the first part of the decade, the city was flooded with PCP and crack cocaine that quickly transformed the streets into a wild west. The constant demand for a cheap high and the lack of established drug networks contributed to a skyrocketing murder rate as street dealers battled for territory. When I was in 8th grade, the city averaged 150 murders per year. By my senior year in high school, the murder rate exploded to 372. The vast majority of the victims were young black males like me. 

Drug-related crimes were so frequent a local news station devoted a half-hour each night to highlight the latest shooting or other brazen acts of violence. We watched, mostly to see if anyone we knew would appear on the next show. Most days, the previous night’s episode was a hot topic on the way to school or between classes. One of the first episodes of City Under Siege replayed a homemade video of a group of young men assaulting an older man who was on his way home from work. The group surrounded the man before one stepped forward and sucker-punched him. While the man lay semi-conscious on the concrete sidewalk, a second young man straddled his shoulders and urinated in his face. 

It went on like that for a few more years, and by the time I was a college junior, DC became the nation’s Murder Capital. Over 400 victims perished in 1989. That year I often wondered if I’d end up on the next episode if they’d try to interview my grandmother while she was still inconsolable. Would I be the topic of conversation as kids walked to school? It wouldn’t be until decades later that I learned other major cities had their versions of the show. News stations were cashing in on black trauma. 

In spite of those dangerous years, I managed to earn an athletic scholarship to college a few hours south of DC. I took a pre-calculus class during my freshman year, and that is where I met Todd. We were first drawn to each other by a shared sense of humor. The professor did not suffer fools. She could give the host of The Weakest Link game show a run for her money. Unsuspecting students would explain their thinking only to be ripped apart piece by piece. Todd and I tried to contain our laughter as she eviscerated one brave soul after another. We knew it was only a matter of time before we faced her wrath, but until then, we enjoyed the show. It reminded us of “joning” or “playing the dozens” with our friends back home. At any moment we expected her to break out, “your mother” jokes as she separated the wheat from the chaff. 

At some point, Todd leaned over and said, “youngin, where I come from, she would have been shot by now.” I laughed and noticed he said, “youngin.” If you are of a certain age, and you grew up in DC, there are buzz words that catch your attention when you’re out of town. If someone calls you, “Mo,” “Joe,” or “youngin,” if they reference Go-Go music, Mumbo sauce, the carry-out (pronounce “curry-out”), Breeze’s Metro Club, the Chapter, or the Masonic Temple, Shawn and Vinny (if any), High’s Ice Cream, Anacostia Park, the Urban Coalition, Wings & More Wings, Chuck Brown, or any other DC legend, you know you’re speaking to a homeboy. “You’re from DC?” I asked. “I am too.” 

And that’s how our friendship began. Todd was a linebacker on the football team, and I played basketball. Both of us navigated our way out of the DC area and into college. Both of us attended public schools before moving on to private high schools. Both of us came from supportive, hard-working families. Both of us were told about that 1 in 3 chance before the age of 25. What none of the young men in DC heard was the flip side of that 1 in 3 chance of failure was a 2 in 3 chance of success. Todd was always good with numbers, and I suspect he knew our odds were much better than advertised. A mutual friend posted about him on social media, “When he introduced himself, he said he was a finance major and that people could trust him with their money because there’s nothing he couldn’t do with it.”

We were two guys bringing a little of that District swagger down south, and for most of our time in college, not too many days went by before the DC brothers checked-in with one another. One of my fondest memories occurred during our freshman year. We were hanging out in the Yates 1st South lounge when we heard a commotion. I looked through the blinds to see my hallmates scuffling with guys from another dorm and ran outside to help because that’s what we did back home when we saw someone we knew in trouble. Of course, if strangers were fighting, we knew to run away as quickly as we could. Back home, disagreements could escalate soon into life or death situations. But this was a college town 150 miles away, and nobody was getting shot. Once outside, I began pulling bodies out of clouds of dust reminiscent of cartoon fights, my head swiveling from one tussle to the next. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Todd doing the same. A few seconds passed, and I felt a tap on my shoulder. I wheeled around to see Todd laughing. “Hey, youngin,’ whose side are we on?” I cracked up and pointed out the guys from my dorm. Todd said, “cool” and went back to breaking up fights. 

That’s the type of person he was and the kind of person he would be for the rest of his life. If a friend were in need, he’d be there standing by his side and help in any way he could. He was a larger-than-life character with a fun-loving personality, often regaling us with tales of epic battles between the young men from District Heights, Hillcrest Heights, Seat Pleasant, and Temple Hills. Whether or not true, the stories were always entertaining. He spoke so highly of his childhood friends, Grover, Rubber, Mush, and Spruill that I half expected to see giants walk through the door the first time I met them. Those were good times, and even back then we realized they were good times and that we were having fun. 

Periodically, we’d slip away from the yard and roll up to DC in the middle of the night. Somewhere around Springfield, VA, the pace on I-95 would quicken. The road dips toward the Potomac and rises to a crest just before it reaches Arlington. To the west, the Washington Monument poked its crown above the horizon, and the cityscape magically appeared out of the darkness. “Youngin, we’re home!” he’d say while rolling down the windows. In spite of its flaws, we loved DC. We wanted to smell it. We wanted to taste it. It was our city, our home, the place where we knew the rules and understood the language. We’d stomp through some familiar haunts before going to see our families, slipping on the city like an old jacket that still fits perfectly even after some time away.

After college, we both returned to DC. Todd ascended through the ranks in the financial sector. Eventually, he became the Chief of the DC Housing Finance Agency, where he made a difference in countless lives by providing affordable housing opportunities to city residents and business opportunities to minority contractors. I went on to teach in DC Public Schools before moving to a couple of neighboring districts in later years. Both of us married above our heads and raised beautiful families. We lost touch as years went by, but kept up on milestone events through family members and mutual friends. 

I was in class when I received the devastating news of his sudden passing on News Years Day. How could it be? He always kept himself in shape and had even taken up skiing in recent years. It made no sense. No way. Not him. After we turned 25, we were supposed to be invincible. We were supposed to grow old, and we indeed were not supposed to pass away in our 50s. DC Mayor Muriel Bowser spoke at his funeral. She said, “During a time when housing has become the number one issue in our city, Todd delivered for the people and families of the District. If a program wasn’t working, he fixed it. If a program was missing, he created it. He was committed to innovation, to finding new resources and maximizing the ones we already have available, and, above all, he was committed to getting Washingtonians into affordable homes. We will miss his leadership and friendship.” 

Other officials announced that all future affordable housing complexes would bear his name. If you ever visit DC, look for The Todd A. Lee Homes. The signs will pay tribute to a true legend and one of the city’s greatest native sons. 

3 Responses

  1. Wow, such a heartfelt story of friendship! I felt like I grew up in DC Andy they were my friends. So vividly told! Sounds like an awesome guy who made a difference in an arena that has spiraled out of control on many major cities. God rest his soul and I’m sure his commitment to his community and the city was greatly appreciated by all who benefited from his hard work and dedication!

  2. Greg, this is beautiful. You and my other classmates amaze me with your love, warmth, and insight. I love to read whatever you write, and this article especially touches my soul. Thank you.

  3. Wow! What an amazing tribute. Beautifully written. I went to the same college but didn’t know Todd very well. I was a couple years behind him. What I did know of him is exactly why his passing has hit so many people straight in the gut. Blessings and prayers to his family and to those whose lives he deeply touched.

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