Big Man

In the busy corridors of memory, where the echoes of old friendships and forgotten faces linger, Arthur “Big Man” Whittier stands larger than life in my mind. He was just eight years old when I met him, and yet, even now, I marvel at the wisdom he carried with him—a wisdom far beyond his years. Big Man taught me, through his carefree yet profound approach to life, the value of being present. They call it “mindfulness” these days, but to me, it was the simple joy of living in the moment, something I’ve only learned to truly appreciate in my later years.

Our meeting was in a place that few people would describe as rich in anything but hardship. The Cass Corridor in Detroit, where we both lived, was poor—so poor that I used to joke that even the gangs wouldn’t bother with our neighborhood because there was nothing to steal. This corner of Detroit was home to a strange blend of people, many of them originally from the Southern Appalachian area, both black and white, thrown together by the hunt for factory jobs during the economic migrations of the 1950s and 60s. To say there was tension would be an understatement. These communities didn’t always see eye to eye, and the struggles of the neighborhood often played out along racial lines.

But amid all of that, the church—where my father was the minister—served as a sanctuary of sorts. It was a sprawling, inner-city place of worship that opened its doors to anyone, regardless of race or creed. I spent a lot of my time there, volunteering, playing sports, or simply trying to find a way to fit in. My relationship with the church was somewhat complicated by my age; while I was technically there to help the younger kids, many of them were my peers, which led to more than a few awkward moments.

It was on one of those slow days when Linda, one of the church workers, tried to help me out. She was desperate to give me something to do, so she pointed me in the direction of a single kid who happened to be hanging around—Big Man. “Watch him,” she said. Then she turned to Big Man, "Richard is in charge so do what he says." The implication was clear. I was supposed to be in charge. But of course, we both knew that wasn’t the reality. What Linda called supervision, we called playtime. And so, that’s how Arthur, Big Man, came into my life.

Big Man was a husky kid, the kind you’d expect to see running out of breath in a playground game, but he moved with a joy that made you forget his size. His family, in a typical show of affection, had given him the nickname “Big Man.” In the black community, much like in the Hispanic culture, nicknames were a form of love and endearment, never intended to wound. And so, Big Man he was, and Big Man he remained to everyone who knew him.

From the very start, Big Man became my shadow. Despite my surly teenage moodiness, he always had a smile on his face. I was all over the place, constantly bouncing from one idea to the next, unsure of my path, while Big Man was steady—optimistic, warm, and always ready to join in on whatever I was doing. We played baseball, basketball, and football. We roller-skated in the church gym, and we talked about life in that innocent, unfiltered way kids do. Big Man never complained about the hand life had dealt him. He never made excuses. He just lived, fully and joyously, in every moment.

I can still hear his voice—soft, patient, with a southern lilt that felt out of place in Detroit, but fit him perfectly. Whenever I’d spin some wild idea, some flight of fancy, he’d just smile and say, “Richard, you just be crazy,” or “There you go again.” He had this laid-back, easygoing nature that you’d expect from someone raised in the deep South, where time moves slower and people seem to accept life’s ups and downs with a shrug and a smile. It was a quality that, at the time, I didn’t fully understand, but I’ve come to treasure.

As I grew older, Big Man remained a constant, always there when I needed him. But as happens with most childhood friendships, we drifted apart when I left for college. My visits back to the corridor became less frequent, and our once-tight bond loosened, though it never truly broke. I’d see him now and again, but life had a way of pulling us in different directions.

Then, a few years ago, I heard the news that Big Man had passed away. It hit me harder than I expected. I remember retreating to a quiet place, where I sat alone and cried for a while. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying. Was it because I felt guilty for leaving him behind? Or was it because I mourned the loss of a man who had remained so pure, so honest, and so full of joy, even when life gave him every reason not to be?

Now that I’m older, I realize that Big Man was one of my greatest teachers, even though he was four years younger than me when we met. He taught me, through his actions more than his words, that happiness isn’t about what you have or where you are. It’s about being grateful, about finding joy in the simplest moments, and about living without bitterness or regret.

Arthur “Big Man” Whittier may have passed on, but his lessons remain with me to this day. When life feels heavy, I think of his smile, his laugh, and the way he used to shake his head at my wild ideas. And in those moments, I remember to breathe, to let go, and to appreciate the here and now—just as Big Man always did.

In the end, Big Man wasn’t just a childhood friend. He was a beacon of happiness, a model of how to live a life full of gratitude. And I’ll carry those lessons with me for the rest of my days.