Grieving father feels failed by 18-year plan
Jamiel Shaw Jr. promised his son a good life, enrolling him in sports to keep him out of trouble. The high school football start was on track until he was shot dead last month.
The circumstances of his life and death have given Jamiel Shaw Jr. a special niche in the city's pantheon of tragedy.
He was the high school football star shot to death last month, just a few steps from his home on an Arlington Heights street unaccustomed to violence.
His soldier mother was off in Iraq. She refused, on the long trip home, to believe her son was gone. His father had raised their sons by the book, doing everything he knew to keep Jamiel and his younger brother, Thomas, safe.
The alleged 18th Street gang member accused of killing Jamiel had just gotten out of jail. He was living here illegally and had not been deported.
The story of Jamiel's March 2 murder made its way around the world, drawing cards and letters from China, Germany, Norway, Japan. Bill Cosby called his parents. President Bush sent a sympathy letter. The funeral was covered by CNN.
There was no way to watch Jamiel Shaw kneeling at his son's open casket and not be moved. I couldn't stop thinking about the image. So I called the Shaw family and asked to visit.
I found a weary, bewildered man, stunned by his loss.
He kept repeating: "We had an 18-year-old plan." Study hard, play hard, keep your nose clean. Life will be good, he promised his son.
"College wasn't an option. He was going to college," said Shaw, a high school dropout who passed a general education development test. "My job was to get him through high school, get him ready. He did everything I asked him to."
His son was a high school junior when he died, one year from the end of their 18-year deal.
Now Shaw is forced to ask himself: What do you do when your mission fails?
The living room of the Shaw family's home -- with its formal furniture and polished wood floors -- is a shrine to the boy they called Jas. Flowers, photos, trophies and cards cover the tables, shelves and walls.
Shaw slumped wearily in his chair. I asked how he's doing and he talked for two hours. His eyes were red and rarely met mine.
He was dressed as I imagined Jas would have been -- in baggy, creased jeans and a colorful sweat shirt, embroidered with sports logos. Together they had played video games, spun music at family events, rode their low-rider bikes at the beach.
