My Godfather Left Me My First Lesson of Adulthood

Every time a man dies, there is a lesson. When Edwin and Vera Cooper agreed to become my godparents, Edwin had exactly 21 years to live. As a godparent, he fulfilled his duty by making himself available if anything were to happen to my mother. If there were more godparents like Edwin and Vera, there would be no need for foster homes or orphanages.

Edwin Cooper

Edwin has been one of the strongest influences on my life. When the lips of everyone else tightened when I needed driving lessons, Edwin appointed himself my driving instructor, or often, his driver. When he found out that I still hadn't passed my driving test, he called my mother and was outraged, jokingly telling her that before he died, I would get my license. No man should be without one, he said.

During the week, Edwin would call from work and tell me to get prepared, because I was going to drive him home in rush-hour traffic on I-95, the biggest interstate on the East Coast. I was scared to death, but he was always calm and in control.

When I first heard my godfather was diagnosed with cancer, I thought of it as a minor sickness soon to be overcome. Edwin was a tall, slender middle-aged man old enough for the spoils of adulthood, but still too young for death. Always vibrant, he was the type to downplay any illness. I thought it a matter of time before it was business as usual -- the business of banking. Edwin was a successful banker moving up the management ranks. His home, where I spent many nights, sat in the heart of Mitchellville, Md., a suburb of Washington, D.C., that boasts one of the world's largest concentrations of upper-middle-class blacks.

My last trip to his house was the first time I had driven there on my own, as he predicted I would one day.

Approaching the house on that cold November night, I warmed up by thinking of all the good times I spent there. Seeing the dim lights and the solemn faces of Edwin's children, I knew the situation was grave. Walking up the dark stairwell to his room, I realized this would be the last time I would speak with my godfather. As I approached the door, I wasn't sure I could look him in the eye. What do you say to a man who is dying? How do you tell him goodbye? Seeing him, it was apparent that the cancer was taking over his body. I could barely utter a hello before he began telling me how proud he was of me and how I was finally becoming a man. I halfway smiled, but as he talked, I found it easier to look at him.

I noticed two things about men who are dying -- they keep their Bible near, and they are surrounded by family. The room was decorated with pictures of Edwin's glowing smile of just a few years before. His once-broad and upright frame was frail and ailing. I don't know whether it was cancer or stress, but his hair was thin and gray and his feet swollen from the medicine. He could barely walk. His vision was diminishing. Although the signs of death were evident in the room, his spirits were high. Edwin was a symbol of stability even in the poorest of health.

Christmas came, and as I made my holiday greeting calls, I left Edwin off the list. Dialing his number would ruin the perfect smile I remembered as he shook my hand firmly the last time we spoke.

Calling meant that Edwin, a champion when I left him, would have to fight again, just to answer the phone. Calling would give death the edge.

On the night before New Year's Eve, the phone rang at 1:20 am. I watched as the lights on the phone flickered and the caller ID flashed "Edwin Cooper."

The inevitable had come and I thanked God for my godfather's life. Every time I get behind the wheel, I will always remember my godfather and driving instructor, Edwin Cooper. I became an adult legally on Dec. 22, but now I understand my first lesson of adulthood: "Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty . . . "

Josef Sawyer, a student at Howard University, is editor-in-chief of The Hilltop.

Posted Feb. 16, 2004