In late March, two young people were killed by the Chicago Police Department (CPD) within a span of forty-eight hours: thirteen-year-old Adam Toledo and twenty-two-year-old Anthony Alvarez. I did not know Adam, but I had met Anthony several times.

Anthony was a student at the first school where I taught, an elementary school in the Northwest Side neighborhood where he lived. My last memory of Anthony was at the eighth grade dinner dance. Earlier in the week, I had had a seizure at school, and shortly after, I was diagnosed with epilepsy. I was absent for several days afterward to rest. When I showed up at the event, Anthony gave me a huge hug, telling me, “I’m so glad you’re back, Mr Friedberg.” I was taken aback by this kindness from a kid I barely knew.

I talked to a number of my former coworkers and students about “Ant,” as his friends called him. He was “kind, caring, humble,” one friend told me. “He was a very bright, inquisitive kid,” my former coworker said. Anthony “did not gangbang,” as a former student put it. “All he cared about was providing for his daughter, who he loved more than anything.”