Ram Gordon: A child's hope and despair

I was a senior in college in the fall of 1992, getting my act together to apply to medical school. My father, a physician, reviewed my resume and told me I needed a volunteer activity or I would never get in.

So I found the West Philadelphia Tutoring Project, which partners with local schools to provide students with one-on-one teaching and mentoring. We hopped on the white van at 40th and Locust every Wednesday to teach fifth-graders who were falling behind.

My student was short, quiet and shy and had trouble understanding basic math. He was distrustful of me -- and the color of my skin -- but gradually opened up and started to grasp the concepts I was teaching him. He began to look forward to our sessions, as did I, and we would talk about his life and his family.

Before I knew it, the semester was ending. I was graduating early and going home. During our last session, we surprised the kids with a party. We bought cookies, soda, candy and gifts. The kids were delighted.

As the party was ending, I told my student that it was our final session. He began to cry. I hugged him and told him I would miss him. The words felt hollow, but there wasn't much else to say. I was leaving Philadelphia and planning the next step of my life.

But I was sad. I had spent many hours with my student, forging a special relationship. I enjoyed being a role model, breaking the racial bonds that separated us and seeing his trust in me grow. He was finally enjoying school and grasping the concepts that had been out of his reach only weeks before. Now, I felt like I was deserting him. I sent him a birthday gift several weeks later and never heard from him.

Over the years, I thought about my student occasionally, calculating his age, wondering if he had graduated from high school or if he had gotten out of West Philadelphia. And the years flew by.

On Tuesday, Feb. 15, 12 years after I said goodbye to Najai Turpin, I found him. As I was surfing the Internet, I saw his name, which I had never forgotten. The age was correct, and he was from West Philadelphia. Bingo. And then, my heart filled with pride. He had become a successful boxer, a local champion. His mother had died when he was 18, and he had helped to raise his younger family members. He worked two jobs and had a girlfriend and a young daughter, Anje.

And he was chosen to be a contestant on a new television show, The Contender, set to air on NBC, about young boxers vying to become champion. Although the picture was of a man, the face was the same. Here was boy I knew, making his way out of West Philadelphia, working hard and taking care of his family.

And then the headline. "Contender in boxing reality show takes own life." Astonished, I read on. He shot himself outside the gym where he trained. He was 23 years old, with a TV show, a promising career and a family. He was being paid well. He had everything to live for, and he took his own life. It just didn't make sense.

Since that day, I have read everything I could about the story. No one knows why.

I only knew him when he was a boy. I knew he would have a difficult road to get out of West Philadelphia, but somehow, I believed that he might. I was, and am, proud of him for his achievements, for his hard work, and for supporting his family. I am deeply saddened that he chose to end his own life.

What is the moral of this story? I guess that 12 years after I graduated from college, after the parties, classes, exams and sporting events, my most rewarding and memorable activity was tutoring a few kids from West Philadelphia. I never forgot them or the experience. I urge every student at Penn to become involved with a volunteer activity. I promise that it will change their lives.

And, when The Contender airs this March, many will watch, intrigued by the show's premise or by the macabre fascination with a dead contestant. I will try to get to know the man Najai Turpin became, to meet his family, to see his life. The show's producer has created a fund to support Najai's family. I will contribute to it. But it won't bring him back. Maybe I should have made more of an effort to keep in touch with him. Maybe I could have helped him, both emotionally and financially. Unfortunately, I am left only with the sad and unsettling truth that I will never know the answer.

Ram Gordon is a 1993 graduate of the College and a 2002 graduate of the School of Medicine.

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