No one expected fifty bikers at my son Mikey’s funeral—especially not the four teens who bullied him.
Mikey was 14 when he took his own life after relentless bullying. His note named the boys who tormented him. Police called it a tragedy, not a crime, and the school took no real action.
Then Sam, a biker I knew, reached out. His nephew had also died by suicide. When I later found Mikey’s journal, filled with proof of his pain, I called Sam.
The next day, bikers from the Steel Angels stood guard at the funeral. The bullies’ confidence disappeared when they saw them. During the service, the bikers shared stories and made it clear: words can destroy lives.
After the burial, Sam said they’d speak at Mikey’s school. When the principal resisted, I threatened to release the journal. The bikers were allowed in and named the bullies. Some students admitted they knew but stayed silent.
The bullies transferred out. The Steel Angels’ anti-bullying program expanded to other districts. I quit my job, sold our home, and started a scholarship in Mikey’s name.
Now I ride with the bikers sometimes, keeping Mikey’s memory alive. We’re a reminder that someone is always listening—for him, I believe that’s true.