For Grandpa
By Tyrel Hunt
Two thousand dollars. As a broke college student—a college athlete at that—, two thousand in my bank account was the most I’d ever had at once. But that financial blessing felt like a curse. My beloved grandfather had passed away, suddenly and without warning. Each of his seven grand children were given a portion of his life savings and mine came with specific instructions from my dad: “Son, spend it on something that’ll last you.” With each day that passed, I thought of where this money should go. And each time I came up with nothing.
For some context, this was a time when any crumbs that I did get financially were immediately thrown at Nike, Supreme, Jordan and whatever my latest materialistic craze was. Part of me was begging to load up the Supreme app and splurge on the new releases. Another part of me was growing out of that though, and besides, this money was different.
My grandfather came over to America from Jamaica by himself at 15. He made a living as a painter and instilled a hard working, provider mentality to my dad, who eventually instilled that mentality in me and my brothers. To throw away the money that he worked that hard to achieve would be disrespectful.
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Everyone who knows me in Jamaica Queens, knows me as a hooper. In NYC, the only thing better than going to a D1 college is making it to the league. I’d made it to a D1 school but still, I couldn’t help but feel empty sometimes. I’d watched so many ball players go all in with hoops, come up short, and turn to crime or mediocrity. Sometimes it feels like a million brothas from inner cities are trying to squeeze through the same door, leaving so much of their true potential on the table in the process. I was already thinking about what happens after I graduate.
It's important to note that I was never a star student, but in English class I always made straight A’s. Reading and writing were like gateways into other worlds for me. In my family I’ve always been the go to guy when something calls for writing. Uncle Leroy needs to rework his resume? Call Tyrel. That kinda thing.
It was around the same time that I received the inheritance that a professor read an essay I wrote and asked me to stay after class. I remember this day like it was yesterday. I was wearing a bucket hat that I’d adorned with pins of black heroes like Gordon Parks and Huey Newton. After taking note of my hat, he told me how much potential I had as a writer.
He praised the visual nature of my writing and told me, with conviction, that I oughta look into screenwriting. I thought back to times when I’d write essays in high school and inevitably face baseless claims that I’d plagiarized. And here this professor was, telling me—the guy with dreads at the top of his fade and gold in his mouth—that I was a great writer. For the first time, I really started to view myself as more than an athlete, and at practice that evening I could barely concentrate. I knew what I wanted to spend the inheritance on.
I skipped out on the cafeteria that night and hit the library instead. I was on the hunt for a camera and screenwriting software; comparing prices, reviews and message boards like crazy. The way I saw it, this camera could create things that can last the test of time, and even if I lose the camera, the things that I’d created with it would forever be in honor of him, my grandfather. I walked around campus proudly with that camera and took photos of everything. I made mini documentaries of my teammates and watched every YouTube tutorial there was. I wrote countless scripts, sending them out to professional services for review and eventually, getting some positive assessments.
Basketball will always be my love, but by the time I graduated, I’d realized that my true purpose was telling stories. As I began to embrace this, I obsessed over my new creative passion. I thought back to so many of my peers who might’ve missed out on their true talent because they’ve been so focused on what society deemed fit for them. I wondered how many astronauts, doctors and inventors were lost in that vortex.
Eventually, I pulled together all my resources and willpower into a feature film “April Again” that I wrote, edited and directed. The film went on to win a number of awards on the festival circuit and create positive dialogue wherever it was screened. In one festival, The People’s Film Festival in Harlem, my film had just won best of the fest, an honor I wasn’t expecting, as the competition was so tough. With no speech prepared and most of my immediate family looking on, I thanked the team and people who helped make the film a reality. I thanked the professor who encouraged me to write, and then, instinctively, I thanked my grandpa. At age 15, he’d come seeking the American Dream, and with hard work, dedication, and those two thousand dollars, I can proudly say that trip wasn’t in vain.
