Most people know me as Chevalier.
Edmond called me Chevy.
We didn't meet at a university, and we didn't meet through a corporate press release. We met on 95th Street and 17th Avenue, in the band room at Miami Central Senior High School.
Our families already knew each other. Our mothers were both band parents, sitting in the stands at football games and supporting their children. For two years, Edmond and I marched together, learned the fundamentals of music, and built a friendship that felt more like family.
In 1994, I graduated and moved to Tallahassee to attend Florida A&M University as a music major and become a member of the world-renowned FAMU Marching "100."
A year later, in the summer of 1995, my phone rang.
It was Edmond.
"Chevy, I've made it into FAMU. Do you want to be roommates?"
Of course I said yes.
The night before we left for Tallahassee, we all stayed at Mama Karla's house — me, Edmond, Damon, and Antoine. We stayed up all night, too excited about the future to sleep.
The next morning, we loaded up and headed north.
At some point during the drive, I fell asleep in the back seat. As we rolled into Tallahassee, the guys had to wake me up because I was the only one who knew which exit to take off I-10.
I led us to a townhouse on West Virginia Street in Frenchtown. Being the oldest, I claimed the downstairs room. The rest of them ran upstairs and started negotiating the remaining rooms.
For the next year, Edmond and I lived together.
I was the big brother. He was the little brother.
We ate together, talked about life, worried about school, worried about money, and tried to navigate the challenges that come with being young and trying to build a future. Edmond was focused. Calm. Driven. He wanted his education, and he wanted his music. Like so many students, he was trying to build a life one day at a time.
Eventually, life took us in different directions. I moved out. We stayed in touch. And a few years later, Edmond went on to serve his country.
On January 17, 2004, Army Sgt. Edmond L. Randle Jr. gave his life during Operation Iraqi Freedom.
The loss was devastating.
But it wasn't until after he was gone that a deeper truth arrived.
After Edmond passed away, Mama Karla told me a story I had never heard before.
She told me that when Edmond found out he had been accepted into FAMU, she sat him down and asked him where he wanted to stay and who he wanted to live with in Tallahassee.
To be honest, I always knew we were close. We called each other brothers. But there were dozens of people from Miami Central already at FAMU. An entire community from home. He could have chosen anyone.
Without hesitation, Edmond told her: "I want to stay with Chevy."
She didn't stop there. She called parents. She checked in with families. She made sure everyone was comfortable and protected before any of us ever packed a bag.
When she told me that story, it hit me harder than I expected. We called each other brothers when he was alive, but hearing that from Mama Karla made it mean something deeper.
By the time I learned this truth, the person I wanted to thank was gone.
That realization deepened my roots. It made me understand that Edmond — and our families — had placed an incredible amount of faith in me long before we ever left Miami.
People often ask why I continue this work. Why a scholarship became a foundation. Why a foundation became a life's mission. Why I refuse to let it go.
Most people expect an institutional answer — a discussion about strategy, governance, growth, or long-term planning.
But the truth is much simpler than that.
The Soulever Foundation is not the vow. It is the expression of the vow.
We hold ourselves to an absolute standard of accountability and honesty because the memory we are honoring is sacred. We will never promise what does not yet exist. We will never market future dreams as current reality.
The truth looks good on us because the truth is the only thing heavy enough to carry Edmond's name.
Today, when I look at students standing where we once stood, I see many of the same financial walls, many of the same impossible choices, and many of the same barriers that Edmond and I faced decades ago. I see young people trying to build a future through education and music.
And I remember the faith my brother placed in me during the summer of 1995.
He was on it then. I'm on it now. I cannot let it go. And I will never let it go.