Early last year a very important person in my life, Ed Luke, the father of a dear childhood friend of mine, Zak, and the husband to his wonderful wife Debra, passed away. His absence has weighed heavily on me and I imagine the lives of everyone he encountered. Ed was a truly special individual—someone who exuded joy, selflessness, and wisdom.
Ed Luke took care of everyone.
Wherever he was, he was looking out for us. Looking out for everybody.
Throughout my youth and continuing into recent years, I’d see Ed drive around the neighborhood, initially in his white Ford with the Seattle Public Schools insignia on the side and later on in his black Volkswagen. He felt like our block’s protector, not just as a one-man neighborhood watch, but as an ambassador—always checking in, always bringing with him his supernatural, infectious positivity. He’d slow his car, roll the window down, and embrace us with that smile that stretched across his face. We’d exchange pleasantries, “how you doings” and “how’s it goings”, and the conversations never lasted long enough. One of us usually needed to move on or a car might pull up from behind his while another car would approach from the opposite direction, inevitably sending us our separate ways, two blocks away from each other. Even if it was only for a moment these pick-me-ups could highlight a day. There was something so substantial and so nurturing about his being that made you feel immediately injected with an energy you had been lacking or the boost you didn’t know you had needed.
Over the course of my life, Ed was a constant guiding light. Early on, Zak and I would play on the same baseball and (mostly) basketball teams together. Ed was often, if not always, an assistant coach. I’m not sure he was ever the head coach, but he was that invaluable presence on the sidelines, in huddles, and in practice that could make all the difference. I think he could sense when we were down or in a funk and, of course, he always instilled confidence in everyone—emanating a vitality that could help shake off the worst of shooting performances or the ugliest of moods. And, if that didn’t feel like a permanent theme, he was the school district’s head supervisor, the overseer of security from when I stepped into kindergarten at B.F. Day Elementary and left Ingraham High School as a senior. His company was so necessary. You felt absolutely safe when he was around. You felt good. I remember learning that he and my dad used to see each other all the time before Zak and I were born when my dad taught at Rainier Beach and Ed was working security back in the 80s. “Fast Eddie!”, my dad called him. Just uttering the name could brighten my dad’s day.
In the midst of COVID, back in 2021, I went over to catch-up and had a long conversation with him about his time with SPS, where he worked for 41 years, beginning at Eckstein Middle School back in the mid 1970s. His perspective on the inner-workings of how a particular school was run or why a child dealing with challenges might behave a certain way was fascinating. He had such a beacon of knowledge and wealth of experience. I watched his face come alive when he would describe these stories from years and years ago, as if they were happening that very moment in front of him. Sometimes he would be called upon to diffuse a potential threat within a school or make sure no outside forces would come to make matters worse. Other times his role required him to interact with a student one-on-one. He’d listen. He’d give them space. He’d offer help. “Any child has to know that you care,” he said.
He delighted in the long-lasting friendships with some of his dearest colleagues—including other security guards at different schools—and reflected on specific moments in his career in which he utilized an uncanny ability to communicate effectively with anyone, whether that was the “higher-ups” downtown (through SPS), school administration, police, teachers, department heads, parents, or the kids—the students, the ones who he clearly cared most about. He said he could have probably retired earlier, but he just hadn’t wanted to stop yet. He loved his job.
What was most clear, when I was around them or even from a distance, was how important Ed’s family was to him. It permeated throughout the conversation. His wife Debra, his son Zak, his daugher Cebrina, and his grandaughter Maya, among others. He was surrounded by them constantly.
He spoke so fondly about coaching soccer alongside Zak. Trips to his native Hawaii. Watching the neighborhood change. Watching the city change.
In the past couple of years there is a picture I haven’t been able to get out of my head. When Ed’s son Zak and I were very young, each of us visiting our respective relatives in Florida, we used to meet up every now and again during those winters at a nearby beach. We’d play in the sand, building castles, squint in the sun, and play in the water. In the picture, Ed is in the middle, with Zak and I on either side, being led towards the ocean, with our backs to the camera. This is how I will think of him.
I will think of him always lending a helping hand. I will think of the happiness I felt when I’d see him at school or entering a basketball practice. I will think of Zak and I deciding on a movie from his enormous collection of DVDs in the basement. I will think of his deep baritone voice, his toothy smile, his distinct laugh, the pep in his being and the pep in his step. I will think of that white SPS car floating around the schools and rolling around the neighborhood, a symbol and reassurance that we were being taken care of and that we would be safe. Indelible memories, whether I’m on my block or away from home.
Ed, thank you for taking care of us all. I miss you. We miss you.
Thinking of you, always.