You Never Know…

By Hasan Davis

April 15, years ago – Reno, NV

Some mornings stay with you. Not because of the sunrise or the skyline—but because of a person who reminds you that the smallest acts of kindness can shape someone’s journey.

It was the last morning of a national juvenile and family court judges conference. Like many post-conference mornings, it started in a blur—suitcases zipped tight with swag and session handouts, a rush to make the first shuttle, and the quiet hope that I might catch a nap on the plane home.

But at the Reno airport, just past the slot machines and the hum of overworked baristas, I met someone who turned that routine morning into something unforgettable.

A Stranger at the Terminal

He was young, maybe mid-20s. Clean white T-shirt. Brand-new boots. Expensive jeans. Tattoos climbed his arms and wrapped around his neck like vines. In one hand, a boarding pass. In the other, a bulging manila envelope—his life stuffed into a single folder.

“How’s it going?” I said casually as I passed.

He looked up. “I’m just trying to figure this all out,” he said. Then added, “I just got out of prison, man.”

He explained that the last time he was on a plane, the feds had escorted him. But this time, they just dropped him off at the curb with a ticket and directions.

We reached a fork in the terminal. “What gate are you headed to?” I asked. “B-5, I think.” “Perfect. I’m at B-8. Just roll with me.”

First Time for Everything

As we walked, he admitted, “I ain’t ever done this before.” “It’s cool,” I assured him. “I’m right here with you.”

I noticed the logo on my navy polo: the seal of the Department of Juvenile Justice. I wondered—would it make him more comfortable or less?

At the TSA checkpoint, I led the way: shoes, belt, laptop—off and in the bins. He mimicked each movement carefully.

“My people sent me these clothes,” he said. “Did you know they let you get clothes mailed in for the trip home? I’m glad they did.”

When the TSA agent made him remove a leather tag from his jeans and send it through the scanner, he retrieved it and examined it.

“These jeans cost $145! I can’t believe they spent that kind of money on pants.”

He shook his head, not with pride, but with disbelief. Sometimes it takes losing everything to understand the value of something.

Two Hours, A Lifetime of Questions

He asked, “Now what? My flight isn’t till 6:30. I’ve got almost two hours.” “I’ve got time too,” I said. “We can sit together.”

We passed the gates and settled into a quiet corner. “How long were you down?” I asked.

“Two and a half years, man. I can’t believe it.”

I slid into mentor mode—something I do when a young person ends up next to me for more than five minutes.

“Did you get your GED? Learn a trade? Anything that’s gonna help you move forward?”

“They let me take the GED,” he said, a bit of pride rising in his voice. “And I took a parenting class. I got a certificate. That’s gonna help me be a better father.”

He smiled when he said it. That smile said everything.

Rediscovering a Name

At Gate B-5, I explained how Southwest’s boarding worked. Letter. Number. Poles. No assigned seats.

“What does that mean?” he asked sharply. Prison had taught him that ambiguity could be dangerous.

We stood in front of the gate monitor and I broke down the process. As I explained, I realized—boarding procedures sounded eerily familiar. Lines. Priority. Controlled movement. It wasn’t that different from prison.

“What’s your name?” I asked finally, extending my hand. “Frank,” he replied. “Well Frank, I’m glad to meet you.”

And then something shifted. “You don’t know how good it feels to hear somebody actually say my name.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out his red prison-issued ID. A grainy photo. A line of small print. And one big number.

“That’s who I’ve been for two and a half years,” he said. “It’s nice to have a name again.”

Crossroads

“I’m going to a halfway house,” Frank shared. “They said if I get a job and stay steady, I can go home in three months. I can’t wait to see my girls.”

But then came a quiet confession.

“I’m still in a gang. A Blood. My family too. I don’t think I can just get out of it… but I’m not up for all that drama anymore. I just want a job. Take care of my girls.”

“You think they’re just gonna let you walk away?” I asked. “They’re your people, right?”

He sighed. “I’ve been in that damn hole for two and a half years… not one of them sent me a card. Not even an email. And we can get emails now.”

Silence sat between us.

Unexpected Introductions

I saw a familiar face—an African American judge I’d met at past conferences. Built like a linebacker. As he headed to Gate B-8, I nodded toward him.

“See that brother right there? He’s a judge.”

Frank looked back at me, surprised.

“Yeah,” I said. “And you know what he tells me? He’s tired of seeing young men who say they want to change but won’t change the people they surround themselves with.”

Frank said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Anchors and Hope

We got breakfast. I grabbed a panini. He went for a Sprite.

“I can’t eat now. I’m too excited. But when I land, I’m getting a real cheesesteak sandwich,” he grinned.

We sat and talked about his girls—ages 9 and almost 7. He showed me photos. Beautiful little girls with beaded braids and wide smiles.

“My whole life is in this envelope,” he said.

I told him I’d had the same envelope when I left the Army—certificates, orders, awards. It wasn’t a prisoner’s envelope. It was a transition packet.

He held up his parenting class certificate like it was gold. “I’m giving this to my mom. She’ll hang it up.”

His smile dimmed as he showed me a photo of his daughters’ mother.

“She wants me to live with her… but I don’t think it’s a good idea. She’s a Blood too. And she’s still about that life. I don’t want that anymore.”

Choosing to Live

“So what are you going to do when they come for you?” I asked. “They’ll know you’re back.”

He looked me in the eyes.

“I’ve got to let those young dudes know—prison ain’t what they think it is. These people are just handing out time, and they don’t care who catches it.”

As he shuffled through his paperwork, he found his travel orders. A furlough from 4:00 AM to 6:15 PM.

“If your plane’s delayed, you need to call and explain,” I said. “Don’t wait. Don’t assume. Ask for help if you need it.”

I introduced him to the Southwest gate agent, who walked him through the boarding process.

The Last Word

“Now, when you get on that plane, you won’t get to choose your seat,” I told him. “Just buckle in and rest if you can.”

He nodded. I gave him space, then circled back.

“Alright little brother, it’s time. You’ve got work to do.”

I handed him my card. “You don’t have to call. But if you need to talk—ever—I’ll be here.”

We shook hands. I pulled him in for a hug.

“You’ve got a lot to do if you want to take care of those girls.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“No need,” I replied. “Good luck," and for emphasis I looked him square in the eyes and said his name again, "Frank.”

As I walked to my gate, I looked back and saw him watching the monitor at B-5, slowly making sense of it all.

Reflection: What We Pass On

As I boarded, I caught on last glimpse of Frank, standing at his boarding post. I whispered a prayer: “Good luck, Frank.”

And I gave thanks—for every person who took five minutes out of their day to help me believe that my life could be more than survival.

That morning, I got to pass a little of that forward. And that’s what this work is really about.

You never know who’s standing at the gate of transformation. You never know what someone carries in their envelope. And you never know what can happen when you simply say someone's name.

Let’s Keep Walking

Have you ever had a “You Never Know” moment—one where you were reminded of your power to make a difference? Drop it in the comments or share it with a young person who’s finding their way. Let’s keep creating space for second chances, for humanity, for hope.