This story was produced as part of our Writing Heals program, in which we hire a family member of a victim of homicide to write the stories of people who have been killed in Philadelphia. For more information or to sign up to write about someone you lost to gun violence, click here.
Story by David Bratcher, who first wrote about Tyshea Howard
There are some souls who seem to arrive already knowing how to make the world fit their view and a little more doable. AhJhon Jackson was one of them. The most important things to him were the three F’s: Family, Figuring things out and Staying Fresh.
AhJhon carried a rare mix of quick wit and deep kindness that made people around him feel easier. He had answers when you needed them, times when you didn’t expect it, and a smile that could reset a crowded room.
Growing up in East Oak Lane, AhJhon or AJ, had a gift for making the complicated feel clear. He was the kid who could hear a question once and was already mapping out how to explain it, not to show off, but to make sure you understood too. Never wanting to be babied, he wanted to try and figure things out on his own.
His twin sister, AhJoan, remembers, “He’d look at me and say, twin, give me a second,’ and then he’d break it down like he had a little whiteboard in his head. He was so smart, but it was his patience that made it special.”
AJ wasn’t always prompt in his early days, but always trying to figure things out regardless. Ahjoan smiles at the memory of cram sessions and whispers answers. “I’d ask him one thing and he’d give me three different ways to get there. That was his style,he taught you, he walked with you, and he believed you could do it.”
Intelligence was the headline, but kindness was the story. AhJhon’s smarts weren’t about being right, they were about being there. He helped because it felt good to help, because he knew what it meant to be needed and to answer that call. He took pride in being reliable, in being the one you could count on when the day got heavy or the math got messy.
His friend Amir Jones’ voice softened as he reflected on his friend. “He was super kind, genuinely. If he had two of something, one was yours. If he had one, he’d split it in half, we would split the breakfast sandwich right down the middle”
To his friends, dependability wasn’t just a trait, it was a promise. If plans fell apart, he picked up the pieces, cracked a joke, and found a new path forward. He wasn’t loud about it, he just knew what needed to be done.
There are personalities that just attract you and make you feel comfortable. With AJ his ability to be light-hearted and have fun made him fun to be around. You could feel people lean into it from his cousins to friends after a long day.
AhJoan remembers the way it worked on her most. “His smile would just cancel the noise. I could be spiraling, and he’d show up with that grin and a hoodie I’d been trying to ‘borrow,’ and suddenly the world didn’t feel so loud. That was my brother.”
His mom Ajani Jackson adds, “He could make your day without saying a word. He had light in him, and it came out of that smile. You saw it before you heard it.”
Aj was a student at Randolph Tech High School where he was learning his love for the social life and started to find himself. While at Randolph he started to find out what the rest of his life would be like. He wanted to own his own boxing truck and started looking into the cost to get his idea off the ground. He was working at McDonald’s with his twin sister, saving up for his first truck.
AJ’s aspirations were cut short. On October 28, 2021 after leaving work with his sister, AJ’s life was taken away from him. He was ambushed after exiting a Lyft on the 200 block of East Fariston Drive,
If you knew AJ, you knew the hoodies. He collected them the way some people collect stories, each one with a memory stitched inside. Color-blocked, oversized, team logos, a thrifted find with a softened collar, he liked the ones that felt lived-in, the kind you could pull over your head on a cloudy morning and feel anchored. His friend Kyrie Boyd said, ”Bro would be the plug for the hoodies, he always had them.”
His mom laughs. “Those hoodies were like his uniform. He’d say, ‘Ma, this one is serious,’ and I’d pretend not to notice it was just another gray hoodie.” There’s a warm pride in her voice. “But it made him happy. And he made the smallest things feel important.”
For his friends, the hoodie collection had its own traditions, being able to borrow one on a bad day, returning it after bagging the girl, texting about a new drop he was excited to find. It wasn’t about the clothes. It was about the comfort he shared.
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