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
It’s 7:30 on a school night and it’s getting pitch black on the basketball court. Trying to outdo the last trick shot, Kydair turns to his Aunt and says, ”Aunty watch this 3.”
He pulls out all the fancy moves he just saw Kyrie Iriving doing and makes them his own. As he dribbles behind the back and takes a step back, the ball releases so smoothly that it hits nothing but net. “He swore he just won the Finals himself,” his aunt Nina Christine recalls.
Kydair Strickland, also known as Honcho, was the middle child of three. He had an energy about him that no matter what was going on, he was going to smile and have a good time. From a young age growing up at 19th and Berks streets in North Philly, Kydair was always comfortable with the attention and being a loving kid.
Even as a baby, Kydair had a sense for fashion and wanting the best. “He loved fashion, he was always going shopping,” his mother Tasha Strickland said. He had a knack for seeing what others around him were wearing and tried to compete with them on who was going to be the flyest.
One weekend the family decided to head towards the mall to pick up a few items. Needing to find just a quick outfit for their family outing, the guidelines were simple. ”We not going to be here that long ya’ll,” Tasha said.
Upon the arrival at the mall, Kydair stared out the window, already envisioning what stores he would run into. With money saved up from his birthday and helping his Aunt, Kydair knew he was treating himself to some fresh gear. ”I could barely put the car in park before he was ready to hop out,” his mom said.
She gave Kydair and his brother, Aquil, clear instructions to meet back at the food court in an hour. So Honcho sprinted, off grabbing his brother’s arm and making his way to the first stop on his journey. ”He had every minute planned out and which store we were going to, I couldn’t do anything but say, ‘OK bro, chill,’” Aquil said.
For Kydair, staying fresh wasn’t just a matter of appearance. It was a statement of self-worth. Neighbors recall seeing him meticulously clean his sneakers until they gleamed, then carefully wrap them away so they looked brand-new each time he stepped outside. His shirt had to be spotless or else he wouldn’t even bother looking in its direction.
It’s no surprise that after he graduated from Strawberry Mansion High School, he went on to work at the shoe store DTLR, although he dreamed of being a party promoter.
Fashion was a way to express himself to others while also giving Kydair a sense of pride. “He always wanted to work for his own money to buy stuff he wanted,” Nina said.
Being able to find ways to make sure he got everything he wanted, Kydair never wanted a handout or felt he didn’t deserve the things he got.
One day while heading to the grocery store for a few items, Kydair was pondering how he could make his own money without having to keep asking his mom for it. While cracking jokes in the backseat, “it hit him. I’mma sell candy,” said his sister Nekeaa.
As soon as the Strickland family entered the packed grocery store, Kydair knew exactly which aisle to head to. With money saved up from his birthday, Kydair grabbed the three biggest bags he could see and went to work.
“As soon as we got home, he ran to his room and started breaking down the bags and putting them into smaller ones to sell. I couldn’t help but laugh and be proud of my baby trying,” Tasha said. The next day at school, determined to get the new Jordans on his own, Kydair sold every bag—more than enough for his sneakers.
Nina still laughs when she remembers the day she taught Kydair to ride his bike in the neighborhood park. Determined to show him off, she coaxed him onto two wheels and let go only for Kydair to wobble straight into the slide.
Rather than cry or give up, he picked himself up, dusted off his clothes, and climbed back on the bike. The second attempt was perfect. “He looked at me and said, ‘I knew I’d make it, Auntie, I got this,’” Nina said. That moment embodied his spirit: setbacks were mere pit stops.
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