Randall Jacob Rogers
(August 30, 1993 - December 7, 2011)
Son of Shane Rogers and Persephanie Pittman.
Native of Tennessee. Educated in The Cheatham County Public School System. Jacob was currently a Senior at Cheatham County Central High School in Ashland City, TN.
He loved music with Lady Gaga being his favorite.
Jacob tragically commited suicide after being bullied by students at his school, when the school repeatedly ignored the issue.
He is survived by his father, Shane Rogers (Leslie Crutcher); mother, Persephanie Pittman; grandmothers, Norma Rogers and Sandra McDonald; brothers Mitchell and Nicholas Rogers, Jackson Crutcher and Matthew Crutcher; and sister, Brittni Rogers.
Visitation will be held on Friday, December 9, 2011, from 2-8 p.m. and again on Saturday, December 10, 2011, from 10 a.m. until the funeral hour of 2 p.m. Funeral Service will be conducted on Saturday, December 10, 2011, at 2 p.m. at Cheatham County Funeral Home in the Chapel with Brother Jeff Yohe officiating the service. Burial will be private.
Cheatham County Funeral Home is in charge of the arrangements.
Relationship to Contributor: Very good Friend of my younger sister.∼ASHLAND CITY — Jacob Rogers loved attention.
The Cheatham County teenager told over-the-top jokes, goofed off in photos and dressed in daring costumes for Halloween.
He had energy nobody seemed to match. And when he got his friends laughing, he didn't let up. He once coerced a pregnant friend — already past her due date — to hop off the couch and model a pair of high heels, runway style.
But he also sought a different kind of attention: help in working through depression, substance abuse and family issues that tormented him.
In his death by suicide this month, Jacob lost control of the attention he'd receive. His life, a swirl of complexity and turmoil, became, in death, a much simpler story of a gay student bullied so badly that he chose to end his life.
That story, or some grain of it, belonged to Jacob, too. It just wasn't his whole story. And yet it spread with gas-fire suddenness, fueling commentary from gay activist groups and bloggers and even a talk radio personality in Seattle. A local movement put school officials on an island of criticism, and angry community members shut down a town meeting called to discuss suicide prevention.
With each passing day, a gap seemed to widen between who Jacob was in life and who he became in death.
Nobody denies that bullies got to Jacob during his four years at Cheatham County Central High School.
He was openly gay and wanted to be comfortable saying so. But maybe more than others, Jacob became an almost daily target for name-calling, said friend Kaelynn Mooningham, 18.
"It was like every day, every class," she said.
Jacob didn't hide who he was. He wore tight-fitting clothes and shared outfits with girlfriends, Mooningham said. He also obsessed over Lady Gaga, dressing up as the pop star, making sketches of her and listening over and over to her gay anthem, "Born This Way."
"Jacob was Jacob and that was it," said schoolmate Joney Williams, a junior. "I think he just wanted to do his thing. I don't think Jacob was on this big mission to change the world or to change how everybody thought about him. I think he just wanted people to leave him alone."
When Jacob began to tell relatives he was gay, around age 14, the conversations did not surprise or alienate family members, said maternal grandmother Sandra McDonald.
Nor did the disclosure fully define him.
McDonald and sister Denise Johnson — Jacob's great aunt — fondly recalled Jacob's interest in cooking, which started back when he was about 6, when he was given an Easy-Bake oven he'd begged for.
Longtime friend Maricela Zamudio, a senior, said Jacob thought of attending a cosmetology or art school.
He was a creative illustrator, singer and dancer who could turn routine backyard activities into adventures, Zamudio said. He raved about the mystique surrounding an antique wooden bedframe and cloudy mirror in his bedroom.
Jacob lived with his grandmother on his father's side of the family, Norma Rogers, who could not be reached.
Zamudio said the two were extremely close.
"Whenever we went to hang out with him, it was always Jacob and Norma," she said.
He prepped meals for her, cleaned and ran errands. The teen's willingness to live with and help his grandmother was obvious to everyone.
"He was just a tender, loving soul," Johnson said.
Yet Jacob's family life was not without strife. His biological mother's move out of Tennessee this year weighed heavily on his heart. At least once, he savagely criticized his parents on his Facebook page. And he wrote about family in the notes he left behind before shooting himself on Dec. 7, said Sgt. Travis Walker, who investigated the death.
"There was a lot of things going on in the young man's life," Walker said.
Jacob missed as many school days as he attended in his last semester. He struggled to make good grades, and a diploma seemed out of reach.
McDonald said Jacob resisted the option of dropping out to instead pursue a GED. She said strong bonds with friends at school kept him coming back.
Yet in the building, he'd sometimes spend as much time with counselors as he did in class.
He'd overcome an eating disorder but wrestled with drugs and alcohol, friends said. And he'd begun to deal with the adult world, encountering complications with health insurance after his 18th birthday. Some of those issues were mentioned in writings he left behind.
What those writings, which officials declined to make public, did not include was any mention of bullying.
"None," Walker said. "Zero."
Blame poisons community
But those who believe Jacob was bullied to death have their evidence, too. And they are determined to make Jacob's death a rallying cry to bring change to Cheatham County.
Friends and family question whether faculty did enough to protect Jacob, and if the district's bullying policy leaves too much leniency for students who do harm.
Hundreds signed a petition to toughen the bullying policy, and more than 1,700 people have signed a similar online petition started by the Tennessee Equality Project, a gay rights group.
In public meetings, other students have told stories of ridicule and abuse.
In an interview, Justin Philalack, a 2009 graduate, said he hid that he was gay while he was at the school.
"The guys that were out and gay, they were always ridiculed," he said. "To me, I never saw any punishment."
School officials, suddenly under intense scrutiny, defended their bullying policy. Director of Schools Tim Webb said a revision in the past year mandated reporting of incidents. The rules cover all the bases now, he said.
Webb does not anticipate further changes, but he knows petitions and another recent meeting were geared toward revisiting the policy through the school board.
None of the six county school board members returned calls seeking comment.
In Jacob's case, officials found just one report of bullying in the year since Webb and Principal Glenna Barrow took their positions.
"We know rumors and speculation of previous bullying," Webb said. "We are still looking into that."
He insisted that Barrow and the counselors went "above and beyond" to help Jacob with his many challenges. Citing confidentiality laws, he declined to discuss specifics.
"Is there bullying that's going on? Absolutely," Webb said. "But I don't buy into the idea for one minute that Cheatham County schools are less tolerant than another rural school system in the region or the state."
Webb is researching anti-bullying programs to bring additional staff training and student curriculum into the school.
Zamudio, who supported her friend when he'd expressed suicidal thoughts before, was hesitant to criticize officials.
"The school actually did a lot," she said. "He came in multiple times telling (counselors) he had troubles in his life. Obviously they could have brought in more help."
Disagreements over blame have played out in dramatic ways.
A school counselor was left in tears after being kicked out of Jacob's funeral, according to multiple people who attended. Elsewhere in town, animosity has surrounded those associated with school staff.
The community dialogue was literally silenced one night, when tensions cut short a community talk led by the Tennessee Suicide Prevention Network.
Members of the network had spent parts of four days in the high school helping students, teachers, kitchen staff and school bus drivers cope with their grief and learn the warning signs of suicide.
Scott Ridgway, executive director of the network, brought similar information to the community meeting, hosted at the same local funeral home that handled Jacob's burial. He discussed the complexities of suicide and grieving. He also spoke on behalf of the school and the emotion he'd seen in devastated staff members.
But his comments applauding the district bullying policy, "went over like a lead balloon," McDonald recalled. She said people were upset to hear the school defended, and that the meeting was organized as a lecture.
Ridgway said the anger directed toward him was unusual, but not unprecedented for such an emotionally charged moment.
"There was a sense that some of these folks that attended, they wanted to pinpoint and point fingers," he said. "That's not the way the meetings are supposed to happen."
Ridgway said focusing on blame can blur lessons that might prevent future tragedies.
"We've got to convey that anybody takes their life for a number of reasons, not just one," he said. "It's easier for students to blame someone versus looking at the big picture."
Voices seek change
Jacob remains somewhere in that picture, often sketched with one simple stroke by people who never knew him.
And the simple story proved powerful. After a trio of gay blogs put out a call for help, almost $10,000 in donations more than covered the cost of the teen's funeral.
Closer to home, students invoke his name in their efforts to root out bullies, change policies and form a new group for all students to talk about their lives.
"I think Jacob sparked all this," Williams said. "But it's not just about Jacob anymore. It's about all of us. All of us need a voice. All of us need to stand up."
The raw emotions unleashed by the tragedy are also being harnessed by leaders of local gay rights groups. A cross-section of support groups hosted a town hall meeting last Tuesday
"We don't just want this to end, this energy," Nashville-based civil rights attorney Abby Rubenfeld told a group of about 30. "We want to do something in Jacob's name."
Recalling the frustration of the community meeting a week before, organizers gave kids and parents free rein to open up about the bullying they'd seen and to air grievances about their schools.
Williams passed around her petition demanding a stiffer bullying policy and students learned how to form groups to promote tolerance.
Chris Sanders, chairman of the Tennessee Equality Project's Nashville committee, gave step-by-step directions on how to request changes through the school board.
"What we want to see happen is citizens of Cheatham County engage their elected school board for the policy change they want," Sanders said in an interview. "We will advise on … best practices. In the end, it's up to the citizens of Cheatham County."
Those in attendance spoke in the heated language of a "revolution" they said was needed in the rural county, where abuse could no longer be tolerated.
Personal horror stories piled up, leading to talk of legal actions and federal investigations.
With plans for further research, the group scheduled another meeting for Jan. 12.
"The snowball is really rolling because these parents are so scared their child is going to be next," said Johnson, the teen's great aunt. "They're going to take Jake's place."
Clues remain elusive
Even when life settles down, Jacob's friends and family may never fully know what was happening inside the mind of the high school senior.
The boy's grandmother — like many others — has tried to look back, to examine what she'd said and how she might have helped. A lot of people have revisited and sometimes agonized over the last things they heard him say.
"You go back and try to read," McDonald said. "He texted the day before. There was nothing off-color — nothing disturbing."
Zamudio cut Jacob's long blonde hair that week, and felt something wasn't right. But her friend had talked of troubles before.
"I didn't really do anything," she said. "I feel guilty about that."
On his Facebook page that last night, in a message left for anyone to read, Jacob wrote an apology to those who knew him. And then he wrote: "This is me, signing off."
Those words have carried on and multiplied. As the teen's name became familiar in households across the country, strangers arrived at his page, then sent his statements onward to still more people, often attaching their own emotional pleas to end bullying.
Those who did know him write messages there too, describing how he sticks in their minds.
They'll always have their pictures of Jacob Rogers. And those who didn't know him, they'll have theirs, too.
Reach Tony Gonzalez at 615-259-8089 or [email protected]
=========================================
(August 30, 1993 - December 7, 2011)
Son of Shane Rogers and Persephanie Pittman.
Native of Tennessee. Educated in The Cheatham County Public School System. Jacob was currently a Senior at Cheatham County Central High School in Ashland City, TN.
He loved music with Lady Gaga being his favorite.
Jacob tragically commited suicide after being bullied by students at his school, when the school repeatedly ignored the issue.
He is survived by his father, Shane Rogers (Leslie Crutcher); mother, Persephanie Pittman; grandmothers, Norma Rogers and Sandra McDonald; brothers Mitchell and Nicholas Rogers, Jackson Crutcher and Matthew Crutcher; and sister, Brittni Rogers.
Visitation will be held on Friday, December 9, 2011, from 2-8 p.m. and again on Saturday, December 10, 2011, from 10 a.m. until the funeral hour of 2 p.m. Funeral Service will be conducted on Saturday, December 10, 2011, at 2 p.m. at Cheatham County Funeral Home in the Chapel with Brother Jeff Yohe officiating the service. Burial will be private.
Cheatham County Funeral Home is in charge of the arrangements.
Relationship to Contributor: Very good Friend of my younger sister.∼ASHLAND CITY — Jacob Rogers loved attention.
The Cheatham County teenager told over-the-top jokes, goofed off in photos and dressed in daring costumes for Halloween.
He had energy nobody seemed to match. And when he got his friends laughing, he didn't let up. He once coerced a pregnant friend — already past her due date — to hop off the couch and model a pair of high heels, runway style.
But he also sought a different kind of attention: help in working through depression, substance abuse and family issues that tormented him.
In his death by suicide this month, Jacob lost control of the attention he'd receive. His life, a swirl of complexity and turmoil, became, in death, a much simpler story of a gay student bullied so badly that he chose to end his life.
That story, or some grain of it, belonged to Jacob, too. It just wasn't his whole story. And yet it spread with gas-fire suddenness, fueling commentary from gay activist groups and bloggers and even a talk radio personality in Seattle. A local movement put school officials on an island of criticism, and angry community members shut down a town meeting called to discuss suicide prevention.
With each passing day, a gap seemed to widen between who Jacob was in life and who he became in death.
Nobody denies that bullies got to Jacob during his four years at Cheatham County Central High School.
He was openly gay and wanted to be comfortable saying so. But maybe more than others, Jacob became an almost daily target for name-calling, said friend Kaelynn Mooningham, 18.
"It was like every day, every class," she said.
Jacob didn't hide who he was. He wore tight-fitting clothes and shared outfits with girlfriends, Mooningham said. He also obsessed over Lady Gaga, dressing up as the pop star, making sketches of her and listening over and over to her gay anthem, "Born This Way."
"Jacob was Jacob and that was it," said schoolmate Joney Williams, a junior. "I think he just wanted to do his thing. I don't think Jacob was on this big mission to change the world or to change how everybody thought about him. I think he just wanted people to leave him alone."
When Jacob began to tell relatives he was gay, around age 14, the conversations did not surprise or alienate family members, said maternal grandmother Sandra McDonald.
Nor did the disclosure fully define him.
McDonald and sister Denise Johnson — Jacob's great aunt — fondly recalled Jacob's interest in cooking, which started back when he was about 6, when he was given an Easy-Bake oven he'd begged for.
Longtime friend Maricela Zamudio, a senior, said Jacob thought of attending a cosmetology or art school.
He was a creative illustrator, singer and dancer who could turn routine backyard activities into adventures, Zamudio said. He raved about the mystique surrounding an antique wooden bedframe and cloudy mirror in his bedroom.
Jacob lived with his grandmother on his father's side of the family, Norma Rogers, who could not be reached.
Zamudio said the two were extremely close.
"Whenever we went to hang out with him, it was always Jacob and Norma," she said.
He prepped meals for her, cleaned and ran errands. The teen's willingness to live with and help his grandmother was obvious to everyone.
"He was just a tender, loving soul," Johnson said.
Yet Jacob's family life was not without strife. His biological mother's move out of Tennessee this year weighed heavily on his heart. At least once, he savagely criticized his parents on his Facebook page. And he wrote about family in the notes he left behind before shooting himself on Dec. 7, said Sgt. Travis Walker, who investigated the death.
"There was a lot of things going on in the young man's life," Walker said.
Jacob missed as many school days as he attended in his last semester. He struggled to make good grades, and a diploma seemed out of reach.
McDonald said Jacob resisted the option of dropping out to instead pursue a GED. She said strong bonds with friends at school kept him coming back.
Yet in the building, he'd sometimes spend as much time with counselors as he did in class.
He'd overcome an eating disorder but wrestled with drugs and alcohol, friends said. And he'd begun to deal with the adult world, encountering complications with health insurance after his 18th birthday. Some of those issues were mentioned in writings he left behind.
What those writings, which officials declined to make public, did not include was any mention of bullying.
"None," Walker said. "Zero."
Blame poisons community
But those who believe Jacob was bullied to death have their evidence, too. And they are determined to make Jacob's death a rallying cry to bring change to Cheatham County.
Friends and family question whether faculty did enough to protect Jacob, and if the district's bullying policy leaves too much leniency for students who do harm.
Hundreds signed a petition to toughen the bullying policy, and more than 1,700 people have signed a similar online petition started by the Tennessee Equality Project, a gay rights group.
In public meetings, other students have told stories of ridicule and abuse.
In an interview, Justin Philalack, a 2009 graduate, said he hid that he was gay while he was at the school.
"The guys that were out and gay, they were always ridiculed," he said. "To me, I never saw any punishment."
School officials, suddenly under intense scrutiny, defended their bullying policy. Director of Schools Tim Webb said a revision in the past year mandated reporting of incidents. The rules cover all the bases now, he said.
Webb does not anticipate further changes, but he knows petitions and another recent meeting were geared toward revisiting the policy through the school board.
None of the six county school board members returned calls seeking comment.
In Jacob's case, officials found just one report of bullying in the year since Webb and Principal Glenna Barrow took their positions.
"We know rumors and speculation of previous bullying," Webb said. "We are still looking into that."
He insisted that Barrow and the counselors went "above and beyond" to help Jacob with his many challenges. Citing confidentiality laws, he declined to discuss specifics.
"Is there bullying that's going on? Absolutely," Webb said. "But I don't buy into the idea for one minute that Cheatham County schools are less tolerant than another rural school system in the region or the state."
Webb is researching anti-bullying programs to bring additional staff training and student curriculum into the school.
Zamudio, who supported her friend when he'd expressed suicidal thoughts before, was hesitant to criticize officials.
"The school actually did a lot," she said. "He came in multiple times telling (counselors) he had troubles in his life. Obviously they could have brought in more help."
Disagreements over blame have played out in dramatic ways.
A school counselor was left in tears after being kicked out of Jacob's funeral, according to multiple people who attended. Elsewhere in town, animosity has surrounded those associated with school staff.
The community dialogue was literally silenced one night, when tensions cut short a community talk led by the Tennessee Suicide Prevention Network.
Members of the network had spent parts of four days in the high school helping students, teachers, kitchen staff and school bus drivers cope with their grief and learn the warning signs of suicide.
Scott Ridgway, executive director of the network, brought similar information to the community meeting, hosted at the same local funeral home that handled Jacob's burial. He discussed the complexities of suicide and grieving. He also spoke on behalf of the school and the emotion he'd seen in devastated staff members.
But his comments applauding the district bullying policy, "went over like a lead balloon," McDonald recalled. She said people were upset to hear the school defended, and that the meeting was organized as a lecture.
Ridgway said the anger directed toward him was unusual, but not unprecedented for such an emotionally charged moment.
"There was a sense that some of these folks that attended, they wanted to pinpoint and point fingers," he said. "That's not the way the meetings are supposed to happen."
Ridgway said focusing on blame can blur lessons that might prevent future tragedies.
"We've got to convey that anybody takes their life for a number of reasons, not just one," he said. "It's easier for students to blame someone versus looking at the big picture."
Voices seek change
Jacob remains somewhere in that picture, often sketched with one simple stroke by people who never knew him.
And the simple story proved powerful. After a trio of gay blogs put out a call for help, almost $10,000 in donations more than covered the cost of the teen's funeral.
Closer to home, students invoke his name in their efforts to root out bullies, change policies and form a new group for all students to talk about their lives.
"I think Jacob sparked all this," Williams said. "But it's not just about Jacob anymore. It's about all of us. All of us need a voice. All of us need to stand up."
The raw emotions unleashed by the tragedy are also being harnessed by leaders of local gay rights groups. A cross-section of support groups hosted a town hall meeting last Tuesday
"We don't just want this to end, this energy," Nashville-based civil rights attorney Abby Rubenfeld told a group of about 30. "We want to do something in Jacob's name."
Recalling the frustration of the community meeting a week before, organizers gave kids and parents free rein to open up about the bullying they'd seen and to air grievances about their schools.
Williams passed around her petition demanding a stiffer bullying policy and students learned how to form groups to promote tolerance.
Chris Sanders, chairman of the Tennessee Equality Project's Nashville committee, gave step-by-step directions on how to request changes through the school board.
"What we want to see happen is citizens of Cheatham County engage their elected school board for the policy change they want," Sanders said in an interview. "We will advise on … best practices. In the end, it's up to the citizens of Cheatham County."
Those in attendance spoke in the heated language of a "revolution" they said was needed in the rural county, where abuse could no longer be tolerated.
Personal horror stories piled up, leading to talk of legal actions and federal investigations.
With plans for further research, the group scheduled another meeting for Jan. 12.
"The snowball is really rolling because these parents are so scared their child is going to be next," said Johnson, the teen's great aunt. "They're going to take Jake's place."
Clues remain elusive
Even when life settles down, Jacob's friends and family may never fully know what was happening inside the mind of the high school senior.
The boy's grandmother — like many others — has tried to look back, to examine what she'd said and how she might have helped. A lot of people have revisited and sometimes agonized over the last things they heard him say.
"You go back and try to read," McDonald said. "He texted the day before. There was nothing off-color — nothing disturbing."
Zamudio cut Jacob's long blonde hair that week, and felt something wasn't right. But her friend had talked of troubles before.
"I didn't really do anything," she said. "I feel guilty about that."
On his Facebook page that last night, in a message left for anyone to read, Jacob wrote an apology to those who knew him. And then he wrote: "This is me, signing off."
Those words have carried on and multiplied. As the teen's name became familiar in households across the country, strangers arrived at his page, then sent his statements onward to still more people, often attaching their own emotional pleas to end bullying.
Those who did know him write messages there too, describing how he sticks in their minds.
They'll always have their pictures of Jacob Rogers. And those who didn't know him, they'll have theirs, too.
Reach Tony Gonzalez at 615-259-8089 or [email protected]
=========================================
Randall Jacob Rogers
(August 30, 1993 - December 7, 2011)
Son of Shane Rogers and Persephanie Pittman.
Native of Tennessee. Educated in The Cheatham County Public School System. Jacob was currently a Senior at Cheatham County Central High School in Ashland City, TN.
He loved music with Lady Gaga being his favorite.
Jacob tragically commited suicide after being bullied by students at his school, when the school repeatedly ignored the issue.
He is survived by his father, Shane Rogers (Leslie Crutcher); mother, Persephanie Pittman; grandmothers, Norma Rogers and Sandra McDonald; brothers Mitchell and Nicholas Rogers, Jackson Crutcher and Matthew Crutcher; and sister, Brittni Rogers.
Visitation will be held on Friday, December 9, 2011, from 2-8 p.m. and again on Saturday, December 10, 2011, from 10 a.m. until the funeral hour of 2 p.m. Funeral Service will be conducted on Saturday, December 10, 2011, at 2 p.m. at Cheatham County Funeral Home in the Chapel with Brother Jeff Yohe officiating the service. Burial will be private.
Cheatham County Funeral Home is in charge of the arrangements.
Relationship to Contributor: Very good Friend of my younger sister.∼ASHLAND CITY — Jacob Rogers loved attention.
The Cheatham County teenager told over-the-top jokes, goofed off in photos and dressed in daring costumes for Halloween.
He had energy nobody seemed to match. And when he got his friends laughing, he didn't let up. He once coerced a pregnant friend — already past her due date — to hop off the couch and model a pair of high heels, runway style.
But he also sought a different kind of attention: help in working through depression, substance abuse and family issues that tormented him.
In his death by suicide this month, Jacob lost control of the attention he'd receive. His life, a swirl of complexity and turmoil, became, in death, a much simpler story of a gay student bullied so badly that he chose to end his life.
That story, or some grain of it, belonged to Jacob, too. It just wasn't his whole story. And yet it spread with gas-fire suddenness, fueling commentary from gay activist groups and bloggers and even a talk radio personality in Seattle. A local movement put school officials on an island of criticism, and angry community members shut down a town meeting called to discuss suicide prevention.
With each passing day, a gap seemed to widen between who Jacob was in life and who he became in death.
Nobody denies that bullies got to Jacob during his four years at Cheatham County Central High School.
He was openly gay and wanted to be comfortable saying so. But maybe more than others, Jacob became an almost daily target for name-calling, said friend Kaelynn Mooningham, 18.
"It was like every day, every class," she said.
Jacob didn't hide who he was. He wore tight-fitting clothes and shared outfits with girlfriends, Mooningham said. He also obsessed over Lady Gaga, dressing up as the pop star, making sketches of her and listening over and over to her gay anthem, "Born This Way."
"Jacob was Jacob and that was it," said schoolmate Joney Williams, a junior. "I think he just wanted to do his thing. I don't think Jacob was on this big mission to change the world or to change how everybody thought about him. I think he just wanted people to leave him alone."
When Jacob began to tell relatives he was gay, around age 14, the conversations did not surprise or alienate family members, said maternal grandmother Sandra McDonald.
Nor did the disclosure fully define him.
McDonald and sister Denise Johnson — Jacob's great aunt — fondly recalled Jacob's interest in cooking, which started back when he was about 6, when he was given an Easy-Bake oven he'd begged for.
Longtime friend Maricela Zamudio, a senior, said Jacob thought of attending a cosmetology or art school.
He was a creative illustrator, singer and dancer who could turn routine backyard activities into adventures, Zamudio said. He raved about the mystique surrounding an antique wooden bedframe and cloudy mirror in his bedroom.
Jacob lived with his grandmother on his father's side of the family, Norma Rogers, who could not be reached.
Zamudio said the two were extremely close.
"Whenever we went to hang out with him, it was always Jacob and Norma," she said.
He prepped meals for her, cleaned and ran errands. The teen's willingness to live with and help his grandmother was obvious to everyone.
"He was just a tender, loving soul," Johnson said.
Yet Jacob's family life was not without strife. His biological mother's move out of Tennessee this year weighed heavily on his heart. At least once, he savagely criticized his parents on his Facebook page. And he wrote about family in the notes he left behind before shooting himself on Dec. 7, said Sgt. Travis Walker, who investigated the death.
"There was a lot of things going on in the young man's life," Walker said.
Jacob missed as many school days as he attended in his last semester. He struggled to make good grades, and a diploma seemed out of reach.
McDonald said Jacob resisted the option of dropping out to instead pursue a GED. She said strong bonds with friends at school kept him coming back.
Yet in the building, he'd sometimes spend as much time with counselors as he did in class.
He'd overcome an eating disorder but wrestled with drugs and alcohol, friends said. And he'd begun to deal with the adult world, encountering complications with health insurance after his 18th birthday. Some of those issues were mentioned in writings he left behind.
What those writings, which officials declined to make public, did not include was any mention of bullying.
"None," Walker said. "Zero."
Blame poisons community
But those who believe Jacob was bullied to death have their evidence, too. And they are determined to make Jacob's death a rallying cry to bring change to Cheatham County.
Friends and family question whether faculty did enough to protect Jacob, and if the district's bullying policy leaves too much leniency for students who do harm.
Hundreds signed a petition to toughen the bullying policy, and more than 1,700 people have signed a similar online petition started by the Tennessee Equality Project, a gay rights group.
In public meetings, other students have told stories of ridicule and abuse.
In an interview, Justin Philalack, a 2009 graduate, said he hid that he was gay while he was at the school.
"The guys that were out and gay, they were always ridiculed," he said. "To me, I never saw any punishment."
School officials, suddenly under intense scrutiny, defended their bullying policy. Director of Schools Tim Webb said a revision in the past year mandated reporting of incidents. The rules cover all the bases now, he said.
Webb does not anticipate further changes, but he knows petitions and another recent meeting were geared toward revisiting the policy through the school board.
None of the six county school board members returned calls seeking comment.
In Jacob's case, officials found just one report of bullying in the year since Webb and Principal Glenna Barrow took their positions.
"We know rumors and speculation of previous bullying," Webb said. "We are still looking into that."
He insisted that Barrow and the counselors went "above and beyond" to help Jacob with his many challenges. Citing confidentiality laws, he declined to discuss specifics.
"Is there bullying that's going on? Absolutely," Webb said. "But I don't buy into the idea for one minute that Cheatham County schools are less tolerant than another rural school system in the region or the state."
Webb is researching anti-bullying programs to bring additional staff training and student curriculum into the school.
Zamudio, who supported her friend when he'd expressed suicidal thoughts before, was hesitant to criticize officials.
"The school actually did a lot," she said. "He came in multiple times telling (counselors) he had troubles in his life. Obviously they could have brought in more help."
Disagreements over blame have played out in dramatic ways.
A school counselor was left in tears after being kicked out of Jacob's funeral, according to multiple people who attended. Elsewhere in town, animosity has surrounded those associated with school staff.
The community dialogue was literally silenced one night, when tensions cut short a community talk led by the Tennessee Suicide Prevention Network.
Members of the network had spent parts of four days in the high school helping students, teachers, kitchen staff and school bus drivers cope with their grief and learn the warning signs of suicide.
Scott Ridgway, executive director of the network, brought similar information to the community meeting, hosted at the same local funeral home that handled Jacob's burial. He discussed the complexities of suicide and grieving. He also spoke on behalf of the school and the emotion he'd seen in devastated staff members.
But his comments applauding the district bullying policy, "went over like a lead balloon," McDonald recalled. She said people were upset to hear the school defended, and that the meeting was organized as a lecture.
Ridgway said the anger directed toward him was unusual, but not unprecedented for such an emotionally charged moment.
"There was a sense that some of these folks that attended, they wanted to pinpoint and point fingers," he said. "That's not the way the meetings are supposed to happen."
Ridgway said focusing on blame can blur lessons that might prevent future tragedies.
"We've got to convey that anybody takes their life for a number of reasons, not just one," he said. "It's easier for students to blame someone versus looking at the big picture."
Voices seek change
Jacob remains somewhere in that picture, often sketched with one simple stroke by people who never knew him.
And the simple story proved powerful. After a trio of gay blogs put out a call for help, almost $10,000 in donations more than covered the cost of the teen's funeral.
Closer to home, students invoke his name in their efforts to root out bullies, change policies and form a new group for all students to talk about their lives.
"I think Jacob sparked all this," Williams said. "But it's not just about Jacob anymore. It's about all of us. All of us need a voice. All of us need to stand up."
The raw emotions unleashed by the tragedy are also being harnessed by leaders of local gay rights groups. A cross-section of support groups hosted a town hall meeting last Tuesday
"We don't just want this to end, this energy," Nashville-based civil rights attorney Abby Rubenfeld told a group of about 30. "We want to do something in Jacob's name."
Recalling the frustration of the community meeting a week before, organizers gave kids and parents free rein to open up about the bullying they'd seen and to air grievances about their schools.
Williams passed around her petition demanding a stiffer bullying policy and students learned how to form groups to promote tolerance.
Chris Sanders, chairman of the Tennessee Equality Project's Nashville committee, gave step-by-step directions on how to request changes through the school board.
"What we want to see happen is citizens of Cheatham County engage their elected school board for the policy change they want," Sanders said in an interview. "We will advise on … best practices. In the end, it's up to the citizens of Cheatham County."
Those in attendance spoke in the heated language of a "revolution" they said was needed in the rural county, where abuse could no longer be tolerated.
Personal horror stories piled up, leading to talk of legal actions and federal investigations.
With plans for further research, the group scheduled another meeting for Jan. 12.
"The snowball is really rolling because these parents are so scared their child is going to be next," said Johnson, the teen's great aunt. "They're going to take Jake's place."
Clues remain elusive
Even when life settles down, Jacob's friends and family may never fully know what was happening inside the mind of the high school senior.
The boy's grandmother — like many others — has tried to look back, to examine what she'd said and how she might have helped. A lot of people have revisited and sometimes agonized over the last things they heard him say.
"You go back and try to read," McDonald said. "He texted the day before. There was nothing off-color — nothing disturbing."
Zamudio cut Jacob's long blonde hair that week, and felt something wasn't right. But her friend had talked of troubles before.
"I didn't really do anything," she said. "I feel guilty about that."
On his Facebook page that last night, in a message left for anyone to read, Jacob wrote an apology to those who knew him. And then he wrote: "This is me, signing off."
Those words have carried on and multiplied. As the teen's name became familiar in households across the country, strangers arrived at his page, then sent his statements onward to still more people, often attaching their own emotional pleas to end bullying.
Those who did know him write messages there too, describing how he sticks in their minds.
They'll always have their pictures of Jacob Rogers. And those who didn't know him, they'll have theirs, too.
Reach Tony Gonzalez at 615-259-8089 or [email protected]
=========================================
(August 30, 1993 - December 7, 2011)
Son of Shane Rogers and Persephanie Pittman.
Native of Tennessee. Educated in The Cheatham County Public School System. Jacob was currently a Senior at Cheatham County Central High School in Ashland City, TN.
He loved music with Lady Gaga being his favorite.
Jacob tragically commited suicide after being bullied by students at his school, when the school repeatedly ignored the issue.
He is survived by his father, Shane Rogers (Leslie Crutcher); mother, Persephanie Pittman; grandmothers, Norma Rogers and Sandra McDonald; brothers Mitchell and Nicholas Rogers, Jackson Crutcher and Matthew Crutcher; and sister, Brittni Rogers.
Visitation will be held on Friday, December 9, 2011, from 2-8 p.m. and again on Saturday, December 10, 2011, from 10 a.m. until the funeral hour of 2 p.m. Funeral Service will be conducted on Saturday, December 10, 2011, at 2 p.m. at Cheatham County Funeral Home in the Chapel with Brother Jeff Yohe officiating the service. Burial will be private.
Cheatham County Funeral Home is in charge of the arrangements.
Relationship to Contributor: Very good Friend of my younger sister.∼ASHLAND CITY — Jacob Rogers loved attention.
The Cheatham County teenager told over-the-top jokes, goofed off in photos and dressed in daring costumes for Halloween.
He had energy nobody seemed to match. And when he got his friends laughing, he didn't let up. He once coerced a pregnant friend — already past her due date — to hop off the couch and model a pair of high heels, runway style.
But he also sought a different kind of attention: help in working through depression, substance abuse and family issues that tormented him.
In his death by suicide this month, Jacob lost control of the attention he'd receive. His life, a swirl of complexity and turmoil, became, in death, a much simpler story of a gay student bullied so badly that he chose to end his life.
That story, or some grain of it, belonged to Jacob, too. It just wasn't his whole story. And yet it spread with gas-fire suddenness, fueling commentary from gay activist groups and bloggers and even a talk radio personality in Seattle. A local movement put school officials on an island of criticism, and angry community members shut down a town meeting called to discuss suicide prevention.
With each passing day, a gap seemed to widen between who Jacob was in life and who he became in death.
Nobody denies that bullies got to Jacob during his four years at Cheatham County Central High School.
He was openly gay and wanted to be comfortable saying so. But maybe more than others, Jacob became an almost daily target for name-calling, said friend Kaelynn Mooningham, 18.
"It was like every day, every class," she said.
Jacob didn't hide who he was. He wore tight-fitting clothes and shared outfits with girlfriends, Mooningham said. He also obsessed over Lady Gaga, dressing up as the pop star, making sketches of her and listening over and over to her gay anthem, "Born This Way."
"Jacob was Jacob and that was it," said schoolmate Joney Williams, a junior. "I think he just wanted to do his thing. I don't think Jacob was on this big mission to change the world or to change how everybody thought about him. I think he just wanted people to leave him alone."
When Jacob began to tell relatives he was gay, around age 14, the conversations did not surprise or alienate family members, said maternal grandmother Sandra McDonald.
Nor did the disclosure fully define him.
McDonald and sister Denise Johnson — Jacob's great aunt — fondly recalled Jacob's interest in cooking, which started back when he was about 6, when he was given an Easy-Bake oven he'd begged for.
Longtime friend Maricela Zamudio, a senior, said Jacob thought of attending a cosmetology or art school.
He was a creative illustrator, singer and dancer who could turn routine backyard activities into adventures, Zamudio said. He raved about the mystique surrounding an antique wooden bedframe and cloudy mirror in his bedroom.
Jacob lived with his grandmother on his father's side of the family, Norma Rogers, who could not be reached.
Zamudio said the two were extremely close.
"Whenever we went to hang out with him, it was always Jacob and Norma," she said.
He prepped meals for her, cleaned and ran errands. The teen's willingness to live with and help his grandmother was obvious to everyone.
"He was just a tender, loving soul," Johnson said.
Yet Jacob's family life was not without strife. His biological mother's move out of Tennessee this year weighed heavily on his heart. At least once, he savagely criticized his parents on his Facebook page. And he wrote about family in the notes he left behind before shooting himself on Dec. 7, said Sgt. Travis Walker, who investigated the death.
"There was a lot of things going on in the young man's life," Walker said.
Jacob missed as many school days as he attended in his last semester. He struggled to make good grades, and a diploma seemed out of reach.
McDonald said Jacob resisted the option of dropping out to instead pursue a GED. She said strong bonds with friends at school kept him coming back.
Yet in the building, he'd sometimes spend as much time with counselors as he did in class.
He'd overcome an eating disorder but wrestled with drugs and alcohol, friends said. And he'd begun to deal with the adult world, encountering complications with health insurance after his 18th birthday. Some of those issues were mentioned in writings he left behind.
What those writings, which officials declined to make public, did not include was any mention of bullying.
"None," Walker said. "Zero."
Blame poisons community
But those who believe Jacob was bullied to death have their evidence, too. And they are determined to make Jacob's death a rallying cry to bring change to Cheatham County.
Friends and family question whether faculty did enough to protect Jacob, and if the district's bullying policy leaves too much leniency for students who do harm.
Hundreds signed a petition to toughen the bullying policy, and more than 1,700 people have signed a similar online petition started by the Tennessee Equality Project, a gay rights group.
In public meetings, other students have told stories of ridicule and abuse.
In an interview, Justin Philalack, a 2009 graduate, said he hid that he was gay while he was at the school.
"The guys that were out and gay, they were always ridiculed," he said. "To me, I never saw any punishment."
School officials, suddenly under intense scrutiny, defended their bullying policy. Director of Schools Tim Webb said a revision in the past year mandated reporting of incidents. The rules cover all the bases now, he said.
Webb does not anticipate further changes, but he knows petitions and another recent meeting were geared toward revisiting the policy through the school board.
None of the six county school board members returned calls seeking comment.
In Jacob's case, officials found just one report of bullying in the year since Webb and Principal Glenna Barrow took their positions.
"We know rumors and speculation of previous bullying," Webb said. "We are still looking into that."
He insisted that Barrow and the counselors went "above and beyond" to help Jacob with his many challenges. Citing confidentiality laws, he declined to discuss specifics.
"Is there bullying that's going on? Absolutely," Webb said. "But I don't buy into the idea for one minute that Cheatham County schools are less tolerant than another rural school system in the region or the state."
Webb is researching anti-bullying programs to bring additional staff training and student curriculum into the school.
Zamudio, who supported her friend when he'd expressed suicidal thoughts before, was hesitant to criticize officials.
"The school actually did a lot," she said. "He came in multiple times telling (counselors) he had troubles in his life. Obviously they could have brought in more help."
Disagreements over blame have played out in dramatic ways.
A school counselor was left in tears after being kicked out of Jacob's funeral, according to multiple people who attended. Elsewhere in town, animosity has surrounded those associated with school staff.
The community dialogue was literally silenced one night, when tensions cut short a community talk led by the Tennessee Suicide Prevention Network.
Members of the network had spent parts of four days in the high school helping students, teachers, kitchen staff and school bus drivers cope with their grief and learn the warning signs of suicide.
Scott Ridgway, executive director of the network, brought similar information to the community meeting, hosted at the same local funeral home that handled Jacob's burial. He discussed the complexities of suicide and grieving. He also spoke on behalf of the school and the emotion he'd seen in devastated staff members.
But his comments applauding the district bullying policy, "went over like a lead balloon," McDonald recalled. She said people were upset to hear the school defended, and that the meeting was organized as a lecture.
Ridgway said the anger directed toward him was unusual, but not unprecedented for such an emotionally charged moment.
"There was a sense that some of these folks that attended, they wanted to pinpoint and point fingers," he said. "That's not the way the meetings are supposed to happen."
Ridgway said focusing on blame can blur lessons that might prevent future tragedies.
"We've got to convey that anybody takes their life for a number of reasons, not just one," he said. "It's easier for students to blame someone versus looking at the big picture."
Voices seek change
Jacob remains somewhere in that picture, often sketched with one simple stroke by people who never knew him.
And the simple story proved powerful. After a trio of gay blogs put out a call for help, almost $10,000 in donations more than covered the cost of the teen's funeral.
Closer to home, students invoke his name in their efforts to root out bullies, change policies and form a new group for all students to talk about their lives.
"I think Jacob sparked all this," Williams said. "But it's not just about Jacob anymore. It's about all of us. All of us need a voice. All of us need to stand up."
The raw emotions unleashed by the tragedy are also being harnessed by leaders of local gay rights groups. A cross-section of support groups hosted a town hall meeting last Tuesday
"We don't just want this to end, this energy," Nashville-based civil rights attorney Abby Rubenfeld told a group of about 30. "We want to do something in Jacob's name."
Recalling the frustration of the community meeting a week before, organizers gave kids and parents free rein to open up about the bullying they'd seen and to air grievances about their schools.
Williams passed around her petition demanding a stiffer bullying policy and students learned how to form groups to promote tolerance.
Chris Sanders, chairman of the Tennessee Equality Project's Nashville committee, gave step-by-step directions on how to request changes through the school board.
"What we want to see happen is citizens of Cheatham County engage their elected school board for the policy change they want," Sanders said in an interview. "We will advise on … best practices. In the end, it's up to the citizens of Cheatham County."
Those in attendance spoke in the heated language of a "revolution" they said was needed in the rural county, where abuse could no longer be tolerated.
Personal horror stories piled up, leading to talk of legal actions and federal investigations.
With plans for further research, the group scheduled another meeting for Jan. 12.
"The snowball is really rolling because these parents are so scared their child is going to be next," said Johnson, the teen's great aunt. "They're going to take Jake's place."
Clues remain elusive
Even when life settles down, Jacob's friends and family may never fully know what was happening inside the mind of the high school senior.
The boy's grandmother — like many others — has tried to look back, to examine what she'd said and how she might have helped. A lot of people have revisited and sometimes agonized over the last things they heard him say.
"You go back and try to read," McDonald said. "He texted the day before. There was nothing off-color — nothing disturbing."
Zamudio cut Jacob's long blonde hair that week, and felt something wasn't right. But her friend had talked of troubles before.
"I didn't really do anything," she said. "I feel guilty about that."
On his Facebook page that last night, in a message left for anyone to read, Jacob wrote an apology to those who knew him. And then he wrote: "This is me, signing off."
Those words have carried on and multiplied. As the teen's name became familiar in households across the country, strangers arrived at his page, then sent his statements onward to still more people, often attaching their own emotional pleas to end bullying.
Those who did know him write messages there too, describing how he sticks in their minds.
They'll always have their pictures of Jacob Rogers. And those who didn't know him, they'll have theirs, too.
Reach Tony Gonzalez at 615-259-8089 or [email protected]
=========================================
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