When Bobby G. Lester Elementary in Jacksonville announced “Dress As Your Favorite Person Day,” most kindergarteners had predictable answers. Superheroes. Athletes. Cartoon characters. But five-year-old Easton Blocker knew exactly who he wanted to be—and it wasn’t anyone from a movie or a sports team.
He wanted to be Officer Jeffrey Cross, the school’s security guard.
Easton had been watching Cross all year. Every morning, Cross stood at the entrance with that calm, steady presence that made the school feel safe. He’d greet kids by name, offer high-fives, and keep an eye on everything with the kind of quiet vigilance that children notice even when they can’t quite articulate why it matters. To Easton, Officer Cross wasn’t just doing a job—he was a protector. A guardian. Someone who made sure the bad guys stayed away.
So when his mother asked who his favorite person was, Easton didn’t hesitate. “Officer Cross,” he said matter-of-factly. “Because he keeps us safe from the bad guys.”
His mother smiled and got to work. She found a yellow-and-black shirt that matched Cross’s uniform and had “Junior Security” printed across the front. When Easton put it on that morning, he stood a little straighter. Smiled a little wider. He wasn’t just dressed up—he felt like he had a mission.
When he walked into school that day, Officer Cross was standing in his usual spot by the door. But this time, something was different. There, walking toward him, was a miniature version of himself. A five-year-old in a matching uniform, beaming with pride, ready to protect the school alongside his hero.
Cross’s face broke into the widest smile. Not the polite smile adults give children when they’re being cute. This was something deeper—surprise, honor, and a kind of humility that comes from realizing you’ve made an impact you never expected. He knelt down to Easton’s level, and the two stood side by side for a photo, matching uniforms and all. In that moment, Cross wasn’t just a security guard. He was living proof that heroes don’t always wear capes or carry badges. Sometimes they just show up every day and do their job with integrity.
Later, when asked about the moment, Cross admitted it deepened his appreciation for his role. He’d always known his job was important—keeping students safe, maintaining order, being a steady presence. But seeing himself through Easton’s eyes reminded him that children are always watching. That the way he carried himself, the kindness he showed, the quiet strength he embodied—it all mattered more than he’d realized.
Easton went home that day still wearing his Junior Security shirt, already planning next year’s costume. Because when you’re five years old and you’ve found your hero, you don’t let go easily. And when that hero is someone who shows up every day, not for fame or recognition, but simply to keep kids safe—well, that’s the kind of person worth dressing up as.
Officer Cross still works at Bobby G. Lester Elementary. And every morning, when he greets students at the door, he carries with him the knowledge that somewhere in those hallways, a little boy sees him not just as a guard, but as proof that good people exist. That safety matters. That heroes are real.
And sometimes, they wear yellow and black.