From South Shore to Ariel: Honoring the Life and Impact of Malik Murray
A tribute to Malik T. Murray—South Shore native, Ariel executive, and the heart of a generation shaped by faith, education, and Black excellence.
Malik Murray Was the Best of Us
Malik Murray wasn’t just a senior executive at Ariel Investments—he was a son of Chicago’s South Shore, a product of Black Catholic schools, and a quiet force in American finance. His journey from St. Philip Neri School to DePaul University to the upper ranks of one of the country’s most prominent Black-owned investment firms is a story of excellence shaped by community, faith, and family. What follows is both a personal and public remembrance of a man whose impact reached from neighborhood classrooms to corporate boardrooms.
Honoring a Life That Delivered
If you grew up in South Shore, there are names stitched into your memory like street signs or church pews—names like the Jeters, the Pickenses, the Lemieuxs, the Hubbards, and the Murrays.
For me, Malik Murray is one of those names. He was one of my best friends in grade school. Amazingly, I would go on to become the only Black man to cover business at NPR, and my childhood best friend would become a leader at one of the most important Black investment firms in history—Ariel Investments.
Malik Murray died suddenly over Easter weekend. Here’s his Sun-Times obituary.
Recently, I interviewed two of our grade school classmates about education and farming. I was working up the courage to ask Malik for an interview about his life and career. This past weekend, thousands gathered at St. Josephine Bakhita (formerly St. Philip Neri) and Holy Family parish in Chicago to celebrate Malik. He was laid to rest among Chicago’s elite in Oak Woods Cemetery.
Malik’s journey from our neighborhood to the heights of professional success felt preordained. I don’t remember him ever failing a quiz or getting in trouble. Somewhere around fourth or fifth grade, he set his mind on basketball. At St. Ignatius, he was named Chicago Catholic League Player of the Year. The Chicago Sun-Times named him Player of the Week three times, and the Chicago Tribune named him Athlete of the Week.
Malik went on to DePaul University, where he played under coach Joey Meyer and was a four-year letter winner.
After college, Malik pursued a career in finance that culminated in his role as Senior Vice President and Head of Business Development at Ariel Investments, founded by John Rogers Jr. Ariel built a legacy of investing in undervalued assets and uplifting Black talent.
Of all of Malik’s accomplishments, the one that stands out most to me is his service as chairman of our grade school, St. Philip Neri. He also served on the board of St. Ignatius College Prep for several years and was a trustee at DePaul. His commitment to education ran deep—his mother, Linda Murray, was a legendary teacher in Chicago Public Schools. He established the Malik T. Murray Endowed Scholarship for Excellence in Basketball and Finance at DePaul.
I wanted to pay tribute to Malik, but honestly, my words fail me. I wouldn’t be who I am without Malik and his family. He was like an element in formation. I need some help doing him justice.
Brian Paulson, President of the Jesuit Conference of Canada and the United States (and former president of St. Ignatius College Prep), wrote of Malik:
“I give thanks to God for the life of Malik Murray, and I am proud that he is an alumnus of St. Ignatius College Prep. ‘All for the greater honor and glory of God’—AMDG—that’s how he lived his life. My prayers are with all those who mourn his passing.”
More than anyone, I believe Malik was the culmination of our parents’ collective dreams. As much as he belonged to DePaul, Ignatius, and Ariel, I believe he could only have come from South Shore and St. Philip Neri.
I always thought our community was special. Now I know it—because we had Malik.
What follows is a remembrance written by my dear friend and classmate, Dr. Duane B. Davis—a scholar, educator, and son of South Shore. His words, speak for all of us who knew and loved him.
Dr. Duane Davis Remembers A Son of South Shore
O Malik,
South Shore in the ’80s feels like the way people talk about the old days—in sepia or black and white. That’s how old half a century feels.
Recently, I had dinner with the son of Ms. Stallings, a former St. Philip Neri teacher, and said to him: I don’t know a time in my life when a Stallings wasn’t around.
That goes fourfold for the Murray family. I can't remember when I met Malik or Kai; I just know they’ve always been there. I remember when Kamau was born because we both now had little brothers. The small patch of land that encompassed the Y on 71st St., Al Pars, Bubbles candy store, Sister Clara Muhammad, Bryn Mawr, and the school formerly known as St. Philip Neri was our world.
The city was our classroom. I ran into Ms. Sperling at an art museum professional development, and she asked if I remembered sitting in these spaces as a child. I remember most of it, but as it begins to fade into my memory, I am violently brought back in these times.
Malik “Milkman” Murray. I’m not sure his St. Ignatius and DePaul teammates knew that nickname. I would be surprised if they did. My newly tall self didn’t hoop, but we ALL went to those Saturday basketball games at St. Philip in the ‘80s—unsupervised, running concessions, hanging out. That’s where some of our “raised wolves” (that’s what I call Gen X) got their nicknames. That’s where the Milkman was born. No one delivered milk in 1986, but the alley athletes and playground legends were in their minds. Eugene Farris and I—at least that’s my recollection—called him Milkman because he always delivers. We clowned him because he knew the rules and was fundamentally sound. When he had that real growth spurt, I saw him making All-Catholic League and putting up numbers. I said, Milkman (I hadn’t read Song of Solomon yet by Toni Morrison) is going to ride those skills to a free college. Damn. We—the "hood," South Shore, SPN Class of ’88, and I, formerly of that class—rooted, cheered, and watched while Malik, no longer just Milkman, soared.
We all grew and grew apart and stayed connected. I married a woman who knew the Murrays too—what are the odds? Well, if you are Black and from Chicago—and you’re educated, active politically, go to any church, play sports, or went to Ignatius, Whitney Young, Kenwood, or Hyde Park—you know a member of the Murray family.
Sonari Glinton appropriately called Malik the best of us. He was an altar boy in this church. I saw Malik seven days a week—school five, basketball Saturdays, and church on Sundays. I have walked past or driven by his family home for 45 years. Malik put on for our city and lived a life of service that he got from his parents, this school, and this neighborhood.
Late in life, we lived in the condo complex. Father Chris and I would joke about Malik working nights in finance. I taught at Nubia’s high school and taught many of her friends. His niece and my son went to the same high school.
All of us in this space are uniquely connected to a man who is gone too soon and had a lot more to give. As people with faith and people who were raised to believe, we have to honor his memory. Honor those first friends and pivotal moments of youth. And continue to believe, and continue his acts of service, and rejoice that he can join his mother, whom only a few years ago he honored in this very space, saying both of those degrees were hers.
Can those who went to SPN please stand?
Here’s to our man, Malik “Milkman” Murray. He delivered.
Amen.
—Written by Duane Davis
One Last Note
Malik Murray was behind my most popular story. Soon after joining the board of St. Philip Neri, he called to suggest I do a story about our grade school. When I said, “Malik, you don’t see Barbara Walters doing stories about her grade school,” he deadpanned, “Barbara Walters didn’t go to St. Philip Neri!” He wouldn’t take no for an answer. I did the story for This American Life.
Eternal peace, Malik T. Murray.
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Perfect.
Yes!