Supper Club Plus One

December 17, 2015

Today two of my favorite worlds came together: super friends and offspring. My "Supper Club" (Hannah, Chase, Doug--see past post so titled if you have the inclination) brought my Grace into the fold. It was as if she had been part of us all along. 

In this picture are four of the best people whose air I get to breathe. My heart ballooned up.

Oh, and the food ROCKED :). (Eggs Benedict were present...need I say more?)

Wish You Were Here

December 8, 2015

It's been a bit of a week. And that might be a bit of an understatement.

If you know me (and if you read this you probably do. I mean, come on, I'm not David Sedaris or Anna Quindlen. But every gal needs a hobby. I could go back to crocheting or binge-watching "Criminal Minds," but this seems all right), you know that in my life there is a tier of my heart reserved for a unique blend of former students who become close friends. We all have a caste system of relationships: the inner circle, the good friends, the fringe peeps, the people we wished we knew better, the people who like us and we can't say the same. For me, there is another key grouping: the former students/lifetime friends.

In the last week I lost two of them.  I wrote about the horrific loss of Steven on December 3. My tears and heartache were still ripe when I heard the news that Shane was gone. 

Shane was 21. He graduated in 2013. For four years this intelligent, funny, talented guy made Parkview Speech and Debate his second home. He had a deeply understated, ironic sense of humor. He would say "Wedge" with a tinge in his voice that promised respect and asked "can you believe you have to put up with some of this *^%#*?" He was calm, and his demeanor had an effect on me for which other students and I were most grateful: as my heart rate and temper would elevate, Shane could show up, speak up, and I would decelerate. 

He wasn't needy. He didn't seem to crave my attention or the attention of anyone. His observations of life were pee-your-pants funny and he wasn't even trying. He played the ukelele and guitar and wrote songs on the spot and I've never laughed so hard. 

It's tempting to romanticize those we've lost. All of a sudden a lukewarm personality or wit becomes a force of nature who lit up the room. Or a fine fellow with a marginal intellect becomes a standout. The thing about Shane is that there is no need to embellish. He was this quiet, brilliant, wildly gifted human being who wasn't long for this world.

I sat at his funeral today on a pew with a select handful of my former students/lifelong friends, some of whom are among the most important people in my life. All of whom mean so much to me. Shane meant so much to all of us. Together we mourned him. We listened as tributes were read, scriptures quoted, hymns sung. At one point, the pastor referenced Shane's debating and speaking skills, saying how much "I wish Shane was here," acknowledging the class and command he would have brought to the podium.

A sob rose out of my gut then. I heard the pain on that pew as well, to my left, to my right.

We wish he was here, too.

It's been a bit of a week. That might be a bit of an understatement. But what can't be overstated is that the pain of the loss highlights the wonder of the living. There is irony in that. And beauty.

Shane would like that.

Steven

December 3, 2015

I could never call him Philip.

He was Steven to me. As a spirited, cynical, wildly intelligent high school freshman, he was Steven. After navigating the sharky waters of a few of his adolescent years as his speech and debate coach, I never could shake calling him as I knew him then.

I was in my infancy as an educator when Steven walked into my classroom. His talent, wit, commanding sense of style were startling and wonderful and built the foundation of a friendship that would last until the end of his complicated life.

When he wasn't sneaking off to smoke or do God knows what off campus (tales I've been told long after the fact), Steven navigated the halls of our Midwestern public high school with a tortured maturity that manifested itself in a "wink and a nod" persona. He was brown, he was gay, he was outspoken in a sea of white, heterosexual (or deadbolts-on, closeted), less outspoken folks. But in each other's company and in the world of competitive speech and debate, we found a home we both loved.

One of the highest bits of praise I have ever received was from Steven in these last months. We were remembering those competitive days at tournaments and he told me how proud he always was to walk into a tournament with me. The feeling, I assured him, was mutual. That was the thing about him: he cast praise honestly and but not haphazardly. His kindness was authentic. As was his disdain.

I loved that about him.

He is gone now. This world was ill-fitting for him. He tried with class and resolve to make a life that bore him the satisfaction he so craved. I believe he did find fulfillment and abiding joy in the relationships he cultivated with those of us blessed enough to gain his favor.

It wasn't enough.

Anger is tempting for me. When he made an unsuccessful attempt in October, I told him then how pissed off I would be were he to leave us all behind. He knew. But he also knew I loved him. And I would remember always who he was when he was truly alive. And who he wanted to be. I think he counted on it.

In these hours since learning of his final decision, I have struggled to see the sun. But there are cracks in my sorrow where the light creeps in. With every memory of every laugh, every bit of understanding, every discussion of Netflix fare or "Downton," every witty turn of phrase, he lives on. He was a gentleman's gentleman. He was my friend.

Steven, my dear, I'm sorry for all the darkness. But thank you for the light.