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.