The Parts of Himself
A little over a year ago, a kid I went to high school with died in a motorcycle accident. About six months after, another schoolmate released a film in his honor entitled “The Parts of Himself,” (http://vimeo.com/41398301#at=0) with interviews of family and friends on how this kid, Jake Neumann, impacted their lives. I didn’t know him at all, but I watched the film anyway. Then I wrote this.
A Letter to Someone I Never Knew
Hey Jake.
Let me preface this with a confession because, while this blog has been in existence for only two months and no one reads it and no one would ever know otherwise, I have always been honest and I think that for everyone’s sake I have to keep it that way so here it goes:
I am terrified to write this piece to you right now.
Actually, terrified does not even begin to cover what I am feeling right now; my pulse is racing and heart is beating out of my chest and I might be having a panic attack because though I’m sitting here, safe in my bed, I can barely breathe and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I just spent the last forty-nine minutes watching some people I hoped to never see again talk about how much you meant to them but truthfully, I don’t think that’s it. I think it instead might just be that there’s the distinct possibility that those same people are going to read this.
I have spent the last four years running away from high school. I fell out of touch with far too many of my childhood friends and never went back to visit Harborfields and spent any time not at Dartmouth either avoiding Greenlawn or out of state. I tried to escape the nervous kid I was that walked the halls of that architectural nightmare of a school, but tonight, despite my best efforts, I find myself meeting him again and having to reconcile him with the man I see in the mirror. This will be my greatest challenge to date. From what I just saw however, it seems like you lived your life by facing each day knowing that each challenge was worth its pound of flesh, so I’m going to try. I never knew you Jake, but for you, this once, I’ll try.
Like I said, though we were in Harborfields for four long overlapping years, we did not know each other. That’s not to say we did not know of each other; with a graduating class of 273 (some numbers you randomly can’t forget), it’s impossible to believe that we could have not appeared on each other’s radar at some point or another. I always wondered where the hell you came from and how you got everyone to like you so damn much. You probably wondered how I landed such a cute girlfriend. I don’t think either of us could have articulated answers to each other’s questions, but I just spent the better part of an hour listening to people answer mine and may I just say, well done sir.
First off, it takes a lot to make the average Long Island boy cry. I’ve only seen it happen a handful of times in my life and a number of those times involved a swift kick to the nuts by a pair of high-priced heels, so when I just witnessed at least three men’s eyes glaze over with tears and anguish at the thought of you not being in their lives for another day, I honestly didn’t know what to do. There’s often this level of machismo and explicit, overbearing, archetypal masculinity that doesn’t allow guys in our generation to show what’s really on their minds, but despite all that I just heard a distinguishable quiver of sadness in a football player’s voice at the very mention of your name. Like I said, you must have been doing something right.
On a similar note, I sincerely hope you know how much your brother loves you. It takes a lot of balls to get in front of a camera and willingly and knowingly and courageously bear your soul to the world, especially about something as personal as losing a brother, and he spent more time on that screen than anyone else by a long shot. Make sure to put a good word in for him wherever you are. He deserves it.
While it takes a lot of courage to openly cry about someone you’ve lost, there’s also something to be said for facing the memory with a smile - that said, your mom is incredible. It’s safe to say that a tragedy of this caliber would leave most people in a ball on the floor, hands covering their ears and tears streaming down their face, with nothing in the world able to comfort their tired souls, but not your mom. She appeared on screen a pillar of hope, with a comprehension that the life you led was full, and that though it was cut short before its time by fate you had lived the years you had without regret and with a grace that many people spend their lives searching fruitlessly for. She spoke with poise and humility, as a woman robbed but with an understanding that the thief knew better than she what to do with her stolen treasure. If you can, maybe take the time to let her know that her faith is warranted? I’m not sure how that would work, but I’m sure there’s a system in place.
While you’re at it, could you maybe let me know how to get adults to like you so much? It seems as if you convinced your friends’ parents to see you as an extension of their own bloodlines, and despite my best efforts I don’t think that I’ve ever been able to do that very well. Then again, it might have just had something do with your general ability to relate to adults in a way that many of us still struggle with because Dr. Bennardo, our principle from high school, was able to give a nice little speech about you and I’m pretty sure that guy wouldn’t recognize me if I ran into him on the street. Then again you were the school president, so maybe you just spent more time with him. I don’t know. I guess I’m just jealous is all.
You know, right about now I wish that I had more to say. I wish that I knew more about your life than what these people could tell me about it in their beautifully cut-and-pasted soundbites but I can’t. I can’t because I didn’t know you. You had a whole lifetime of experiences that I’ll know nothing about because in our high school graduating class of 273 I knew some people and you knew others and the Venn diagram of our acquaintances didn’t overlap and that sucks because apparently you were so worth knowing that your friends were inspired to make a movie about it. A movie that I watched. A movie that inspired me to write this. A movie that made me cry, despite all my intentions not to.
Maybe we’ll meet sometime later on. Hope then I’ll think to introduce myself.
Best,
Stephen
