On Sunday, a kid I went to high school with passed away suddenly. He was working out at the gym, had a heart attack, collapsed and was lost to the wind. He was 34 years old. He was a few years older than me, a senior when I was a sophomore so we didn’t run in the same circles. We were in peer together, though. If you went to Memorial, everyone knew the peer kids-- some said we were a cult-- I always thought they were haters, but come to think of it we might have been a little culty. Anyway, he wasn’t in my peer class but we ran into each other from time to time. The peer office was tiny and everyone huddled up in there between classes to catch a break, a hug, or a breath. He’d ask about my sister-- they were in Ms. Chow’s 1st grade class together. I still have that class photo. Christie standing in the center row-- him in the back, he was always so tall. I’d reply: “she’s good.”
I always thought he was so cool. He walked around with a camera snapping pictures here and there. His year, 2005, had the best yearbook. He was funny and controversial. Mr. Donnelly our Peer coordinator would say he was a ‘knucklehead’. And all these years later, D still referred to him as a that when he called to see how I was taking the news. ”Not well”, I said.
One time, he was standing next to me in the peer office between classes. I was having a shitty day and blasting Obstacle 2 in my old taped up headphones when suddenly he tapped my shoulder and asked “are you listening to Interpol right now?” I nodded. He high-fived me and replied “good shit!” and instantly, I smiled. He had that effect on people. You wanted to impress him but he negated that sort of impact on others. He had this unforgettable semi-lisp but never seemed embarrassed by it. He was wildly honest... said my then boyfriend was a moron, he was right about that. And when I gave myself a homemade haircut, he said I looked like Natalie Portman, which made me soar but then he finished with “...in The Professional but like less Jewish”.
Monday morning, while at work, I hopped on Twitter, which I seldomly do. Insta was shut down and I was trying to avoid any sad posts. I quickly realized I had hit a gold mine of shout-outs and intimate stories and recollections. Pictures, clips, and homages. There were stories of how he pulled the tiniest pocket knife on a guy on the bus who was assaulting a girl. A video of him rocking a baby to sleep. An anecdote of him nearly escaping death with a friend in Cuba. Links to his photography and collaborations. Colorful images of him at a friend’s wedding with his wife. It hit me then like a ton of bricks. All of these people, not knowing what to do with this loss, vomiting words and stories of their friend wishing they can tell him one last time how happy and full he made their lives; how proud of him they were; how much he meant to them... how much they loved him. Love him.
He made it out of WNY in the way our shitty teachers never thought we would or could. He lived life fully and was well known for his art and passion. He made an impact and yet, I feel like I’m not allowed to cry or to speak of him cause we lost touch years ago and like, who am I? Who am I to comment or like or share or whatever. Reading all these posts on his life feels like I’m eavesdropping from behind a screen. But people like him are not supposed to die. The feeling is juxtaposed with this awful reality: We lost a great man.
If all else fails to make sense, I have found comfort in knowing that this immense loss can be used as an opportunity to hold our friends close and remind them how much they mean to us..how proud of them we are; how lucky we are to have them, and how much better we are because of them. Love your friends, hug and kiss them hard. Life is short and unfair. Death is a sure and relentless reminder to love on those around us now. I know of no better legacy to leave behind.
https://www.rodolfo-diaz.com/
