What Lasts When We Lose?

I know I promised that my next posts would be analyzing certain aspects of 10,000 hours, but I must commemorate January 12--a day late thanks to the end-of-term insanity yesterday.  So here's the break in our regularly scheduled programming.

January 12 is always a bittersweet day.  Bitter because it’s the anniversary of the day my family had to start living without Josh, and sweet because it is a day when we all come together and remember him.  This year marks eleven years, and as crazy as this might sound, I’ve only visited my baby brother’s grave a handful of times.

As a writer, I appreciate the graveyard-visit scene as a powerful symbolic, romantic gesture.  Having a character hold a one-sided conversation at the final resting place of a loved one is a great device for revealing inner feelings in a way that’s touching enough to overshadow how contrived it all is.  Do real people actually do that?  Any time I’ve actually thought about giving it a try, it just seemed awkward in my head.  (I watched an episode of Bones recently in which Agent Booth encouraged Dr. Brennan to speak to her mother’s grave.  Brennan thought it was weird, too.  I’ll admit, I felt a little vindicated.)

Another thought:  It is a widely accepted ideology, regardless of religious affiliation, that a human body is separate from the actual person.  So a body in a casket isn’t actually the man or the woman, it’s just what’s left behind.  We treat the bodies of our loved ones with certain respect and ceremony, but this, like the graveyard visit, is symbolic and really mostly about helping the mourners gain closure.

I’m not sure why visiting a graveyard doesn’t speak to me the way it does to others, but I know I have my own symbols that I hang on to.  For example, a Special Olympics cowbell sits on my desk at school.  I bought it long after Josh’s death, but whenever I look at it (or use it to startle a roomful of rowdy students to immediate attention) I think of Josh, his medals, and how proud he was of them.  When students ask about the bell, I get to talk about him.

I also have a collection of three miniature Harley-Davidson motorcycles that my friend Tony gave to Josh.  He loved them, and they had a special place on a shelf where he placed them just so.  I claimed them for my own after losing Josh, and they sit on my bookshelf at home.  When I look at them, I remember how much Josh loved motorcycles, and how any person on a bike was a “buddy.”  It was always fun to see a tattooed, leather-clad tough guy covered in piercings and chains on a motorcycle break into a grin when he noticed Josh in our car exuberantly cheering him on. 

Those motorcycles also remind me of how much Josh meant to our friends.  Josh was a great collector of people.  I think a lot of them might feel like they adopted Josh into their own lives, when the truth is that Josh adopted them.  Unless it was Power Rangers vs. monsters or Walker Texas Ranger vs. the bad guys, Josh didn’t know how to pick sides.  He knew only to be loyal to his friends, and he’d cheer for those buddies just as much as he cheered for his brothers and sisters.

But cowbell, motorcycles, gravesite—all of those things are really just things.  They have powerful symbolic meaning, but ultimately, they’re just objects that won’t last forever.

As I have witnessed the loss of too many friends, family members, and coworkers, I’ve come to realize that the one thing that can’t be destroyed or taken away is how these people have changed me, inspired me, or made me laugh.  Those experiences are not symbolic.  They are real.  We become the true memorials to the ones we’ve lost.

So I thought about what Josh left me. 

I learned compassion, to treat others equally, and to follow the Golden Rule even when people are different.  I learned this by watching many people treat Josh with love, and a few treat him with fear.  I learned it by watching Josh accept everyone, even scary guys on motorcycles that most people would avoid sharing direct eye contact with. 

Josh also taught me to see the positive and to seek it in adversity.  I don’t think I’ve yet faced any challenge so great as the ones Josh faced.  If he could come through those things smiling and laughing, then I can do the same with my trials.

I learned that “cool” doesn’t matter if you have to sell your soul for it.  Real friends recognize your value and seek to change you only when you’re threatening to self destruct.  Being ourselves is a unique kind of cool that others are free to accept or deny, but if we’re willing to accept others’ individual coolness, they’ll be more willing to accept ours.

So while I may have a poor record of cemetery visits, I recognize that I go out into the world every day with a unique perspective that Josh helped shape.  I interact with others, view my surroundings, and look at myself using this perspective.  I’m a better person for having been his sister, and this recognition of his influence is, I think, the most authentic and lasting memorial possible.

So if you’re reading this and have memories of Josh, what did he teach you?