I couldn't tell you what had happened very first time I met most of my close friends. In, fact, now that I think about it, I could probably recall only three or four such meetings and how they played out. I'm not ashamed to admit that because so many friendships often start with a chance meeting or inconspicuous introduction. It takes time, circumstance and effort to nurture a budding friendship beyond the measure of "warm acquaintance" into a real connection, so it's not unusual that the early stages for most of my friendships are barely a hazy memory.
Under certain circumstances.
That wasn't the case with Ian. I can pretty clearly remember the circumstances of our first meeting. Not exactly everything that happened, but images of that particular event come back to me with some clarity for a pretty silly reason; Ian was sporting a bowl-cut that would've made Moe Howard proud.
It was the beginning of my sophomore year at Truman State and I was in the 5th Floor Study lounge of Ryle Hall. I'm not sure if I was there because I thought I might focus better, or if I just needed the extra table space but as often happens, I got distracted. I ended up talking to Ian and being impressed. Obviously smart and too mature for his age, I hoped I'd get to talk with him again.
One of the most important virtues of living on campus while you are in college is that chance meetings like this can turn into solid friendships pretty quickly as long as you keep your room door open. My roommate Neal and I tended to do so, and soon Ian stopped by to comment on a game that we were playing or an episode of Star Trek we were watching. And then he stopped by a second time. And a third...
"Do you guys mind if I play some Super Smash?"
The past few days, when describing my relationship with Ian, I have said that we were roommates for "about two years." This is in the strictest sense false, as we only "technically" lived together his sophomore year at Truman, the year after we first met. But after our initial introduction Ian became one of a few guys on Ryle 5 North that might as well have moved in with Neal and I. And later, he did.
Living with a group of such hilarious and intelligent guys was certainly one of the defining experiences of my life, and Ian's wit, intellect and warmth were no small part of what made those two years so important to my own personal development.
Beyond quoting the punchlines of episodes of Sea Lab 2021 and Aquateen Hunger Force we would spend time bitching about classes, each other, and girls. We'd jump from Star Trek to ancient history to meta-physics in the same conversation, and we'd all attempt to understand each other's majors in pursuit of what Truman's marketing department called a "well-rounded Liberal Arts education."
Ian, for his part, was sharp as a tack. Anyone who knew him at all knew how bright he was. He used his intellect just as effectively to shut you down in a debate or to make a hilarious comment about something. No small feat, as these were before the days of "That's what she said."
He forced other people to be intellectually honest with themselves and wasn't afraid to make them challenge their assumptions or behavior, but was (usually) respectful and willing to listen to other points of view. I think I learned more about critical thinking from my friendship with Ian than I did from any class I've taken before or since.
"I have some very sad news. Please call me as soon as you can."
I found out about Ian's death in stages. First it was a Facebook message warning of sad news about Ian. I didn't know for sure that he had died, but from a memorial post on the wall of his Facebook profile I was steeling myself to hear that there had been a car accident or some other random tragedy.
Then it was a tear-studded phone call from a mutual college friend and his ex-girlfriend, Angela. She said that yes, he had died, but she didn't know how yet. A few hours later she called me back and told me that Ian had hung himself.
"You're lucky you got to see him so recently."
I was unpacking my clothes in our hotel room in Des Moines in advance of the service the next day and I still wasn't sure how I felt. I had known about what happened to my ex-roommate and friend for about 36 hours, but it still hadn't quite registered. Angela and Neal had both gotten to see Ian within the last month or so, but I hadn't seen him for a couple of years. And now I wouldn't get to see him ever again.
Ultimately, I felt disconnected. A memorial service would be held the next morning and my heart had not understood what my brain knew about my friend. There were brief stabs of pain and tears as I remembered one inside joke or another while on the road earlier in the day. But on balance it was all too surreal. Ian was so self-possessed, charismatic and talented that suicide would've been the very last fate I would have expected for him.
Somehow I still feel like there was a mistake and he didn't mean to die this way.
"He's in a jar, Neal!"
My hot tears stained the shoulder of Neal's black suit as we stood at the back of visiting room. In the front of the room were the donated flower arrangements and an altar with Ian's photo and an urn with a short candle burning on its lid.
Talking about the service on the car ride home, we determined that it probably wasn't really Ian in that little earthen vessel. But at the time I thought it was, and finally being in the same space as the remains of my friend is what finally connected the circuit between my heart and my brain.
He was dead now. Now I knew what that meant. The same matter that was in that little jar had shaken my hand, had hugged me, had beaten me in Super Smash brothers, had stayed up way too late playing my copy of Grand Theft Auto, had eaten dinner with me, had listened to me bitch about girls, had critiqued my art, had introduced me to Billy Joel, had helped me with math and joked about politics.
It didn't seem possible that this is what was all that was left of my friend. It wasn't possible, and it certainly wasn't right.
A few words.
The intense flood of grief finally subsided and we sat down for the service. A family friend gave a eulogy. One of Ian's second cousins, a priest, provided an encouraging sermon. Then they opened the floor for anyone who wanted to speak so that they could share a memory or word of encouragement for the family.
One of Ian's professors started off talking about how bright Ian was and how proud he was of the path Ian was taking in his career and the potential that Ian had showed. And then another person got up to speak after him. And another. And another. Family, friends of family, cousins, ex-girlfriends, roommates, co-workers. It was over an hour of collective stories and memories about an extraordinary individual whose charm and intelligence left an impact on so many lives.
Thinking back I recognize something remarkable about all the things that were said. When a young person like Ian passes away, a lot is usually made about all the wasted potential and how it's a shame that so much promise will go un-delivered.
Ian's mind, independence and drive to succeed made him the dictionary definition for potential, but for all the stories that were told and comments that were made, very little was said about the "what-ifs." In his all-too-short life Ian had already had such a measure of success in his endeavors and projected such a personality that we had plenty of accoplishments and events to remember fondly. Even for his paltry collection of 25 years.
That, ultimately, is what I will choose to think about as I remember Ian. I will remember a man of formiddable intelligence with a charismatic personality and healthy ambition. Confident in his ability and his interactions with others, he was in some ways a challenging person to know because I understood how much he expected from himself. And that made me feel like I should expect more from myself, too.
That combination of mental clarity, personal warmth and sharp humor will be my mental photograph. And I hope that as I face challenges and opportunities in my own life I will be able to become a person that Ian would've been proud to continue to call his friend.
Godspeed Ian. You won't be forgotten.
Of all the souls I have known, his was the most...human.
No comments:
Post a Comment