bare feet in the leaves
The trees along our street would turn colors and there he would be, walking past my house, kicking up small clouds of red and yellow with his bare feet, smiling a little to himself. Or he would show up on my back porch and just sit there, not wanting to talk. He’d have his head back and be looking up at the sky, the sunlight reflecting off his dark glasses.
Sometimes, he was genuinely happy.
We met during orientation in fall 2005, when I cheerfully greeted all my new advisees and forced them to go around the room, saying their names and majors and other mundane facts about themselves—where they were from, what they liked to do for fun. Murdock refused to participate. He pulled his black fingernails through his long hair and looked at me through those signature dark glasses. When I asked his name, he refused to tell me.
Eventually, I of course figured out, by process of elimination, who he was. Somehow, I got him to come to my office. By then, I thought I’d figured him out. I told him bluntly that just because he was queer, or goth, or whatever, didn’t give him any right to be an asshole, and that maybe if he would give me a chance, we’d end up having more in common than he knew.
“What do you expect me to do?” he asked me.
“For starters, you could tell me what you want to be called.”
“Murdock,” he said. “My name is Murdock. Don’t ever call me by my first name.”
“That’s good,” I said. “That’s a start. Now, why don’t you take off your glasses?”
So he did. It was the only time in five years that I saw his eyes. “I can’t see you,” he said. “I don’t see the world the way other people do. I need these glasses to make sense of color and light.”
“I will always see you,” I promised him then.
I have gone back to that memory over and over since Murdock’s death. Did I keep my promise? I can’t be sure. When somebody dies, it is hard not to replay every conversation you had with that person in your head over and over. It’s hard not to imagine how things could have gone differently if…if what?
If I had shown up at his door instead of just e-mailing when he missed class. If I’d been in less of a hurry during that last conversation in my office. If I hadn't encouraged him to move back onto campus, hadn’t helped him think about how to advocate for a single room. Many of us, I am sure, are asking such questions. Sometimes these questions boil down to guilt, but at other times, they are more complex--deep and multi-colored as the leaves in autumn.
I remember him walking past my house, bare feet in those leaves, when he lived down the street. I remember how he could turn angry and silent in an instant, and I had no idea where it came from—but also how smart he was, and how funny. He used sarcasm and intelligent humor to keep people at bay, but also to stay connected to them. He liked it when I managed to dish it back at him, which wasn’t often. He was too quick for me.
Sometimes he was so incredibly sincere, but I would misread what he was saying to me. In a recent conversation in my office, he said he thought old people had a lot of wisdom—that there was a lot to learn from them. I wish I could remember the context, but I don’t. I gave him a funny look, waiting for the punch line. “What?” he said. “You can’t believe I’d say something that mundane or normal?” I responded, “People might say that, but they don’t really mean it—so I don’t actually think it’s a normal thing to say at all.”
“Well, I really think that,” was all he said in response.
Sometimes I laughed at him. Sometimes I rolled my eyes at the things he said or didn’t say. Sometimes I tried to get him to tell me more, go deeper, but then the air would become electric and the leaves would dance like small lanterns and catch fire and burn out fast and everything was quiet and dark again. A joke, a strange look, a quick escape from my office, and I’d know I’d gone too far.
He had been through so much--abuse, rejection, living with challenging disabilities--but he was resilient; I truly believed he would make it to graduation. He scoffed at the idea of wearing a robe and walking across a stage, but I told him I was going to make him do just that the last time we talked--and that I hoped he'd make that trek barefoot, as he so often was in my memory. Of course, I could never make him do anything. Nobody could.
Our conversations were magnificent, strange, blurry as the trees turning colors outside my window in the fog this morning. It would be too overwhelming to look carefully at each. Impossible, even.
He saw the world, literally, differently from the rest of us. I wonder now how the trees along our street looked to him at this time of year, when they are so brilliant. I wonder how they would have looked to him today, right now, in this particular fog, in this particular light, as I write this after a sleepless night.
There is no way to make sense of the death of someone so young. To turn our loss into some kind of a lesson seems demeaning to someone like Murdock, who was such a deep thinker.
Still, I think back to those flip words that came out of my mouth in our first private meeting. “I will always see you,” I said to him. I hope we can all take the time to look at each other, to peek behind the walls that we imagine are there, to talk and to listen deeply to each other. I hope we can find a way to be present right now, in the present, with each other.
Murdock, I will miss you. I wish you a deep and restful sleep.
Sometimes, he was genuinely happy.
We met during orientation in fall 2005, when I cheerfully greeted all my new advisees and forced them to go around the room, saying their names and majors and other mundane facts about themselves—where they were from, what they liked to do for fun. Murdock refused to participate. He pulled his black fingernails through his long hair and looked at me through those signature dark glasses. When I asked his name, he refused to tell me.
Eventually, I of course figured out, by process of elimination, who he was. Somehow, I got him to come to my office. By then, I thought I’d figured him out. I told him bluntly that just because he was queer, or goth, or whatever, didn’t give him any right to be an asshole, and that maybe if he would give me a chance, we’d end up having more in common than he knew.
“What do you expect me to do?” he asked me.
“For starters, you could tell me what you want to be called.”
“Murdock,” he said. “My name is Murdock. Don’t ever call me by my first name.”
“That’s good,” I said. “That’s a start. Now, why don’t you take off your glasses?”
So he did. It was the only time in five years that I saw his eyes. “I can’t see you,” he said. “I don’t see the world the way other people do. I need these glasses to make sense of color and light.”
“I will always see you,” I promised him then.
I have gone back to that memory over and over since Murdock’s death. Did I keep my promise? I can’t be sure. When somebody dies, it is hard not to replay every conversation you had with that person in your head over and over. It’s hard not to imagine how things could have gone differently if…if what?
If I had shown up at his door instead of just e-mailing when he missed class. If I’d been in less of a hurry during that last conversation in my office. If I hadn't encouraged him to move back onto campus, hadn’t helped him think about how to advocate for a single room. Many of us, I am sure, are asking such questions. Sometimes these questions boil down to guilt, but at other times, they are more complex--deep and multi-colored as the leaves in autumn.
I remember him walking past my house, bare feet in those leaves, when he lived down the street. I remember how he could turn angry and silent in an instant, and I had no idea where it came from—but also how smart he was, and how funny. He used sarcasm and intelligent humor to keep people at bay, but also to stay connected to them. He liked it when I managed to dish it back at him, which wasn’t often. He was too quick for me.
Sometimes he was so incredibly sincere, but I would misread what he was saying to me. In a recent conversation in my office, he said he thought old people had a lot of wisdom—that there was a lot to learn from them. I wish I could remember the context, but I don’t. I gave him a funny look, waiting for the punch line. “What?” he said. “You can’t believe I’d say something that mundane or normal?” I responded, “People might say that, but they don’t really mean it—so I don’t actually think it’s a normal thing to say at all.”
“Well, I really think that,” was all he said in response.
Sometimes I laughed at him. Sometimes I rolled my eyes at the things he said or didn’t say. Sometimes I tried to get him to tell me more, go deeper, but then the air would become electric and the leaves would dance like small lanterns and catch fire and burn out fast and everything was quiet and dark again. A joke, a strange look, a quick escape from my office, and I’d know I’d gone too far.
He had been through so much--abuse, rejection, living with challenging disabilities--but he was resilient; I truly believed he would make it to graduation. He scoffed at the idea of wearing a robe and walking across a stage, but I told him I was going to make him do just that the last time we talked--and that I hoped he'd make that trek barefoot, as he so often was in my memory. Of course, I could never make him do anything. Nobody could.
Our conversations were magnificent, strange, blurry as the trees turning colors outside my window in the fog this morning. It would be too overwhelming to look carefully at each. Impossible, even.
He saw the world, literally, differently from the rest of us. I wonder now how the trees along our street looked to him at this time of year, when they are so brilliant. I wonder how they would have looked to him today, right now, in this particular fog, in this particular light, as I write this after a sleepless night.
There is no way to make sense of the death of someone so young. To turn our loss into some kind of a lesson seems demeaning to someone like Murdock, who was such a deep thinker.
Still, I think back to those flip words that came out of my mouth in our first private meeting. “I will always see you,” I said to him. I hope we can all take the time to look at each other, to peek behind the walls that we imagine are there, to talk and to listen deeply to each other. I hope we can find a way to be present right now, in the present, with each other.
Murdock, I will miss you. I wish you a deep and restful sleep.
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Andy