Two stories

From as long as I can remember, the month of February has been a touch one for me. Beyond all the silly Valentine's day nonsense, and the cold weather and snow, and general lack of sunshine, this month has always seemed to drag on. In high school, my house counselors realized just how awful the month was and started something called "February friends", which was basically a month long version of Secret Santa. We would select someone in our dorm at random, and be tasked to give them small gifts and notes throughout the month as a pick me up, revealing ourselves at the end of the month. It was a small thing, but something I now appreciate and remember fondly.

As I started writing this today, I'm sitting on an amtrak train heading back to the city and feeling really nostalgic, because Amtrak was such a big part of my boarding school life. And I can't help but think, man I wish I still had a February friend. Because what ultimately makes this my most difficult month every single year was something that happened 15 years ago today. A friend, someone who I loved, took their own life. And in many ways, big and small, that changed mine.

Link to original article in the Phillipian

I've had several years to process how I felt that day, and the big blur that seems to sit over that day, that week, that month and maybe even that year. I remember what felt like a good, even normal day of classes. I remember an awkward heart wrenching meeting in the Nathan Hale Common room. I remember desperately searching for friends who had been sequestered. I remember sitting in a chair in the CAMD office not talking, not really seeing for 20 minutes, or maybe 2 hours, I don't actually know. I remember eating everything that was put in front of me because I knew I had to eat, but not tasting anything. I remember seeking out and then breaking down under the half mast flag in the middle of the courtyard. I remember yelling at a friend who had also had her battles with depression to never do this to me again. I remember my mother and brother driving up to Massachusetts because they heard something broken in my voice. I remember hearing Amazing Grace or His Eye was on the Sparrow in the chapel and feeling my heart break all over again. I remember standing on a line, introducing myself to and hugging his mom and hearing her say that her son loved me. So many moments, and there are so many more, shared and private that will always resonate and resurface, especially today. 

But that's not why I'm writing this today. Today I want to talk about two more, two good moments that were mine and Zach's alone that I think about often but don't share as much. When I was a junior in high school, I was a pretty smart kid, but I was still learning how to dream bigger. I had the grades and profile to get into the best schools in the country, and ultimately did, but for whatever reason, I hadn't really started thinking those dreams could be mine yet. They were still for others; the "traditional" boarding school kids, the legacies, the kids who were whiter than me, richer than me, less female than me, more everything that I didn't consider myself to be yet. I ran into Zach randomly after a college counseling session where my college counselor and I had started to work on my college application list for the following year. I was still early in my research about high caliber colleges and thought that one of the schools on my list was the name of a big state school, rather than a similar sounding school, which was one of the best small liberal arts colleges in the nation.

I don't remember exactly what Zach said to me in that moment but it was along the lines of "Candace, you're not applying to a state school, even as a safety,  because you're going to get into every school you apply to." And I'm pretty sure in that special "I'm so wise but I'm willing to share my knowledge with you because I like you" way that he had, we had a conversation about my goals and where he saw me in a year's time. And at the end of that talk, he had made me feel ridiculous, smart and talented, all at the same time. It was one of his talents. Even when you lost a debate with Zach, you felt like you had won more knowledge for having been involved. That moment and that conversation really mattered to me. He had always been my ideal of all those things that seemed to "belong" when I saw myself as "other" and he had the faith in my dreams before I was brave enough to even have them. Later on, when I did well with the college application cycle, and a classmate claimed "affirmative action" to a friend of mine, I never doubted whether I was worthy of my successes. And that can partly be attributed to the boost of confidence that random conversation gave me a year earlier.

Fast forward to senior fall. At my high school, 11th grade spring, and senior fall are the hardest semesters on deck for all the normal reasons (SATs, APs, harder classes, college applications, angst about the future, etc.) During my spring of 11th grade, I developed a benign cyst on my tailbone that required surgery, a lot of pain, and several weeks of recovery and special cushioned seats. It was not easy to deal with in the middle of writing my History 300 paper (for Mr. Jay Rogers, another fine man and teacher taken too soon).  And I'm the first to admit that I'm a pansy when I'm sick. But I made it through and went on with my year, including an incredible summer spent in Spain with Zach and 16 other classmates who were part of one of the best summers in my life.

When I came back to school in the fall of senior year, I was feeling some minor sensitivity in the same area and went to the doctor to get it checked out. I was told that the cyst might have come back and I may have to go through the entire process again (ultimately, I didn't). We didn't have cellphones back then so I couldn't call my mom to freak out until I got back to the dorm. Once again, randomly, as I walked across the Great Lawn thinking about why this was happening to me, and what if this was something more serious, and could I really be sick again while away from home for several weeks, I ran into Zach. He asked me how I was and I said "fine" and I tried to continue walking, but he stopped and asked me again, because that's who he was. He cared and he sensed when people weren't feeling right, and he felt it was his job to help those in need, especially those he considered friend. And as I tried to explain what I had just heard (which I'm sure came out as gibberish), for the first time in my high school career, where occasional homesickness and stress related tears were common place for many but never for me, I broke down and cried in front of him. And in the middle of that big lawn, in the middle of that random day, he hugged me and told me that everything was going to be okay, and that no matter what happened, I was going to get through it because he knew I was strong. There are many memories that make up the story of our friendship, but that one was the one that assured me, no matter where life would take us, and even if we never kept in touch, a part of me would always love him and wish him the best for the rest of our lives. I just never knew that time would be cut so short. I'm not sure if I ever thanked him for those moments, but I'm a person of faith, so I have to believe he hears me when I think of him.

I wish many things. Stupid things. I sometimes google Zach's name, not because I'm looking for the past, but because I like to see the legacies that others with that name are building and try to picture where he would be (clearly at the top of all searches). I wish that he had a facebook account so anytime I wanted to see his face, I could just type in his name and relive his all encompassing smile in technicolor. I wish I could hear him argue.... and argue.... and argue... some point, irregardless of whether it was trivial or important, with the same passion and desire to win the debate. I wish I could make fun of his overly bright blond hair in Salamanca or watch him wear that green Dartmouth shirt one more time. I wish I could hear his laugh. I wish many things.

The year I was set to graduate from college, on my way back from a senior trip to Cape Cod, I made a stop in Acton to visit his grave for the first time. I did what I always do when my heart is too full, I wrote. I reread that note to myself almost every year around this time and I reminisce about the good and the bad, and all the in between. Our lives are made up of and filled with the "in between", because that's where all the memories live forever. As I finish writing this post, now at home, on my computer, the light overhead had started to dim and eventually it faded to black. It seems suiting to let this post sorta fade away in a similar way.

"...but know that as long as I live, you'll hold a special place in my heart, deep where I don't let a lot go, but also where I hold those things most dear." - CD, May 2004

We miss you still, our friend. We always will.