Donnie

Date Posted: 05.06.08

I have read the news articles and the obituaries. They sum it all up very neatly. 28 year old man killed while recklessly driving a motorcycle. Survived by wife, mother, father and sisters.

It seems so little to describe a life. I want to tell the story of him accurately. I want to say the things I would have said if anyone had given me the chance to speak at the funeral. What would I have said?

Donnie was my brother. He was the kind of brother to kick the door down, steal my Barbie dolls and claim he "wasn't touching me" while holding his fingers mere centimeters from my face. He was the kind of brother who stuck out his chin and begged me to just smack him one. "Come on, come on, you know you wanna." Oh how I wanted to… Of course if I actually did it he would go howling to Mommy like I had beat him bloody."

Donnie was the kind of brother who tried to play matador with a bull and ended up having to run and slide under a barbed wire fence. Then of course he didn't want Grandmaw to know what he did so he just whined and howled and made me play doctor and pour iodine on him and fetch and carry for him like he was an invalid.

Donnie was the kid who lit fires just to watch them burn. Then he pushed them down hills in an old red wagon. Did anyone really think I (the responsible one) could stop him?

Donnie climbed mountains and explored caves. He covered himself in tattoos. He embraced pain and he ran from it. He tried everything, except maybe peace. He drove fast, he lived hard.

Donnie rarely told the truth. He was the best kind of liar because he believed his own lies. He could lie and say the sky was green and despite all your sensory input you might just believe it because he believed it so much.

Donnie did bad things. He fucked around. He had more sex than a soap opera heroine. He did drugs. He made drugs. He sold drugs. He fought. He may have even killed. He told me once that he did, or thought he did. He might have lied. He might not.

He stole my money, my jewelry, and my friends. Sometimes he stole my mothers love. He stole my life out from under me once. He made me into someone else but never gave me back the same. I never made him into anything. Maybe he was stronger than me that way.

I hated him once but he always loved me.

I was disappointed in him and he was proud of me. I wanted him to be more but he already thought I was the best.

We danced wildly around his room to Michael Jackson and Sir Mix-a-lot and he swore he would never tell anyone about it. I don't think he did.

He ate the cream out of Oreos and left the cookies behind.

He loved animals and kids and women. He was kind.

He never wanted to grow up or old. He wanted to go on forever just living as fast as he could.

He loved. He lived. He was here. He mattered. He was my brother.

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Speaker for the Dead

Date Posted: 05.06.08

Orson Scott Card wrote the Ender Saga. In the books he writes about a quasi-religious cult that arose around a figure called "The Speaker for the Dead." The idea of the Speaker was that he "spoke" the truth about the life and times of a person who passed away. He told the good, the bad, and the ugly with straightforward candor. I have always found the idea extremely appealing and cathartic.

When my grandmother died I was mildly appalled by the near-sainthood she received. She was wonderful but she was also a lot more than that. It was the "more" that made her real, that made her -her-. I loved her, not a falsely-deified version. I wanted to scream to the world that she was real but no one wanted to hear it.

My brother died last week. I wonder if I can speak for him now.

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