Weep not for the memories . . . .

October 31, 2010

At the beginning of this month, I shared how much I loved October.

All sorts of thing about October fill my heart with absolute joy.

Meredyth's birthday.

Thanksgiving.

Mum and Dad's wedding anniversary.

I reflect about my life in October. . .where I've been and where I want to be. 

Meredyth's birthday.

The anniversary of my first marriage. 

October, however, marks another event in my life.  One I am still reeling from, still trying to figure out.

October 30th, 2008, my dear friend, Quaker Friend, mentor, colleague, John McKendy, died.

His life was taken away unexpectedly, at the hands of a very sick young man, his son-in-law, who then committed suicide.

In many ways, I've dreaded today.  I thought about not posting at all today, letting the day pass, to begin again tomorrow.

But I can't.

If I can do anything today, it's to share some of my warmest memories of John. 

To remember how much he inspired me, cared for me and my family, loved me for who I was, inspite of all my flaws.

And believe me, there are lots of flaws.





When I returned to St. Thomas in the fall of 1993, I had few options available to me.  I had maxed out the number of credits I could have for English, 60, and was warned by Larry Batt, the affable Registar at STU, that I could possibly consider completing my major in sociology, as I had a few soc courses on my transcript.

At this point, I had no real plans about what I would do with the remaining time I had at STU, I just knew that I needed an undergrad degree, I needed to finish something in my life, I guess I liked sociology, although you would have never known that from my grades at the time, so I negotiated with Larry.

Let me take the two English courses I'm really interested in, and I'll take soc courses.

Little did he know the results of his negotiation. 

I had John when I was in university the first time.

But all I can remember from my half term in his theory course is the room where we met. 

You can see how dedicated a student I was at that time in my life.

So, when I came back, five years later, Mer and Keith in tow, and a bellyful of Emily, all I knew was that soc courses were on the menu.

Whether or not I liked them, or did well in them, that remained to be seen. 

I found myself back in John's class.

No longer sitting in the back, hoping to not be noticed, I was upfront, engaged, and feeling a lot older and wiser than my classroom compadres. 

After two months in my sociology classes, my fate was sealed.

And with a bigger bellyful of Emily, I went to John and asked him what was required for graduate school. 

Me. 

Graduate School.

Whodda thunk it. 

John looked at me, smiled his smile, and said, 

"No one here is surprised you want to go to graduate school, Dawne."

John and my dear friend Debbie van den Hoonaard supervised my fourth year undergraduate honours thesis. 

The three of us spent many hours together talking about my interviews with single parent fathers, looking at the findings, the process. . . 

This collaboration, the talking with me and not at me, the overwhelming feeling that scholarship was something you worked on together regardless of whether or not you were the teacher or the student. . . 

Those hours with John and Debbie solidified not only that I wanted to be an academic, but the kind of academic I wanted to be. 

Some days I think I manage this better than others. 



My three all time favourite John memories, though, don't have anything to do with academia.

They're all about family. 

Emily was born January 21st, 1994.

Janurary 20th, 1994, I was in Modern Sociological Theory.

Trying ever so hard to squeeze my ever burgeoning bulk into the most definitely not made for pregnant women desks of in a classroom in the basement of Edmund Casey Hall.

I was scheduled for a c-section the following day.

But Em didn't care.

And during this class, I started to feel those oh-so-wonderful-tugs in my back.

Having been through a version of labour twice before, I knew what those feelings were. 

And I knew Em was arriving the next day via c-section.

So I just sat there, listening to John share his passion for sociological theory. 

At the end of class, he came over to me and asked me if I was okay.

Again, unable to mask my feelings from my face, I was apparently visually sharing my pain.

I said I thought I was having a few labour pains, but no worries, because my sister-in-law (at that time) was picking me up to take me to the hospital. 

He was completely and utterly delighted that this baby was on her way.

But I like to think that had I waited, Em could have potentially been born in Edmund Casey Hall. 

With John as the midwife. 



Ten days after Em's appearance, I was sitting back in the basement of Edmund Casey Hall, fitting a little bit easier into the seats.

However, I had company.

Miss Em.

Em will tell you that outside of her immediate family, John has been the constant person in her life.

Picture me, sitting at a desk, one of the ones with the seat attached to the miniscule table top upon which you're supposed to put everything you need to pay attention in class, with a pen in my right hand, resting on paper, taking notes, while in my left arm is cradled a tiny, newborn baby, an armful of Em, feeding from her bottle.

I know how to multitask.

Really well.

But even I find it challening to grasp modern sociological theory enough to take notes on a postage stamp sized desk, while balancing a hungry newborn in my arms.

And without hesitation, John walked over to my desk, scooped up the hungry Emily and her bottle, and fed her.

All while continuing to talk about modern sociological theory.

No one else, during that time of my life, would have ever been allowed to even think about getting their hands on my newborn infant.

John was, other than my father and brother, the only man on the globe who I trusted.

A lot, as he was allowed to hold and feed and coo to my newborn baby girl.



When Stephen and I first got together, our newly blossoming relationship may have caused a small, seismic ripple through our university community.

John was very protective of Stephen.

And there was good reason for that.

I'm still trying to save Stephen from himself.

He arrived at my office one day, asking if he could speak with me.

Knowing both Stephen and I individually, he was somewhat concerned for Stephen.

John knew all about my checkered-relationship past, and I suspect he didn't want Stephen caught in the web of weirdness that had been the dominant theme in all of my previous relationships.

John also knew all about Stephen's not so checkered relationship past. . .in fact, to be honest, there wasn't much of a relationship past in Stephen's life.

Hence John's concern.

I suspect that in addition to our pasts, he also knew our present, in particularly, just how different our personalities were.

Are.

Still.

He was worried, I imagine, that Stephen was going to come out a relationship with me scarred, traumatized, sporting a therapy-requiring case of PTSD.

For some reason, he didn't seem to be as concerned about me.

Although, believe me, he should have.

When we announced that we were getting married, we knew we wanted a Quaker marriage.

This meant we had a "Clearness Committee," and in selecting the members of our Committee, we knew we wanted John to be with us as we started this next stage of our lives together.

As an aside, Stephen thought the group was called our Clearance Committee.

Like we were two on-special items that needed to be sold at the lowest price as soon as possible, and were in such a desperate state that we needed a committee to get rid of us.

During our wedding, after we exchanged our vows, with no minister or other religious official with us (I'll tell more about this later) there was a time, in the silence, where anyone who wanted to say something about us, to us, good wishes, etc. could stand up and say something.

John stood up and spoke the most beautiful words for us, about us.  He was honest in saying how he sort of doubted this relationship, was concerned, somewhat for Stephen, but what he saw since we got together, what he has witnessed together with the two of us, made him realize how wonderful we are together and how blessed our being together has been for him and for our families, especially the kids.

There are days when I have to REALLY remember those words.

Believe me.



The way John died was horrific, something that happens to someone you don't know.

I don't presume to know what John what would want, but, I do think he would be deeply saddened to think that he was remembered for how he died.

And not remembered for how he lived.

So, I am choosing to remember John for how he lived.

(This is a picture of John, with Kweti, a young man he met when he spent several weeks in Burundi helping build an AIDS clinic.)
And because John was such an important part of both my life, and Stephen's, I asked Stephen to write something for this blog entry, an opportunity for him to share his thoughts, feelings and insights about John's life.

Read it carefully.

Enjoy it.

Cause the likelihood of Stephen collaborating in another blog entry with me is slim.

As in none.

There is a greater chance of me becoming impregnated by three toed, four headed, 9 armed aliens from the planet Ksnart, than Stephen contributing to my blog, again.

FROM THE DESK OF STEPHEN JOHN

A day ago, Dawne asked me if I would consider contributing to her daily blog. I have to admit, I am not a big fan of blogs. I admire Dawne for her humorous and descriptive blog writing and read her postings faithfully, but I shy away from blog writing myself. For me, blogs are simply too uncomfortable. I often wonder who exactly is reading them. It seems somewhat like a smidgen of an invasion of privacy. I don’t need or want Billy or Sally or Bobby Sue reading about me or about my life thank you very much. I have ALWAYS been a private person. The late Erving Goffman (a Canadian born sociologist who excelled as an academic at the University of Chicago and died too soon) was correct. All of us are actors. We have a front stage (a public face) and a back stage (a private face). I have always preferred to guard my private stage/face as much as possible.


Having just shared my thoughts on maintaining privacy, Dawne has been teaching me something through her blog entries. What she has been teaching me is that it is perfectly okay and even wonderful to let other individuals get close to you by sharing some of your life stories with them. Who knows, they may even share some of their life stories with you.

Today was a kind of rough day. Why so? Once again, I am remembering my friend, mentor, surrogate brother, John McKendy on the anniversary of his death. Two years have passed and I still cannot figure-out what happened. Time goes by all too quickly. I keep trying to force myself to remember the good times instead of dwelling on how his life was cut short as a result of an act of violence. Accepting the death of loved ones is never easy, but having to live through a death that occurred because of violence is especially difficult. I’ve been down the “what if I had done that” or “how come I did not do this” road way too many times already. At some point, you have to put up a barricade and say “the old road is permanently closed and now I am going to choose a new road and take that road regularly.”

After John died, dwelling on how he died was my primary focus. I needed to know precisely what had happened. At that time, there was much gossip floating around. I heard many tales. Dawne and myself would reflect on these tales – often late at night - and would talk with one another and cry. We both hoped and prayed that he had not suffered. We also shared our life experiences with John with one another with the hope that we would experience some immediate healing. Immediate healing did not happen. We are both still trying to become whole people who had a good friend who died before he should have.

Reflecting back on the good, I experienced many joyous times with John and his family that I now feel comfortable enough to share. Thanksgiving with all too tasty food. At Christmas gatherings again we would eat too much (John cooked a very tasty sweet and sour soup) but we would also have a Yankee swap and play board games. I also remember a family celebration after his oldest daughter completed her undergraduate studies. All of those times I remember very well. John and his family always welcomed me into their homes. I never once felt like I was a stranger. He really did treat me as if I was his younger brother. (All you need to do is to ask Dawne about the day that he showed-up at her office to very gently inquire about whether it was true that she and I were dating.)

For several years, John and I ran together. I would meet him around 4:30 in the afternoon at the Lady Beaverbrook Gym three to four times each week. Sometimes we would run “the loop” – southside from the gym over to the northside Marysville bridge and back – while other times we would run on the Lincoln Road trail almost to the Fredericton Airport and then back again. While running we would talk about his family, my family, Quaker “stuff”, his research, my doctoral studies, and academia in general. We also both shared and spoke about our own personal shortcomings.

Although much has changed, I continue to hold on to the teachings that John shared with me. I continue to hear wonderful stories about John that I have not heard before. These stories make me happy. I now realize that even after when someone dies, he or she will continue to live on in those who knew and loved them or knew someone who knew them even if it was only for a brief period of time.


I miss your insight and selfless caring John.

Stephen

Title Lyric: I Will Remember You by Sarah MacLachlan