A Perfect Life

This is a long post, and it may meander a bit. I ask for your patience and your indulgence.

One of my grade school classmates was laid to rest yesterday. I use the euphemistic cliché “laid to rest” as an exercise of irony: my classmate clearly found no peace in his last days on this earth. He took his own life in a rather graphic way.

I will tread as lightly as possible on the details of my classmate's life, for the sake of his family and loved ones. And in another bit of irony, it is my awareness of the affection so many people had for the departed that has consumed my thoughts since learning of his death.

“Ray” (I must use a pseudonym here: too hard to write about such a vibrant personality without giving the respect of a proper noun), was the class cut up, the guy everyone had a story about; a memory that made us smile. I first met him in a seventh grade music class on a hot September afternoon. It was during our first days in junior high school and as seventh graders, we were the lowest of the low in the pecking order. In this environment, Ray coordinated a brilliant prank with the music books at the end of class and carried it off flawlessly. As the teacher sputtered, I sat in awe of my peer who had the confidence to pull off a prank of this magnitude so early in the school year.

Ray exuded confidence and fun. People were drawn to him. In a suburban school environment where the majority of students were white and middle to upper middle class, this young black man from a less traditional family structure was a star.

In hindsight, I realize how Ray must have studied the contrast between his home life and that of his classmates. Our suburb was nationally known for its affluence back in the 1960’s, and even among the black children, many of the parents had at least one college degree and the lifestyles that level of achievement could provide. For all his confidence, it was clear that Ray hungered for that perfect life.

Ray was mischievous, glib and a bit of a con artist. Well, sometimes, a lot of a con artist. He always looked at all of the angles, and probed for shortcuts. But there was something so expansive about his personality and his quick intelligence that it was impossible not to like him. Even my mom, a no-nonsense woman who was on the faculty at our school, had to smile when she talked about Ray. Even if she were talking about his latest reprimand or detention.

Ray’s reliance on his quick mind and silver tongue lead him to make some bad decisions early in his adult life, and he paid dearly for those mistakes. Yet, through those same qualities, he was afforded second chances of gargantuan proportions and managed to earn advanced degrees and create what appeared to be a successful professional and personal life, back in the community where he had grown up.

But appearance can be so deceiving.

Another classmate emailed me a copy of Ray’s obituary from my hometown newspaper. Of course, it did not mention the cause of death. Through that link, I read the pages of condolence messages sent in from people from all over the country. I recognized the names of many former classmates, all heartbroken. Their messages made clear that they knew how Ray had left us, even as we asked why.

In her 1999 song "Still," Alanis Morisette writes from the perspective of a supreme being, listing the basic duality of human nature with lyrics like:

“I am your joy and your regret.
I am your fury and your elation.
I am your yearning and your sweat.
I am your faithless and your religion.”

As the song progresses, Morisette shows the worst human tendencies, yet reminds the listener of the eternal availability of hope:

“I see you averting your glances.
I see you cheering on the war.
I see you ignoring your children,
And I love you still.
And I love you still.”

You can link to the complete lyrics here:

http://www.sweetslyrics.com/95267.ALANIS%20MORISSETTE%20-%20Still.html

I don’t think Ray believed that we all saw his frailties, and knew of his failures. But we saw him completely, and he was perfect. We loved him still. I wish that he loved himself.