'Cause he's oh, so good
The 6th anniversary of Jean-Micheal Basquiat’s death was also the day I was born. It’s strange to think that when a life starts or stops so many things are the same - the fear, anticipation, wanting, excitement, unknown - and yet so many things are different. Basquiat died of a heroin overdose in his Manhattan apartment, a place exactly 20 years later I would move to and see for myself. Now I’m older than him, 29 to his 27 years. In his lifetime he produced some 917 drawings and almost 200 paintings. I recently moved to a different country and am constantly scared of everything.
Today is the anniversary of my grandfather's passing - a time that was simultaneously special and tragic. For the entire day I’ve had A Well Respected Man by the Kinks playing in my head on loop. My grandfather loved golf. The song was written by the band’s lead singer Ray Davies in response to an encounter he had at a resort in Torquay. Upperclass guests wanted him to join their golf game, an invitation he refused, and turned the uppity encounter into what became one of the bands most played songs.
I hate that we called him grandfather, it seemed so formal to his informal, sometimes loud, nature. His death caught me off guard. Exposing her soft shell momentarily, I saw how fragile my older sister could be. I witnessed the fragility of my father, who had a difficult relationship with his family. It was a time when we grew alongside one another, together and as individuals.
From a birds eye view I saw myself show up for my family how I always wanted to. In life we aren’t given many opportunities like this. When we are, it seems the world is watching and waiting to see how we respond. It’s a moment when we’re confronted with other, more sinister thoughts: who will show up when my parents die? My sisters? Me? The people we know and love aren’t invincible like we assumed. Now that I sit a full rotation of the sun away from it, I see not only is the change since that time physical but also mental.
My grandfather died about four hours after I got off the plane in Boston. Gleeful at the thought of not having to work the next morning I stayed out late the night before. In the morning I slept through all the alarms I set, every single one, and almost missed my flight. I took a cab to the airport and went to the wrong terminal. I flagged down another cab but was consistently turned down. Drivers didn’t want to lose their place in the queue for such a short distance. Finally I got someone to take me for $30. The five minute ride was not what I expected, I still have the cab driver’s number saved on my phone in case I ever need another ride to the airport. His name was William, just like my grandfather’s, he told me about his grown son and daughter-in-law. He didn’t like his daughter-in-law, she started too many fights. He liked driving because he liked people, but most people didn’t like to talk.
I took a train from the airport to Newburyport, MA. A man from Albania, who lived in the next town over and drove for uber, picked me up at the train station. He said ‘I’m sorry’ as he dropped me at the hospital. The entrance had a long ramp with a double switchback. A small, white haired lady was wheeling her huge husband up the ramp. I intervened. When I got to the front desk with the couple and explained the situation, the desk clerk retrieved an aid to continue the job. Before pointing me in the direction of the ICU the clerk looked at me and said, “that’s a really nice thing you did”. I wanted to explain to him the amount of good deeds I would have to do to bring myself back from the excruciating hangover I was enduring at that moment.
The remaining details don’t matter much. I was never very close with my grandparents, not for a lack of trying, but just because our personalities didn’t align. Growing up I was a sensitive, sometimes moody child that couldn’t take a joke. This clashed with their (my Nana and Grandfather always came as one unit) larger than life personalities. In a way, I said goodbye to them both that day. My Nana, from what we could tell, was in fine health up until that point. She died two months later of what could only be a broken heart. I still can’t tell if they were truly happy with the way things turned out. They had everything they could ever want, but somehow there was always still an edge or angle to be examined. Everything wasn’t quite in its place.
When he died he slipped from the room while no one was watching. I had never experienced a death that closely. Did Basquiat have a stolen exit too? Can people decide how they leave, can they choose to hold on? You can bear the grief of others, even if you can’t fully feel your own. Everyone has a secret that they take to the grave, but for most it’s nothing more profound than their last earthly thought.