What I Want to Tell You
It is easy to see the beginning of things, and harder to see the ends.
Joan Didion
There are several formats to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, and depending on where you live, certain formats are more common than others. A popular format in San Francisco is the speaker/discussion meeting. One member stands before the others and tells his story. Later the floor is open for discussion. Anyone who has been to a handful of speaker/discussion meetings knows that they follow a basic formula: The speaker shares what it was like, what happened, and what its like now.
It only takes a few meetings to see the pattern of loss and redemption. What we give each other is the darkness, and then the light. We give hope to the hopeless, each of us a radiant phoenix rising from the ashes of our own self-destruction. At least, that is the idea. Darkness, then light. Always end with the light.
Despite a general shyness in the company of new strangers, I have always struggled with the time limits of my story; trying to compress thirty-two years into twenty minutes. I love the anecdote, the episode, the telling detail. Luckily for the audience, I also believe in leaving them wanting more. So like most others in AA, I pick and choose. Over time, through repetition, led by the audiences gratifying laughter or hushed silence, I hone my life story. I choose a handful of episodes; familiar signposts leading me through the tale.
When I was newly sober the what it was like took much longer to tell. It was very grim, because I was still so close to it all, the mess Id made of everything. I could not see the dark streak of humor running through my days of desperation. I could not yet laugh at the ridiculous lengths I had gone to get high. In those days I was scared of the world and preferred the immediate escape of chemicals to just about anything else life could offer. I ate more of everything; drugs, drink, love, sex. The more the
well, no, it never got better. I was a rabid hamster scampering within a wheel, never getting anywhere, certainly not better.
But thats not what I want to talk about, because its simply the same story told over and over, with different characters and different outfits, and the lighting is harsh and the scenery quite dull. What I want to tell you is what happened.
One Sunday in October of 1999, deep in the gloom that descended whenever I crashed after a crystal meth binge, I was bickering with David, my boyfriend of the time, who by then was a little sick of my mood swings.
He had been after me all weekend to call my mother. In my current condition I didnt want to talk to anyone, not him, certainly not my mother. I had a couple of e-mails from her, unread, sitting in my inbox. She had been out to visit only a month before, and her tentative diagnosis of Parkinsons was a subject that I could not, on that day, begin to handle. I did not have within me the ability to string together a few syllables of hope for her, though my boyfriend would not let up. Finally he pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and thrust it at me.
Fine. Here. I didnt want to tell you. She called. She wanted to tell you herself. There were a few words scrawled in his hand: Not Parkinsons. ALS. Lou Gehrigs.
I didnt know what it meant. What does this mean? I asked him. He didnt know. She didnt tell you? No. I only knew that the name Lou Gehrig meant something bleak.
Will you call her now? he asked.
Just a minute. I sat down at the computer and logged onto the Internet. I typed ALS into the search engine, and followed a link:
ALS is a fatal neuromuscular disease characterized by progressive muscle weakness resulting in paralysis.
And several lines later:
There is no cure for ALS. In general, weakness progresses steadily with no periods of improvement or stability and leads to death, usually within 3 to 6 years.
///
When I was growing up my mother could be unpredictable. There were the good days; days that register in my memory with the warm timbre of her voice, her laugh that broke up the ice within me. And then there were the other days, of inexplicable rages and hysterical sobbing. Years later, after my own experiences with addiction, I understood that those were the days she had been drinking. Eventually wed both have AA in common.
Despite these mood swings I had always felt that my mother understood me better than anyone else. One afternoon, when I was ten, she and I were in the backyard of our house in Falcon Heights, Minnesota, painting my bike. I stood off to the side and watched her shake the can of spray paint: ticka ticka ticka. My bike, stripped of its wheels and chain, sat upside down on a patch of dirt beneath the oak tree. The leaves above us were lit up green in the warm summer sun. My mother had acquiesced to my demand for a more masculine color. I was nine when my parents bought me the bright yellow bike, but at ten I was ready for a change. We were painting my bike blue. Or rather, she was painting my bike blue and because she was in a good mood I was keeping her company.
Through the thin gaps between the slats of our tall wooden fence, I saw a shadow crossing our yard. It swept along the fence until it reached the open gate of our backyard, and in walked Mrs. McIntyre.
Mrs. McIntyre was the closest thing our neighborhood had to a busybody. She and her husband lived two doors down, and her son Johnny was my younger brothers age. They played together all the time, but in my mothers opinion Johnny was a spoiled brat, and because my mother rarely expressed a negative opinion of anyone, I liked to agree. The McIntyres had bought Johnny every single Star Wars action figure and spaceship and trash compactor available at Target and it made both my brother and I jealous. When the inevitable squabbles erupted between Johnny and my brother, Johnny would sweep all the Stars Wars toys into his lap and tell my brother to go home.
The week before I had stopped at their house, collecting my brother for dinner, when Mrs. McIntyre cornered me in the foyer. Michael, I heard about your parents, she said, using a tone of voice that she probably thought sounded concerned. Why did they get divorced?
Her bluntness caught me off guard. I had looked away from her, down at my shoes. Nobody on our block had ever been divorced. Nobody on our block had ever come out of the closet, either, but I wasnt about to tell Mrs. McIntyre that both my parents had done just that. I dont know, I told her.
That afternoon she crossed the yard, a small bundle of determination wrapped in a cardigan. She dispensed with small talk.
Michael, did you teach Johnny to say asshole?
I stood there with my mouth open, looking at her and then at my mother, who stood with the spray paint can frozen in mid-air. My mother looked back at me.
Uh, no, I said. No, I didnt.
Well theres nobody else around who could have taught him that.
I looked back at my mother, certain that her fear of confrontation would lead her to choose Mrs. McIntyres side, if only to be nice.
I didnt teach him that, I said. I dont know who taught him that word, but it wasnt me.
Johnny said you taught him the word, she said, smiling as though shed caught me in a trap.
That little lying brat, I thought.
Mrs. McIntyre turned her attention to my mother. Susan, this makes me very unhappy.
I looked with dread at my mother, and saw a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She shook the spray paint again ticka ticka ticka, looking Mrs. McIntyre straight in the eye. Michael said he didnt do it. My heart leaped.
Well then, why would Johnny say that? Mrs. McIntyre snapped.
Maybe, my mother said, Johnny is lying.
Mrs. McIntyre stood there, glaring at my mother. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. She shook her head in disgust, then turned and stomped across our yard. She slipped through the gate, chin held high.
I looked at my mother with adoration. She smiled back. That woman, she said, is such a bitch.
///
I would like to tell you that I sprung into selfless service immediately after her diagnosis. It is true that I could not sleep, there in San Francisco. The compulsion to go to her was overwhelming. Within a month I had quit my job as a bartender and bought a one-way ticket to Minneapolis, imagining myself rushing to her rescue, when the truth was that nobody could protect her. But I couldnt stay still.
After a few years of addiction, however, my emotional compass was a little off. The only way I knew how to connect with others was to elicit their sympathy. Oh, my life is so awful. Well, now I had the definitive trump card; a new excuse for old problems. My mother is sick, and thats why Im such a mess. I couldnt understand why bill collectors could be so callous. My mother has a terminal illness, as if I was the first person in the world with such trouble.
I do not want to tell you this: that even after her diagnosis, during a time when I can only imagine what she was feeling, I continued to whine about my struggle with drugs. She had always been the person I confided in, the first person Id go to with my problems, the first person Id tell of my successes. Of course, there had been few of the latter back then. After a few such earnest confessions her partner, Lee, finally wrote me a letter: Michael, please stop. Your mother can no longer handle hearing such things; they make her lose sleep, which she needs so desperately. Please tell anyone else, please tell me, if you must, but dont tell her.
To say I was ashamed would be an understatement. My face flamed with embarrassment while reading her words. But she was telling me something that I did not want to hear, something that took me a long time to learn: my confessor, my confidante, was already gone.
///
Two months after her diagnosis, I packed for Minneapolis. I told my boyfriend that I wasnt sure when I’d be back, but that I couldnt stay in San Francisco, losing sleep over my mother every night. There wasnt much he could do but give me his blessing. I think he hoped that a change of cities would sober me up. So did I.
Every Sunday Id wake early in the little studio apartment I had rented a mile from their house. Sometimes I was hung over. Sometimes, though, I had managed not to drink for several days. Id make myself a cup of coffee and shower. While I dressed I listened to NPR. I had it on all the time, even when I was sleeping. The murmuring voices made me feel less alone.
My mother and Lee had loaned me their Subaru, since my mother could no longer drive. Id pull up in front of their house every Sunday at eight. Shed watch from their front window, and when she saw me coming up the street shed push open the front door, bundled tight in her long winter coat, her canvas bag in her hand. She wore a brace on one foot, and shed takes forever to navigate her way down the stairs to the sidewalk, which fortunately gave me time to run up and grab her arm. She wouldn’t wait inside. Lee had tried for months to get her to relax and slow down, to stop cleaning the kitchen and vacuuming the rugs and doing the laundry, but since she had to leave her job my mother had refused to sit down. She wouldn’t stop moving.
Our ten-minute drive to church grew more silent over the weeks. Unlike most people with ALS, my mother had a rare type of the disease that included dementia. She did not grow disoriented, like a person with Alzheimer’s. Rather it seemed like the dementia simplified her. She stopped initiating conversations and answered questions with only one or two words.
The eight-thirty service at Plymouth Congregational Church was small; only forty or so regulars. She and I would sit on the right hand side of the chapel, always, four or five rows from the back. Wed smile and nod at the other parishioners, though we rarely talked to anyone. On the mornings when I was hung over I was consumed with guilt, my soul sick and fearful. I was beginning to think that I couldn’t stop.
But other mornings it was easier for me to sit with her, and to believe in myself as I looked people in the eye and said “Good morning.”
Each week a woman who wore turtlenecks and cardigan sweaters and a red pair of glasses with large, round frames sat at the piano beside the altar and began to play. We stood together, clutching hymnals in our hands, our voices barely filling the small chapel. When the music began, my mother would cry. Each and every time. Barely five notes into the hymn and her shoulders would start shaking. The muscles of her face had weakened, and her mouth fell open while the sobs shook her entire body. They were silent sobs: when the muscles that controlled her swallowing began to fail, she had begun choking on her own saliva. The fluids could be dangerous to her already-compromised lungs. The only solution was to block off her airway, and perform a tracheostomy. As part of the surgery her vocal cords were removed.
Her eyes would grow frightened and confused and sometimes shed look up at me, standing beside her, with a look of such utter pain and bewilderment that Id vow inwardly to hunt down God and kill Him.
Every Sunday she cried, and every Sunday Id do the only thing I could. Id hold her with my right arm, and Id hold the hymnal in my left hand, though by that point the book was useless, as we were both crying too hard to sing.
When the music stopped we could sit again, and collect ourselves. Shed open her canvas bag and search for the pack of tissues inside. After three weeks I bought a handkerchief and carried it in my pocket on Sunday mornings.
Wed dry our eyes and blow our noses during the sermon. If I hadn’t completely soaked the handkerchief, there was always the Communion. Once a month the small congregation gathered in a circle at the altar, and Communion wafers were passed, followed by a chalice of grape juice. My mother often choked on the wafer; her swallowing muscles had weakened, but she was too determined to call it quits on the body of Christ. Let it dissolve on your tongue, Id whisper to her, but even that was risky. She tried to wait until we were back in the pew before spitting it out into the handkerchief.
The parishioners were good sports. They noticed the tears and the choking and the spit, but looked away politely. Sometimes after a service one of them would come up to me, hold my hand between theirs and say “You’re a good son.”
I knew they meant well, but on the mornings when I was hung over, I didnt quite buy it.
One day during the sermon she opened her bag, fished around inside, then pulled out a pen and her pad of paper. She grasped the pen as well as she could, placed the tip against the paper, and scrawled something there. I pretended to pay attention to the sermon, but wondered what she was up to. She finished writing, then turned the pad to me.
I’m afraid I won’t get into heaven, it said.
///
I finally got sober. After enough demoralizing mornings of remorse I went to AA, and after a few more I asked for help. On October 2, 2000, nearly one year after her diagnosis, I finally stopped. What happened is not that her diagnosis got me sober. What happened is that it heightened the urgency to get here.
The overwhelming fear I had carried during those years, a fear of nearly everything, faded slowly, by degree. I faced up to some responsibilities. I paid some bills, and made amends to people I had hurt. My mother told me to go back to San Francisco, and to live my life. Lee and their tight circle of friends were caring for her better than I ever could, so I did. I went home but was not able to salvage my relationship with David. I was single for the first time in five years. I moved out on my own, and learned through much trial and error how to take care of myself. Then, for the first time in years, I was tested for HIV. I had four vials of blood drawn from the crook of my arm, and two weeks later the test came back positive.
I can say that one of my first moments of maturity came when I decided not to tell my family. I knew, finally, to keep this particular trump card close to my chest. I knew that my mother deserved not to worry, and I knew she deserved the full attention of my family. It may seem like it was the obvious thing to do, and drawing attention to it only shows how long it took me to grow up. But I made many mistakes back then, and its a relief to know that I did one thing right.
///
Sometime during those first few months after her diagnosis, she told me that she hoped I could forgive her for having been such a bad mother. I dont know if she ever stopped feeling that her illness was punishment for past deeds: between the dementia and the loss of her speaking ability, it was difficult to know what she was thinking. Of course I dont think she deserved ALS, and I told her that. And maybe shed tell me the same; that my disease is not my fault. But Id disagree.
A recent Rolling Stone article caused a minor sensation when it described the existence in the gay community of self-described bug chasers: men who knowingly engage in unprotected sex in an attempt to seroconvert. Whatever their motives, these men became lighting rods for moral outrage, from gays and straights alike. As you might imagine, this phenomenon was blown a little out of proportion, but underneath the tabloid-style frenzy was a sliver of truth.
I was not a bug chaser, but neither can I condemn these men. I cant tell you why exactly I did not always protect myself; whether it was youthful rebellion or drug-clouded perception, whether it was a lack of self-regard, or a desire for sex without barriers. Maybe it was all of these things. What I can tell you is that being an HIV-negative gay man was often like standing on the edge of a cliff, peering over the edge into an abyss; a swirling vortex that grew wider and wider. And because of the new drugs there were fewer men dying. And because HIV can deplete testosterone, and because many HIV-positive men are on testosterone replacement therapy, they have beautifully muscular bodies; what I would call, in my less charitable moments, the Holy Grail of modern gay culture. And it was said that positive men were having guilt-free, unprotected sex with other positive men. And then the abyss seemed more like a big Jacuzzi, a pool with a little leak at the bottom: some got sucked out, but most everyone else was having a pretty good time. And I toed the line and felt the sick pull of vertigo and then, without ever making a real decision, I fell in. When I was negative it seemed as though everyone was positive, and then I seroconverted and found out I was wrong. And then the virus was inside me, and there was no going back.
I am to blame, there is no doubt in my mind. I cant decide if its the same thing as deserving it. Had she known of my diagnosis, my mother would have probably disagreed, just as I tried to convince her that she didnt deserve ALS.
///
On February 1st, 2002, I boarded a plane for Minneapolis. Lee had called, Mom again was not doing well. I endured the three and a half hour flight, staring out the window at the dark landscape, at the lights of the cities and the small towns moving slowly below us.
We finally landed, and as we were pulling up to the gate I checked my cell phone and there was a message. It was Dorothy, one of their friends who helped take care of my mother. Her voice was low, she had been crying. “Michael, your mother just passed. Call us when you get in.”
I pressed the “end” button, and slid the phone back in my pocket. I glanced around at the other passengers. All of us standing, waiting in the back of the plane, watching everyone ahead gather their coats and bags and head up the aisle.
///
In the last two and a half years I have been to over 500 AA meetings. They have an effect. Instinctively now, I want to show you the light. People need these meetings because they need hope; they need the possibility of redemption. Like any culture, AA has its social constraints and customs; expectations of certain behavior. Yes, we admit our faults, we acknowledge our depression and fear, but always we must find the light. And telling you now all of this, I must fight the urge to finish the narrative arc, as if there was such a thing.
There are days when I am asked to stand before the others and tell my story, with the usual implication: give them hope, end with the light. There are days when I want to say that I dont know what I am doing, that I would rather be at home, sitting vacantly in bed with the television flickering its blue rays across the walls of my room. There are days when I dont want to give anything to anyone, and that if one more person speaks to me I will just be rubbed away. But my mother was never one to sit home and sulk, and I still try to learn from her example. So I go and tell my story, and at the end I give them the light and the hope, because thats what they come for. And at the end I feel a little better myself.
But for you I will not finish the arc, because for this story there is no such thing. I can tell you that everything keeps changing. I can tell you that the five or six guideposts of my story are under constant revision, because new ones rise to take their place. I can tell you that I have plans for the future, that Im very healthy, and that I may be in love. I can tell you that sometimes Im angry that other people still get their mothers, and that Im probably too melancholy for my own good.
A friend of mine recently asked what it was like to have HIV, how did it affect my life? Mostly, I told her, it just means I go to the doctor more often than other people. Every three months I have several vials of blood drawn from the crook of my arm. I meet with my doctor, who tells me that I may be one of the lucky ones; I could go years without the medications. It means I have to make a choice; when do I reveal my HIV status to prospective lovers? I prefer to get it out of the way. If it means rejection, then at least were not wasting each others time.
I have recently begun seeing a man who is HIV-negative. As you may imagine, there are many issues that arise in such a relationship; issues of risk and mortality, attachment and fear. And then there are the smaller issues. One of the side effects of the new HIV medications is facial wasting: the loss of fat beneath the cheekbones, leaving many with sunken cheeks. No one knows why, exactly. Last year I was talking about this with another friend of mine, who is HIV-negative. He told me hed rather kill himself than suffer such side effects. Im vain, I know. I cant help it, he said. But Im inclined to agree; its easy to have HIV, when no one can tell. How could my own vanity withstand such a blow? With what disappoint would my boyfriend wrestle?
At the time I told my friend that Id rather die, too. Which is something Id never admit to my mother, were she still alive. She gave up so many things in small increments; her running, her voice, good food. I learned some things, watching her. We make adjustments as they come, whether we thought we could handle them or not. Which is to say that Im vain, but not enough. What Im trying to tell you is that Ill take them, the medications, when the time comes.
September 7th, 2006 at 11:48 am
I have a hard time writing about Alex. It isn’t for lack of things to say, rather it’s a lack of words that I feel can do justice to his memory. In truth, it was hard even when he was alive to describe what I thought of him; to try to explain to someone that didn’t know him the strength of his conviction or the way he could cheer you up with a smile and a word was a wasted effort. No one could truly understand what was so special about him because there was no frame of reference - there was no one else like him. Even so, though I could never hope to capture in words what it was about Alex that made him so special, I want to try to share a little bit about why he was so important to me.
Alex and I were fast friends and from the moment we met until our last goodbye I can’t think of a single moment I didn’t appreciate him being by my side. On my short and ill-fated tenure with the crew team he kept me motivated during practice when my enthusiasm waned. He encouraged me, mostly by example, to work harder and be more responsible in school and when the work was done he was ready to play as hard as anyone else. Whether it was watching Steven Seagal movies or playing Super Smash Bros., he was always there smiling and laughing. I’ll tell you this much: that is no small feat in a group whose video game grudge matches, often as not, result in insults not suitable even for the latest of late night TV. Somehow though, it wasn’t so bad when Alex was around because, as so many people have repeated in the past few months, Alex seemed to bring out the best in people. Where other suites of roommates broke up and went their separate ways ours stayed together, even growing from year to year in both size and closeness. I promise you that it wasn’t my eneffable early-morning charm that made our friendships so strong - it was Alex, his contagious love of life and his selfless devotion to the happiness of others that he so generously shared with all of us. In short, Alex taught me about life, about how to embrace it and cherish it.
Though my time with Alex was regrettably short, shorter even than the little time he was alotted on this earth to share with us all, I take comfort in the fact that people aren’t measured by the length of their lives but by the difference they make in the lives of others. There are so many people that are blessed to live long lives but are never enlightened enough to know how to make the best of them, going fifty or seventy or a hundred years and leaving this world just as it was when they came into it. Alex, on the other hand, had a way about him that put him in a class far apart from such individuals. He had the rare gift to touch the lives of not an occasional few but of nearly everyone he met. He changed the lives of so many, making their personal worlds better places just for having been a part of them, as I know he did mine.
With Alex gone there is a hole in my heart. Over the past few months the love and support of my family and friends has helped to make life without him more manageable, but still I can’t imagine a day will ever go by that I don’t think of him. It hurts, but I know this is a good thing because it means I will never forget the things he taught me or what he meant to me - no, means to me. In this I know I’m not alone and that is a comfort too not because I wish to commiserate but because it reminds me that his legacy will live on. All it takes is a little love, a little kindness and a little effort as we all try to live a little more like Alex Capelluto.
I’ll never forget you,
Alex. I love you, man.
Your friend and roommate, Jeff Tierney
September 12th, 2006 at 6:25 pm
One of my favorite things about Alex Capelluto was his laugh. It was the laugh of a giddy little kid. And I think sometimes you can tell a lot about a person by their laugh, his wasn’t mean-spirited or maniacal it was happy and incredibly infectious. Have you ever been in the presence of someone who when they smiled, could make you smile, and their laugh could make you giggle. For me, Cappy was one of those people. Whether we were arguing over something stupid like why surf ninjas is the greatest movie ever, or just sitting watching a movie in his common room (scratching his head) I always had a good time hanging out with him.
I’ve always admired him. He had strength of character that you don’t see very often, and I wish I had. His dedication to his school work, his crew team and his friends was truly something out of the ordinary. When you’re young sometimes you don’t have your life in order, I know that I don’t. But Cappy had it down, and I think that was because he realized what was most important in life: loving and being good to the people who were most important to him, and knowing that the rest would just fall into place. It’s kind of intimidating to be friends with someone who has it all together, but I never felt out of place with him.
One of my favorite memories of Alex was the Berkeley trip to six flags last fall, when he skipped crew practice and we snuck him on the bus. There’s just something about amusement parks that bring out the little kid in everyone. We had so much fun riding all of the roller coasters, and there’s this awesome picture of Liz, Dan, Haruko, and Cappy on the nitro roller coaster and Alex has this fabulous expression: his mouth is hanging open and he has this look of extreme excitement with a little fear. I love that expression. That trip to six flags still stands as one of the best days I’ve ever had. With Cappy everything was all good and I will miss him dearly.
September 13th, 2006 at 9:31 pm
Alex was a unique in the truest sense of the word. There is no one I have ever met who possesses his self-confidence, his zest for life, or his integrity. He was effortlessly an amazing friend, never judgmental, always happy, and most importantly he was always there for his friends in moments of doubt or weakness. He had the ability to easily distinguish between what he could and couldn’t control, dedicating all his time to one, and laughing off the other. He was relentlessly cheerful, even in the face of disappointment. Many times walking back from physics he would tell me about his goals and expectations for his next time trial or race. Often I would ask him how he did later. It didn’t matter if he had succeeded or failed, he was always optimistic, always planning for the next opportunity.
Alex may have lived one of the happiest, most fulfilled lives that I have ever seen, despite its length. Most remarkably, the happiness was truly earned. He got the most out of every minute of life, never content to be bored or to be boring. He understood the value of living in the moment, and the value of planning ahead, a rare combination. He could buckle down and work towards a goal that was months or years away, yet could at the same time know when to drop everything to enjoy the simple pleasures of a summer day. His life was filled with these seeming contradictions. He was kind to his friends when it mattered, sharp, witty, and biting when it didn’t. He was relaxed yet determined. He was always filled with happiness and yet could empathize with the suffering of people hundreds of miles away. He worked relentlessly towards his goals, yet withstood failure effortlessly.
Though I only knew Alex for two short years, I will cherish them as the most important in my life. He was a teacher, a role model, and a friend. He showed me how to make the most of the short, precious time we have on this world, and I will never forget it. For those of us he left behind, it is all we can do to try to live our lives by his example. We owe it as much to him as we do to ourselves.
Goodbye Alex. I’ll always remember the little things, your laugh, your jokes, your terrible taste in movies. But most of all I will remember what a privilege and honor it was to, however briefly, have you as a friend.
Love,
Matt Lawlor
September 14th, 2006 at 7:03 pm
Alex was my best friend throughout middle school and high school. My memories of him in these years are similar in tone to what his Yale friends have identified: Alex was always happy and always smiling; he tried his hardest at everything and, as a consequence, never shortchanged himself or anyone else. In fact, in many ways it was for these other people that Alex tried so hard–Alex was the most selfless person that I ever knew. He is a model that everyone should aspire to emulate. Yet despite all of these qualities, if I had to identify the one characteristic that best defined Alex it would be that he was a problem-solver. It did not matter whether the question was academic, athletic, social or common sensical; when Alex was confronted with a problem or an obstacle he ALWAYS found a way to solve or overcome it.
With that in mind, rather than sharing a specific memory of Alex, I would like to address one problem relating to Alex that I am not sure anyone has been able to figure out. This problem is, quite simply: how do you describe him? Or, more aptly, how can you describe Alex? Is it possible? How many times has the reader tried to describe Alex to someone who hasn’t met him; tried to explain the void that exists in the world now that he has gone and known that the listener did not truly understand how special Alex was? I have never been able to convey to someone how amazing Alex was, and I am sure that it is the same for anyone reading this. To understand Alex you had to meet him.
Language, which is itself a conceptual construction, inherently limits what we can say, and every ounce of Alex transcends even the most descriptive, most insightful words in the English language. A catalogue of his character traits is, no matter how long, inexhaustive because Alex was so much more than words. Likewise, the use of terms like “ineffable” and “indescribable” fail in that they have become cliches. In fact, it might be cliches which are the most apt descriptions of Alex, for such expressions were likely thought up to describe people similar to (but never the same as)Alex. Unfortunately, people have overused these expressions and stripped them of their meaning. So, how do we describe Alex?
A few months ago, over dinner with Alex’ parents I expressed to them the thought that I am about to share with you, and while I do not think that it is perfect I do think that Alex the problem-solver would have appreciated the following description. Theodor Adorno, a German philosopher of the Frankfurt school, wrote extensively during the 1930s and 1940s. Early in his career he argued that the traditional Hegelian/Fichtean dialectic was inherently flawed in its assumption that it could truly understand reality. Adorno called the flawed Hegleian/Fichtean dialectic “positive dialectics.” As an alternative, Adorno proposed what he termed “negative dialectics.” While the concept is certainly a complex one, it can best be described as the realization that some things cannot be accurately described because linguistic concepts cannot adequately describe reality. For Adorno, there were some things which were immeasurable and unquantifiable. These “qualitative elements,” while intangible, were no less important to understanding the essence of a thing. I lthink that we can all agree that Alex was far beyond what any of us can describe in speech. So, to solve the problem that Alex has inadvertently posed to us, I like to imagine that Alex is the quintessence of negative dialectics. He was so special, so amazing, so perfect that we need to recognize that we will never do him justice.
Alex, I love you, and I hope that this description brings the smile to your face that we all remember you for.
Love,
Adam
September 25th, 2006 at 1:19 am
I didn’t know Alex as well as many of the people here, but our short times together were always hilarious and wonderful. I knew him through FOOT and through the planning stages of HBC.
During August training, last fall, organized things the FOOT leaders had to do around Old Campus had slowed down, leading Alex and some other partners in crime a little extra time. I turned around to see him and several others running full speed and diving onto a couple plastic tarps spread out in the mud, with a hose providing a little bit of lubrication (who knows where he got it from…). However, after the 20 minutes they spend diving head first down this mud strewn, glorified saran wrap, Alex had big red welts on his chest and back. He looked down, and started laughing hysterically at them and me.
He then folded up the tarp and snuck it over to my house, storing it while he was out on his trip. He then promptly called me after returning, scooped up his SlipNSlide treasure and used it again in the Berkeley Courtyard a couple more times before the weather turned…
Although I didn’t know Alex well, the few times we spent together were ones that I will treasure.
September 25th, 2006 at 11:51 am
I redshirted my freshmen year, and, as a sophomore, I rowed on the Freshmen Heavyweight Crew with Alex. I found out about the accident while I was studying abroad in Beirut. I don’t remember much of that day, except that it was paralyzingly heavy. I won’t pretend that we were particularly close, we were just bonded in the ordinary way that teamates do, but that simple headline on the YDN website struck close to home. I guess at this age you never see something like that coming. The world back at Yale, across two oceans, somehow seemed to lose its intregity for me. If someone so solid, so real and confident and vivacious could disappear just like that, what was to stop the rest of the world I left behind from crumbling? In a way, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more helpless in all of my life.
What I remember about Alex is that he was remarkably courageous, indomitable, and possessed intensity that you could almost sense as soon as he walked into a room. He was also kind. When I was forced to leave the team in the spring with a painful knee injury, he wrote me this “good luck with everything. and i look forward to seeing you killing small dogs and tearing ergs in half.” I loved the humor.
Sitting at his memorial service this year, I couldn’t help but wonder how few there really were in the world who could engender such an outpouring of love and admiration. A death is only as quiet as the lips of one’s friends. And in that sense, Alex left this world with a bang. And as I left, I couldn’t help think that I’d missed a tremendous to spend more time with him. I hope that some day, I’ll deserve to be half as loved as Alex.
October 2nd, 2006 at 1:28 am
This is what I said at Alex’s memorial service in September, and a month later it is no easier now than it was then to be at a Yale without Alex— we miss you Alex.
Alex Capelluto was one of the people I most deeply respected and admired at Yale from the beginning of my freshman year. I remember going to eat lunch in Branford one Friday afternoon and sitting until long after everyone else had left the dining hall talking about what we wanted to do in the future, and what kind of families we wanted to have. Alex wanted to provide his children with the best education. He wanted to be able to spend time with them, teach them things and pass down traditions he’d gotten from his own parents. Most of all he wanted them to value the things he valued—family, kindness towards others, hard work, service to the community. And as the dining hall workers kicked us out, I remember thinking what wonderful father Alex was going to be and how lucky I was to get to get to watch him as he went forward.
I was so impressed, and awed in a way, at his level-headedness and his clarity about what kind of person he wanted to be—and was. It was just so Alex to talk about the future not in terms of career goals but rather in terms of how he wanted to treat people and values he wanted to uphold.
Alex was spontaneous, he was joyful, even silly at times. During the time when he sported what in my opinion were an absolutely ridiculous set of mutton chops, we had an eleven e-mail exchange debating the merits of muttons which escalated into a full out debate on muttons, mullets and what I called bad hair in general. I was staunch in my position, convinced nothing could ever bring me around to facial hair. But wisdom, even in his most playful moments, was characteristic of Alex, and I remember being annoyed at having to admit defeat when he wrote:
To look at it another way, much of the fun of doing it is that
there’s absolutely no good reason to do it. Many people pull stunts that fit that description when they’re drunk; i happen to pull a few, occasionally, when i’m sober. there’ll come a point when i am no
longer amused by my chops, at which point i’ll shave them off and start
myself on some other, equally pointless project– like seeing how long i can
go without saying the word “mitten”.
–alex
The muttons were just a small example of Alex’s enthusiasm and sense of humor; his willingness to try anything, to do everything to the max. We had so many adventures and laughs and silly experiments, just to see how things would work out.
One of my favorite things to talk about with Alex was his family who I felt like I knew long before I finally met them. Alex’s stories about his sister Katherine were my favorite—however, less for their content than for the chance to watch Alex tell them. I loved to watch Alex talk about Katherine—his expression changed, his face lit up, his voice was full of admiration and pride.
Two years after graduating high school, I realize how few people you can actually keep in touch with after graduation. You only remain close with those who mean the absolute most. I never doubted that Alex would be one of those lifelong friends. I will never find the words to describe how much Alex means to me, or the magnitude of his impact on my life, but I have realized over the summer that that impact will be endless. As I go forward I will carry with me not only Alex’s memory, but his friendship as well. I will forever be inspired by his character, his enthusiasm, his love.
October 3rd, 2006 at 3:29 pm
Everyone can attest to Alex’s spirit, there’s no question that he was one of the greatest guys I have ever gotten to know. I personally had two experiences that stand out to me as places where I choose to preserve his memory.
I rowed with ACapps freshman year on the heavyweight team, and you couldn’t have asked for a better guy to row with. Unfortunately for him, he was the ninth guy in a boat of eight, in a league where you needed the biggest guys possible to compete, so he spent the season practicing with us but sidelined during races.
Tampa training trip 2005: a quintessential part of the spring training trip is the Casino Padre, a Saturday morning race between the team which lasts about 45 minutes, a hell on earth if there ever was one. The format is 4 boats, chosen by captains the night prior; which make the bridge loop twice, a trip out by the casino, around a small island and the finish in the bay. ACapps wasn’t picked, but the night before the race a guy who was chosen to be in my boat (who was on the verge of quitting) decided he truly didn’t want to race. We looked somewhat reluctantly to the guys who hadn’t been picked and saw Alex, so we okayed it with Coach if we could switch him in. With ACapps sitting right in the middle of the boat (the engine room, as we call it), we suited up, had a very smooth row and won that Casino Padre by two minutes.
That freshman year we didn’t have a great boat, we had worked so hard that everyone was tired for most of the practices. The boat felt slow, heavy, and sluggish. The week before our league championship our head coach decided to have practice with all 4 boats competing that weekend: the Freshman 8, Varsity, JV and 3V; so we summed up all our energy to show the team that we were ready to compete. The problem was, that day our 5 seat (the strongest member of our boat) was sick. We put in Alex to fill in (again, right in the engine room), and immediately the boat picked up. Our boat felt lighter, more energetic, and ready to compete. For all of the pieces we dusted the JV and 3V, two boats that would go on that weekend to take bronze and gold medals; and lost only by 2-3 seats to the Varsity on each set. In a season that I usually don’t remember fondly, I regard that practice as the best we had all year.
I had so many great experiences with Alex, but those two memories from that freshman season stick out to me as a testament to his selflessness and determination, because I believe Alex already embodied everything about the sport that keeps me coming back.
October 5th, 2006 at 1:36 am
Nico -
Just thinking of you, man, not that a day goes by when I don’t. Anyway, I thought it would be good to write to you since I don’t like just thinking it because I feel like a schizo and if I talked out loud I’m afraid the neighbors would think me slightly perturbed. I’m sure you understand. I find it striking how it’s the little things that are sometimes the hardest. The big ones I expected and dealt with in due course, but its the random little things that really strike a chord in me. I don’t think I’ll ever look at meatloaf the same way and I think your Halo character has a permanent home on my X-box. I’ll try not to let anyone use him unless they promise they’re going to lose - wouldn’t want to break your streak. Matt and I started this thing with our HBC friends. We call it Meat and Movie Mondays (or MMM, M cubed). We just get together and eat manly meats (no chicken allowed - dead and red, baby) while watching bad action movies. We started out a few weeks ago with hamburgers and Above the Law; I thought you’d be proud. Not sure what we’re going to do next. I’m thinking maybe a Seven Samurai/Magnificent Seven double-feature. I know they aren’t action movies really, but they’re still pretty manly. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. We met Bruce Campbell! No joke, honest-to-god, in-the-flesh, zombie-slaying Bruce “Gimme some sugar, baby” Campbell! It was pretty much the awesomest thing ever. You would have loved it. I miss you, Alex. My thoughts and prayers are with you always. Yours truly - Jeff “Danger” Tierney
PS: What do you think about the middle name? I’m thinking about making it official, then I’ll always have something to say at those lame events where you have to make introductions by saying your name and something interesting about yourself, as if anyone cares and remembers the name of the guy sitting next to them five minutes later. I could save time though by doing both at once so I would be super popular because I get everyone out of there faster. Name and intersting fact wrapped into one - score.
October 14th, 2006 at 6:40 pm
Hey buddy,
I missed you in class today. I couldn’t hear a word the professor was saying, I just stared at the empty chair next to me. You would have loved this year so much, I know it. So much has changed, and so little at the same time. Sometimes there is only an empty space around which life simply moves on. Some things just can’t exist without you. There are still times where, for a moment, I forget that you are really truly gone and I take a half step towards some curly-haired guy walking in front of me, only to remember that it can’t be you. I’ve had this image of you bobbing your head to the chorus of “Peaches” stuck in my head the last two days. It still makes me smile. So many of my best memories of you have songs attached to them. Some of them have become my favorite songs, some of them I doubt I’ll ever be able listen to again. I just want to have a few more minutes of pointless banter, one more late night conversation. I still ask myself what you would say, but I don’t have the imagination to answer. I hope you’d forgive me if I screw it all up. I miss you, always.
Matt