In Memory

We call that person who has lost his father, an orphan; and a widower that man who has lost his wife. But that man who has known the immense unhappiness of losing a friend, by what name do we call him? Here every language is silent and holds its peace in impotence.

--Joseph Roux

The ways I’ve heard people describe Matt Arch - social butterfly, life of the party, unabashed activist – comprised a spirit so lively that I met the news of his death with incredulous devastation. There were times, being around Matt, when the world appeared to be lovely solely because Matt so thoroughly enjoyed loveliness, so how could one understand a world without Matt there to appreciate it? My disbelief left me unsure of what to do with myself, and when I saw my sister after the awful information had been confirmed, I told her about my emotional paralysis.

“I want to do something Matt would have done - like donate to a charity or sign up for a race. I know that would be the best tribute to his memory, but right now…” I broke off, unsure of how to finish.

Jess sighed sadly. “Yeah, I feel the same way, too. I thought for a minute about signing up for the marathon and running in Matt’s memory…”

I raised my eyebrows.

Jess looked solemnly thoughtful, “But I think Matt would understand.”

He would have, and that’s what I have come to accept about my trajectory of grief thus far: Matt understood we all bring what we can to a situation, he celebrated diversity and worked to safeguard our rights to be different. The people Matt valued come from all different walks of life and no matter who you were, he was always able to make you feel like the most special person in the room. He most memorably did that for me when he asked me to write and edit for his website, which worked to promote his own business prowess and bring individuals together.

I pitched my idea of a series connecting popular culture to the workplace to Matt with a certain amount of trepidation. Not only was I concerned the project would seem too pedestrian, I was also feeling doubtful, which was my natural response to another person investing in my intellect.

However Matt’s eyes lit up. Throughout our collaboration, he was endlessly generous and enthusiastic. The point of his website was to help people network their way to success, and he was insistent I set the blog up in a way to best promote myself (He was characteristically upfront about his view of networking, “Girl, if you succeed, I at least know someone at the top. We gotta get more gays up there.” “I’m bisexual,” I corrected. “Baby, even better.”).

I would meet with or email him to talk about pop culture trends I noticed, and we’d have conversations about our responses to the fads. I wonder, then, how Matt would feel about hundreds of his friends finding out about his death on Facebook. The ghosts of conversations I never had with him haunt my thoughts, and I imagine, had all of this been happening another way, I’d have approached him about the concept of grieving on social media.

“Angelcakes,” He would have doubtlessly utilized his favorite nickname at some point in this exchange, “This is brilliant, we have to blog about it.”

“But Matt,” I would have replied; I keep thinking as I write this, “there’s no way to make this funny.”

I haven’t yet been able to force my grief to manifest as fundraising, because the script I seem to be following is too absurdly predictable. I had passed through denial when quickly scrolling through Facebook after a cautionary phone call from my sister and searching through hundreds of posts until I was satisfied the news must contain some truth. And even after accepting the reality of his death, I still kept stumbling into the word suicide, an abyss instead of an erect obstacle. (Matt would have been thrilled to see the word “erect” in his elegiac blog entry.) I marched through anger, snapping at my partner and indulging in stony silence. In drunken nights, in emotional hypothesizing, I bargained, I ruminated and re-planned: If only…if only…if only.  But I have not reached a level of acceptance that has yet allowed me to participate in an activity to honor Matt, because his death is still a ridiculous impossibility.

My script is not only normative but also reductive. I’m incredulous because Matt was so happy and his cheerful spirit infective. Hundreds upon hundreds of people have expressed their despair at his passing: how could someone so loved ever feel alone? He was one of the most accomplished people I knew, and we had many editorial conversations about the best way to prune his resume in order to organize his many accolades. He was too young, too happy, too important. He loved life too much to die.

He loved Beyoncé too much to die, I imagine Matt would have wanted me to add.

But I know better. Not only have I watched an UpWorthy video or two in my day, but I’ve also coped with similar demons and can recognize the hue of this act thanks to the tar marring my own experiences. Nonetheless, I can’t let go of my incredulity because this shouldn’t have happened, and don’t we always want to rest in the safety of a logical universal order?

In Matt’s mind, the logical order of the universe was that we all come together and celebrate one another. I know few people with Matt’s capacity for love – he clearly served as the connectarian he aspired to be (buying rights to that connectarian domain name, of course, because, for Matt Arch, ideology need not be divorced from business opportunities). I don’t have answers exempt from anyone else struggling with this tragedy, but I do know a lesson I learned from Matt’s life and death is that connection matters. Matt would be thrilled if we took the risk of reaching out to one another at least once each day, practicing the kind of life he strove to live. If you knew Matt, then you knew what it was to be included, to be valued. What better tribute to pay to this man than to pass on that favor, and to try to live in such a way that the gift is ever passed forward?

I don’t always know, Matt, the best way to say my goodbyes. But, because I love you, here’s one last collaboration.