Making Sense of the Senseless
When I met Sam in 2020, we were enthusiastically boarding a bus with 16 other peers to travel from Philadelphia to South Carolina to campaign for Bernie Sanders, days before Super Tuesday and, unbeknownst to us, a week and a half before the world would implode. For the days we were in the Carolinas (we assuredly hit North even after Bernie’s loss in South Carolina), Sam had our ragtag bunch of wide-eyed students laughing at every turn. His mix of self-deprecation and unfiltered contempt for the most reprehensible members of society (I’m looking at you, DNC) kept our group afloat even as it became increasingly clear the Bernie campaign was being kneecapped right above us.
On one of the brisk few days back on campus before the pandemic sent us packing, Sam and I were rallying student support for Bernie at the central bell-tower. Another Bernie sympathizer with ruthless calculating skills approached us glumly and definitively laid bare the stats to prove Bernie had a near-zero chance of recouping his recent losses in the race. We thanked our wiz-kid buzz killer and when I faced Sam, both of us sporting smirks to hide the panic, he punted to me “let’s pack it in. Do you wanna break the news to the others?”
We continued fueling false hope through the early weeks of Zoom school, and in our weekly catch-ups/group therapy sessions with the Bernie group, I learned a bit more about Sam. He loved the same video games I did, he enjoyed sci-fi and fantasy books, and he was willing to commit his time and energy to keeping the hope of our generation alive well past its expiration date.
As the pandemic stretched on, communication within the group that had braved the Carolinas became sparse, but I could always count on commiserating with Sam in Twitter DMs, cracking wise about the bleak developments of every day life with our tails tucked between our legs. And when other members of our group checked in, he was always present, offering condolences or comments of encouragement even as I was failing to find the energy to do the same. There’s no shortage of junctures from which the future of the progressive movement looks desolate, but there were a few where Sam taught me how to better weather the storm. It was Sam who was consistent in reminding me that revolutionary movements happen when people feel exploited enough to fight back, not when there’s a politician with good ideas to get behind. Fittingly enough, the last dispatch I’d heard from his personal life was about losing his position as a paid canvasser on a local progressive’s campaign because they were short on funds. In his words, “I hope she wins but she’s definitely not surrounding herself with the best and brightest.”
Despite all these losses with which I have associated my commiseration with Sam, I was also privy to a few of his own victories through the strange graciousness of social media. He was presiding over the Political Science Society at the school I’ve graduated from, working in the office of the City Commissioner, regularly posting radiant pics with friends and family, and for Thanksgiving just a few days ago, he boasted on Instagram that there was “much to be thankful for this holiday season.”
Sam loved to toy with the idea that just about nothing matters, but his big heart wouldn’t let him fully commit to that bit of nihilism. Sam wanted to create a society where everyone could do good by each other, and he believed there was always an opportunity for that utopia to emerge. For him to be shot a semester before he would graduate and fully take the world by its horns is so senseless it leaves me ready to embrace nihilism on my own… until I remember how Sam lived. Armed with his sarcastic wit and aw-shucks grins, he never lost sight of a better world as each successive bridge to one kept burning down, and he blazed an expansive trail of memories in his short time here.
Last night after I had paced the long blocks around my apartment and screamed despair into my mind, I collapsed in the booth of a diner I’ve relied on for jokes since I first discovered it. The long-standing diner is named House of Pies, and with its plain furnishing, wizened clientele, mediocre offerings, and obtrusive sign out front touting its reputation as a “family restaurant,” it’s easy to use for a punchline. “The chef winks at you when you order a cream pie,” my roommate claims. But last night, after I wolfed down a sandwich and slice of pie, my waiter asked what brought me in at 10:30, and I dropped the bomb. “My friend was killed today and I’m just sorta aimless right now.” He quickly leveled with the gravity and thoughtfully asked a bit more, even if both of our tones were awkward. As I wrote in the tip on my receipt, I explained that I had met Sam a week before the pandemic and the majority of our interactions were digital. The waiter expressed condolences, although he hedged them with the sympathetic acknowledgment that he hadn’t experienced any loss similar to mine, and I hurried out, still unsure of how to appropriately communicate what Sam meant to me. But it was because of the waiter’s attentive manner that I was able to pin down what it was about Sam I will miss the most — his sincerity was all the more impactful because he was always letting it shine through a jaded veneer.
I’m looking forward to the Edward 40Hands we’ll finally get to do together to numb the pain of existence in the next life, Sam. Rest in peace.
