Two years ago last weekend, Nyima Sorenson was shot in an attempted robbery in Oakland. He died at 6:24am on the morning of his 26th birthday.
Nyima was the best friend of one of my close friends from college, Anthony (aka Tony Famous), and we had all spent some fun times together. I still remember getting the call from Anthony on a Sunday night two weeks after I first moved to Palo Alto. I had gone to sleep early, in an attempt to get a fresh start at getting my ass kicked by my new job, and the call was more like a bad dream – I was wide awake as soon as I heard the news, but the conversation just didn’t seem like it could be real.
A week after his death, Nyima’s family and friends held a memorial BBQ at Live Oak Park in Berkeley. Over 500 people showed up, and it has now become an annual event. Last Saturday, I attended the third BBQ (my first, due to travel conflicts the past two years) with my cousin Ben. The turnout was more intimate – about 50 people, mostly high-school friends, and the emotions had fermented from a raw mixture of shock and grief to a mellower, but still potent, tragic acceptance blended with fond memories.
The BBQ is a beautiful and unique tribute – like an Irish wake with a Berkeley twist. Other than the single table in the center that was discreetly laid out with a dozen or so photos that normally hang in Nyima’s parents’ home and the several middle-aged family members mingling with the crowd, it felt like a fun group of 20-somethings enjoying a beautiful Saturday afternoon. There was no moment of silence or any other overt memorial – the memories and stories flowed happily in the natural way that close friends talk about a member of the crew who moved out of town, but still comes home to visit. Each year, Anthony and Kevin, the third best friend, arrange everything and Nyima’s dad throws in a keg of Sierra Nevada. He and Nyima’s mom wander the party sharing the fondness and vitality of their son’s friends’ memories and the indefatigable optimism with which all youth must approach great loss in order to continue to be young. I have to imagine that these days are when his parents’ loss paradoxically feels most poignant and least alone.
I remember a late-night IM conversation a few months after Nyima’s death in which a friend asked me how I would like to be remembered when I die. It was an inspired question that occupied me for more than a few days. When I finally responded, I said that more than being remembered for any particular thing, I want to lead a life that makes people miss me when I’m gone. Nyima is definitely missed. And the beauty of this event is that, once a year, all those who miss him join forces to miss him more powerfully and less painfully at the same time.
The irony of the overall mood of happiness and fun is that it was reinforced by the inescapable reminder of mortality that was our reason for being there – it was like we were trying to show Nyima that we weren’t wasting the time that was taken away from him but not us. Yet between the stories, jokes, and games of catch, you could spot intermittent pockets of deeper conversation and sobering moments. As the party entered the extended late afternoon, cousin Ben and I found ourselves sitting on one of the decreasing number of spots on the grass where you could soak in the sun as it moved behind the trees at its summer pace.
Ben is a few years older than me , but we’ve always been on the same wavelength. He is probably too good at what he does in an industry that could be as far from meritocracy as anything in American business today, and it is a source of much frustration. In many ways, Ben is the idealistic risk-taker that I wish I could be. And I think in many ways, I am the pragmatic conformist that he envies not without resentment. But, we’re both trying to reach the same equilibrium point, just from opposite sides. That point is the optimal mixture of living for the now and sacrificing for the future. Either extreme is dangerous: save everything for later, and later will never come; enjoy yourself too much today, and invite misery tomorrow. Nyima’s death was the third event in a six year period that prompted reassessment of my personal now & later index. And those memories are probably what got Ben and I on the subject.
The interesting thing about the now & later index is that it is not as pure a dichotomy as it appears to be on the surface: each person has their own individual definition of happiness (which is constantly changing over time), and for some, not having to worry about the future is a big part of enjoying the present. Ben and I agreed that the middle ground that we were both approaching after several pendulum swings of diminishing amplitude was not as much about balancing the two sides against one another as blending them together – feeling good today about saving for tomorrow. So it is in fact our maturing tastes, and not any monastic self-discipline, that is responsible for our increasing success in this pursuit.
The personal philosophy task of the day completed, we returned to the party just in time for Crank‘s arrival. As we dodged errant passes between John – the bartender from the art-gallery-slash-bar where I chugged Guinness out of martini glasses while listening to “soulful Jewish a cappella” with Anthony and The Pear – and Evan (pictured) – who paid $80 to have a few of his gold chains turned into those dope grillz, we traded “remember when…’s” with shots to the dome of Blanton’s (which Nyima brought back from his roadtrip through the South) and Andre Cold Duck (which I likened to sparkling Manischewitz). The next morning, I realized we never got around to Anthony’s epic re-telling of the tale of the commitment (as in institutional) of The Pear – quite possibly one of the funniest true stories I have ever heard in my life. I guess we’ve got something to look forward to next year…
R.I.P.
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