Joshua Rowsey was a polyglot. 

I recently learned that word. Apparently, it means 'able to speak multiple languages'.

And while Josh did speak English and Chinese (while also learning enough Cherokee to teach native children how to freestyle in their own language!), that's not what I'm talking about.

Josh also spoke a number of creative languages. He was fluent in music, poetry, comedy, teaching, acting, and so much more. Pierce Freelon wrote a moving tribute that touched on some of that in the Indy Week, which you can read here: http://bit.ly/3Wg6U7W 
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But, I'm not talking about that either.

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Joshua Rowsey didn't like Hamilton. 

This may surprise folks who were lucky enough to watch him masterfully perform My Shot with a symphony at the Koka Booth in 2017. When he performed it, he'd never seen Hamilton. Tickets were almost impossible to come by back then (and still now), so he didn't end up seeing Hamilton until years later when he caught it on Disney+.

Josh felt that Hamilton was "mid at best". He wondered why hip hop aesthetics were used to glorify men of war and selfishness. Something didn't feel authentic to him about the whole thing and he was very interested in having discussions with folks who both agreed and disagreed with his assessment, because he wondered if others were seeing something he wasn't seeing. Josh was always ready to have a deeper discussion and he wanted everyone at the table for the debate.

Ironically, I now can't help but think of Hamilton as we remember Josh. 

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"Let me tell you what I wish I'd known
When I was young and dreamed of glory
You have no control
Who lives, who dies, who tells your story 
And when you're gone, who remembers your name?
Who keeps your flame?
Who tells your story?"

For the past week+, I've been watching the tributes for Josh pour in after his shocking and unexpected passing from a sudden heart attack. What's been most striking to me (yet not surprising), is the incredible diversity of those who are feeling the monumental loss.

Josh's loss is being felt by children, by teens, by young adults, and by elders. Josh's loss is being felt in the poorest urban street corners and the richest suburban enclaves. Josh's loss is being felt among grammy winners and stand-up comics. Josh's loss is being felt by those who knew him for years and those who knew him for days. 

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Joshua Rowsey was a polyglot.

Josh spoke the languages of curiosity, compassion, creativity, truth, and Love. He spoke these languages through any creative outlet he could find. And it turns out that Love connects with people of all ages, races, cultures, and orientations. Love builds bridges between disparate islands. Love unifies and heals. 

When I learned that Josh passed away last week, my spirit immediately brought to mind images of the recent Baltimore bridge collapse. I imagined the bridge coming down suddenly and all of us left on our own individual islands looking out onto the water separated and in shock.

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Joshua Rowsey was a bridge.

It's not easy being a bridge. When you're a bridge, you are very often reminded that you don't 'belong' anywhere by those who are firmly entrenched on their islands. 

Josh was once told that his voice was "too white" to rap. He powered through that criticism to become one of the most appreciated freestylers in the community. 

Josh was once told that black people can't swim. He powered through that criticism to break swim team records in school. 

You can't be a rapper AND an academic. You can't be a school teacher AND a comedian. There were a lot of folks trying to sequester Josh to an island, but he proved that he didn't have to be pigeon holed and neither do you.

Being stereotyped on all sides in his early life was incredibly painful. He never forgot what it felt like to be excluded. And so he made sure that, in as much as he could possibly have any say in it, no one was ever going to feel like they didn't belong in whatever room he was ever in. 

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Joshua Rowsey was Love.

For Josh, life was a joy and a gift and a celebration and YOU were invited. He was so happy to see you. He wanted to learn and grow and he wanted to share what he was learning with you. He wanted to know what you thought and how you felt. He wanted to challenge you and he wanted you to challenge him. YOU WERE LOVED. He was cheering for you. And he wanted you to know it. 

To me, that is Josh's enduring legacy and the challenge Josh leaves to the rest of us for as long as we have life on this earth. How can we better welcome and celebrate those who are in our orbit? How can we make sure that everyone knows that they are invited and embraced in whatever room we happen to share with them at any given time?

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The first two mornings after Josh's loss, I prayed for any signal of Josh's comfort from The Beyond. Both mornings, I ended up driving behind a car with "RAP" in the license plate. I laughed and could hear Josh's voice saying, "Pop Quiz: What's the difference between rap and hip-hop?" 

As I sat crying and laughing in the McDonalds drive-thru, I said, "Rap is a genre of music. Hip hop is a culture. Everyone is invited to the table. We become connected through our stories and truth." Josh said, "Well, then I guess my work is done." 
​
Thank you, Josh. Thank you for everything.

Steven H Griffiths was the kindest and gentlest man I've ever known.

He was my best friend Megan's dad and I met him when I was around 11 years old. He was towering and strong, but simultaneously tender and gentle. In a world of men who made me feel terrified and unsafe, Steve always made me feel welcome, protected, and at peace. I can think of no other man in my life who made me feel as safe as Steve did. Unlike my emotionally intense and abusive family, Megan's family was thoughtful and reserved and full of love. Knowing that he and his wife Jan loved me filled in so many important gaps in my life over the past 25 years.

When Megan got married a couple of years ago, her husband had two extroverted brothers, an extroverted mother, and a best friend who was a pastor -- there was no shortage of folks clamoring for the microphone at the wedding reception on Ben's behalf.

Megan's family looked to me and basically all said in unison, "We aren't saying ANYTHING... will you do it, please?!" They loved Megan more than anything in the world, but public expression was not their strong suit. I was happy to stand in their stead, grabbing the mic, and using the opportunity not only to tell Megan how much she was loved but also to thank her and her family for all that they had done for me.

I let them know that they weren't just like family to me... they were my family.

And with Megan's marriage, my family was growing and I was so grateful. It was such a beautiful weekend and I remember Megan and I saying to each other, "I'm so glad Steve is here for this moment."

Steve battled mental health challenges for decades -- and he wildly succeeded, spreading more love and light during his 67 years than can ever be fully expressed. There were two times that I can recall Steve trying to take his life by consuming a handful of pills, but I also know that many things were kept from us, especially as kids. Though he had not attempted suicide for over a decade, I think there was always a fear in the back of my mind that something like that could happen again, so I tried to mentally prepare for a tragic outcome. No one could ever have prepared for what ended up happening.

During a time of global chaos and pain, Steve's brain got overloaded and on April 29th, he intentionally left this world in one of the most extreme ways one can.

I fucking hate it.

I FUCKING HATE IT.

And I also fucking hate that I can understand it.

Steve was one of the most peaceful, quiet, contemplative people I've ever known. That is who he was. That was not fake. He was not putting on a show. That was a genuine choice he made of how to be in this world. Under the surface of that, he was also simultaneously feeling everything extraordinarily, wildly, impossibly deeply. That is also who he was, but those internal realities were kept mostly muffled inside himself.

At the end of his life, he was certainly feeling levels of grief, frustration, despair, and confusion that I don't think most people can even comprehend. I'm sure he couldn't comprehend it either and he tragically could not find a way to express/process/eliminate what he was feeling without eliminating himself.

I did not tell my son that Steve took his life or how-- I simply told him that "Aunt May-May's dad passed away". Without skipping a beat and in the most matter of fact way, my son responded, "Well, I think Steve became a star. New stars are born all the time. Did you know that? Now he is a star." It astounds me how literally and spiritually accurate that assessment feels. 

The truth is, Steve was not just the kindest and gentlest man I've ever known-- he was the most courageous. A true warrior. He won so many more battles than he lost. People don't often think of kindness and gentleness as strong qualities, but what people fail to see is the amount of strength it takes to be kind or gentle in a world that is as cruel as this one can be. Steve's kindness was not naivety. It was the exact opposite. It was an act of rebellion.

Steve sang in the same choir for decades and members of that choir came to sing on Jan's lawn last weekend, since churches are closed and there are no funerals happening during the pandemic.

They sang a song called, "I Believe" by Mark Miller. It is one of the most beautiful and honest expressions of solidarity and love and honesty and despair and hope that I've ever witnessed. The lyrics are anonymous words found inscribed on a cellar wall in a concentration camp in Cologne, Germany during WWII.

​“I believe in the sun, even when it's not shining. I believe in love, even when I don't feel it. I believe in God, even when God is silent.”

Thank you for living a beautiful, miraculous life in a dark world. Thank you for loving me and protecting me for so many years. Thank you for making me feel less unusual and alone, even in your death. Thank you for being an amazing father to not only your own children, but every lost soul you ever came across.

​Thank you, Steve. Thank you for everything.

My dad was not a nice man.

His name was Warner Wilson Baldridge... I think. I'm actually not completely sure. After spending the first few years of his life thrown into, out, and around countless abusive foster homes (and being kicked out of a native american boys school for beating another kid nearly to death), he lied about his age (and his name?) and joined the army as a teenager. I think he ended up getting kicked out of that, too.

Throughout his nearly 70 years of life, he had a number of children with a number of women. I was the last to be born and before he died in 2005, I tried to piece together as much of his tragic backstory as I could to make a list of (at least some of) my half-siblings.

​One particular anecdote stuck out to me and struck me the hardest.

My dad told me that he'd had a son named Wendell at some point in the late 1950s. I'm not sure at what point Wendell and his family were abandoned by my dad (or perhaps when Wendell's mother escaped), but I do know that at some point in the late 1970s, Wendell showed up at my dad's door.

My dad realized very quickly that Wendell was gay, so he physically assaulted him, told him 'no son of mine is a fag', threw him out the front door of the house, and told him to never ever come back.

I have met and spoken to a number of my dad's children, but I could never find Wendell. I was able to locate his mother and brother, but they told me that they had not heard from Wendell in decades. 

"The Story of Wendell" became a fixture in the back of my mind. I wondered if he had changed his name. I wondered if he'd found a home somewhere. I wondered if he'd found a partner who loved him. I wondered if he loved music. I wondered if he was funny. I wondered if he'd found peace and had broken the cycle of abuse. I wondered if he was still alive. I wondered how I was ever going to find him.

I needed to find him. I needed to tell him that it wasn't his fault. I needed to tell him that he deserved so much better. I needed to tell him that there was nothing wrong with him. I needed to tell him that our father was a sick, sick human being who never made peace with his own trauma and just inflicted it on others as a twisted coping mechanism. I needed to tell him that he was loved.

​I needed to tell him that I loved him.

Then came this message from my mom.

Wendell was found dead a few days ago on a beach in California.

The coroner said he'd died of pneumonia.

I had so many questions.

​Was he with friends? Did he have a partner? How did his mom find out? Where did he live? What had he been doing all these years? 

​When more than a week went by and no answers arrived, I began to realize that Wendell may never have found a home his whole life.

​His mother sent all the photos she had to the funeral home and they put together a video memorial.

I wept when I watched it. I'm still weeping. I will never stop weeping.

He was 59 years old when he died, but the last photo of him on the memorial video is from when he was 24. His mother did not have anything more recent.

​No one did.​

We failed Wendell.

We failed.

And we know it.

And we will always know it.

And we deserve to let that failure fester deep into our beings. Because there are a lot of Wendells in this world and we're walking by them every day. And we're failing them, too.

Being named in Wendell's obituary is and always will be one of the greatest honors of my life. ​A man who I never met. A man who never even knew that I existed.

It is hard to wrap my mind around that fact. Wendell lived almost 60 years and *never even knew I existed*. He never knew there was someone in the world that was cheering for him every day for years and years. Someone who knew his name. Someone who was thinking about him all the time. He never knew that there was someone in the world who spoke of him proudly to friends and strangers with great wonder and hope. He never knew he was being searched for. Someone was looking for him.

And it wasn't just a stranger. It was a sister. His sister.

In a seemingly barren world, he was not alone. He had a sister who was so proud to say he belonged to her family, both biological and chosen.

You had a home with me, Wendell. You still do. You always will.

I will continue to speak your name as long as I live and I will see you in the eyes of every stranger that I meet. We may have failed you, but I will not fail them.

I love you, my beautiful brother.

Thank you, Wendell. Thank you for everything.

A number of people that I care deeply about could be described with these words from Tim's family... and that is incredibly painful to think about:

"Our beloved Tim was a seeker, a fragile artistic soul searching for answers to existential questions. An over-achieving perfectionist who traveled and worked hard at a pace that led to extreme stress. When he stopped touring, he wanted to find a balance in life to be happy and be able to do what he loved most – music. He really struggled with thoughts about Meaning, Life, Happiness. He could not go on any longer. He wanted to find peace. Tim was not made for the business machine he found himself in; he was a sensitive guy who loved his fans but shunned the spotlight."

I'm sorry humanity could not stretch forward to meet you where you were and that you never found a suitable hiding place to mend your soul. "I tried carrying the weight of the world, but I only have two hands..."

Thank you, Tim. Thank you for everything.

It appears that I'm not going to catch a break anytime soon when it comes to mourning surrogate fathers. Today, we lost Harry Anderson... a man who fully embodied kindness, generosity, humility, whimsy, humor, magic, and love.

​Harry's father left abruptly when he was four, he began hustling with the shell game on the sidewalks when he was nine, and by fourteen he was helping his mom make ends meet doing magic in cafes and birthday parties and even the occasional bar or club.

I could write quite a bit about why he meant so much to me both as a kid and as an adult, but instead I think I'm just going to post these two clips and hope they're able to translate something in my heart that my words could never properly express.

Thank you, Harry. Thank you for everything.

My late father was born in the 1930s, my mother was born in the 1950s, my brother was born in the 1970s, and I was born in the 1980s. I cannot recall a single time in which the four of us were all in agreement about anything-- with one notable exception: Huey Lewis and the News.

There is something timeless about Huey Lewis' music. No matter when you were born, no matter where you're from, around the world and back again, Huey and his saxy, horny crew know how to speak the Universal language and have done it with a fluent and unyielding joy for over 35 years.

News broke this afternoon that Huey has been diagnosed with Meniere's disease and has lost most of his hearing. Even worse, he reported that many frequencies (especially bass tones) are so distorted that he is unable to determine pitch at all. He has cancelled the rest of his tour stops for 2018 and it is unclear if he will ever be able to perform again.

It is hard to quantify the impact Huey Lewis and the News had on my formative years, but it was truly enormous. My brother and I would sift through countless thrift store bins, garage sale boxes, flea market booths, and more looking for rare records (colored vinyls, picture discs, demo copies, etc.) and it felt like winning the lottery when we'd find one. I still get butterflies in my heart anytime I see a Chrysalis label or watch Huey's cameo in Back to the Future.

Huey and his crew knew how to have fun. Their music videos were always clever and silly, their songs sometimes a tongue-in-cheek commentary on their contemporaries, and their concerts full of fans ready to dance and sing and scream when they heard the name of their city mentioned during Heart of Rock and Roll.

I saw Huey a couple of years ago and even then, it was apparent that his body was starting to fail him, but I didn't want to believe it. Before the hearing issue popped up this year, his vocal cords had also started to give out fairly frequently. I wanted to believe these issues were just blips and not indicative of anything more. I didn't want to believe that time continues to move forward whether we like it or not.

Huey is still with us for now and if he wanted to tour with the Tower of Power and lip sync every single song, it would still be one of the best concerts of all time and I'd still pay for front row seats. And miracles happen every day, so perhaps he will find the right doctors and the right treatment and beat this thing.

But, ultimately, it is a reminder to all of us that we only have a set number of days to play the characters we play in this lifetime. Eventually, we will play our last concert and it is unlikely that we'll have advance notice about which concert will be our last.

So... get out there and sing your Song and blow your horn as loudly and proudly as you can for as long as you can. Have fun. And always, always, always believe in The Power of Love.

​Thank you, Huey. Thank you for everything.