A note of context: I played ultimate competitively for a long time, and this newsletter began as an effort to examine life through the lens of the sport.
Kobe Bryant died two years ago this week. Crazy, right?
His death had a real weight to it. I grew up a child of American sports worship, and Kobe was a god. For him to be taken so suddenly and unexpectedly by a freak tragedy was jarring.
I was also moved by the global, public outpouring of emotion. Kobe was a big deal to ultimate the same way he was a big deal in all sports and, beyond that, pop culture. He was the embodiment of winning, a model for anyone looking to achieve anything. That, and yelling “Kobe!” works even if it’s a disc you’re trying to throw into something. Kobe’s death made a lot of us realize that on some level, even if only for his ubiquity, we loved the guy.
In the weeks that followed, ESPN ran videos of former teammates and friends crying as they spoke about life being precious and fragile; Instagram was full of highlights of vicious dunks and title three-peats and the 81-point game; TV news broadcasted memorial services that told of a dedicated father with exciting plans for the next phase of his post-basketball career. By and large, the dominant narrative was tied to remembering Kobe in a positive light.
At some point, though a couple of friends and I got to talking about how, in 2003 at a resort outside of Denver, Kobe raped a woman. How did that piece fit into the puzzle?
After someone dies, which stories should we tell?
As far as Kobe Bryant is concerned, I can’t say that question keeps me awake at night. Relative to my dad, though, I think about it every day.
Much of what I remember about my dad is how wonderful he was. How he taught me to write, how he loved gardening and making flower arrangements, how eating meals together was a very big deal. He was a beautiful human–curious, creative, and whip smart. He was wildly eccentric and utterly hilarious and completely unforgettable. He was tender and sensitive and loving and loyal, and he was deeply reverent of this life. So much of what I like about myself, I inherited from him. When people think back on my dad and who he was, I hope they go back to all of this.
That’s not the full story, though. Another side of my dad that I remember is the person who, even if he didn’t mean to, frequently put his own needs before mine and left me without the safety and stability a parent is supposed to provide. Our house was often filled with yelling and screaming, and escalation and coercion were the standard replies to any discomfort. It all wreaked havoc on my nervous system and taught me toxic coping skills.
It’s not pleasant, but that latter half is worth remembering, too.
Why talk about this? It’s in the past, and they’re gone, right?
The first reason is personal, and it’s simple: it feels good for me to talk about it. It takes things from “there’s something wrong with me” to “some bad stuff happened to me.” When I say it out loud, with the clarity that comes from articulating something to another person, I understand myself better. I understand my past, and why I’ve acted the way I have, and what it is I’m stressed over.
It feels like a release: like I finally see the huge anvil of trauma I’ve been lugging around, and like talking about it makes it easier to say “hey, I’m not going to carry this anymore.”
Acknowledging and feeling the pain and hurt my dad caused has allowed me to actually start tending to the wounds. Can you imagine a doctor trying to clean out and bandage a cut without looking at it or talking about it?
Also, telling the whole truth means talking about the positive stuff, too, and without cheapening it. I was recently reminded that we all contain multitudes. Being forthright about the bad stuff puts the good stuff on much firmer ground.
Shame keeps hurtful behavior patterns alive
When a person dies, it can be hard to make peace with their total humanity. It’s much easier to paint broad strokes, either sweeping their sins under the rug or condemning them outright. Of course, the full picture is both more brilliant and murkier than that. The most compassionate route– and also the best way to make change– is to account for how a person hurt others without judging them on a rigid good/bad binary.
My dad was a full human. He was complex, and he had his demons. For him, his struggle to feel whole was rooted in a deep sense of shame and doubt about his own worth. And as a human, he made misguided attempts to fill that hole that caused harm to me, my siblings, and others.
None of us is all that different. The harm we cause is the sum of unmet needs plus prior conditioning on how to feel better about the situation.
I don’t say that to let any of us off the hook; we all have agency. It’s just that it can be so easy to feel like our misdeeds are about some kind of unchangeable darkness inside of us, and if we’re stuck wallowing in how terrible we are– something that’s easy to do if we think doing something bad makes us a bad person–it’s hard to step into accountability.
I’m trying to tell my dad’s story with clear eyes because I want to understand both what he did wrong and the reasons why it happened. Similar to reviewing game film to find the pressure that caused a turnover, my hope is that the full truth will reveal healthier ways to navigate our own difficult circumstances. I think my he would be glad to know that his search for answers, warts and all, was being put to good use.
Back to Kobe for a moment…
I obviously can’t speak to Kobe’s upbringing or conditions with nearly as much certainty. But check out this story. It details how, in order to show how tough he was, Kobe tried to fight Samaki Walker, a much bigger and stronger teammate who would have easily pummeled him had Shaq’s bodyguard not stepped in.
Reading about this silly display made me feel like I understood Kobe a little more. Lots of us, myself included, do the same kind of posturing, even if it’s a milder version; walk up to any men’s team’s huddle or warm-up line and you won’t have to look far. I imagine that like the rest of us, Kobe did it because somewhere inside, he needed to prove to himself that he was good enough.
I also imagine that for Kobe, that feeling of not being good enough lived in the same dark place as his capacity to hurt that woman in Colorado. Given the degree to which our culture adores and admires him and men like Kobe, I think that’s worth talking about.
Life after death, and gratitude for a beloved teacher
On Friday, I learned that Thich Nhat Hanh had passed away at midnight, Vietnam time. Thay, as his students call him, is alive in everything I’ve shared here. His wisdom reminds me to look deeply at my suffering, and that when we heal ourselves, we also heal our ancestors. It’s an ongoing journey, and Thay’s presence helps lighten the load.
Part of that journey is an enduring relationship with my dad. I remember this whenever I think of Thay’s teaching that we are never really born and we never really die– our human forms come and go, but we continue to manifest in new ways. Lost loved ones, whether parents or famous people we never met, are still here, and there’s lots of room for continued love and reconciliation.
A friend of mine, who is also a grief counselor, likes to put it this way: death ends a life, but not a relationship. If we want our bonds with one another to be healthy, honesty and transparency are a good place to start.
A little more from Thich Nhat Hanh
I’ve linked to Thay’s teachings a few times before, and if you’re interested in learning more about him, here’s a start.
In the spirit of full humanity, I’ve sometimes wondered what Thay’s flaws were. He was so full of wisdom and so fully present, but there had to be something, right? Did he get cranky when he was hungry? Was there a moment when he couldn’t take a joke? Something to ponder…
In seriousness, I want to close by passing along a piece of his insight on “death.” Generally speaking, everything he has to say on the subject has helped me feel more at peace. Here you go:
This body is not me,
I am not limited by this body.
I am life without boundaries.
I have never been born,
and I have never died.
Look at the ocean and the sky filled with stars,
Manifestations from my wondrous true mind.
Since before time, I have been free.
Birth and death are only doors through which we pass,
sacred thresholds on our journey.
Birth and death are a game of hide-and-seek.
So laugh with me,
hold my hand,
let us say good-bye,
say good-bye, to meet again soon.
We meet today,
We will meet again tomorrow.
We will meet at the source every moment.
We meet each other in all forms of life.
Be well, and much love.
-Jonathan