Michael Raven Memories

I always come back to this site to read about Mike. Please keep sharing, but a post for Mike: As your brother, you never left. We were never as close as people think, we navigated independently; Making waves, for better or for worse. I turned 30 this year and I wanted to update you (and followers) on your everlasting impact: We are finally a family. I can argue we never had the traditional family feel when we were kids. So many personalities, so little patience. But Mike, I really have never felt more loved by Mom, Dad and Genie in my life. Genie has this incredible thing about her where she can see through people, know exactly what they're feeling - she's still working on phrasing the question the right way. She is incredible and now my older sibling. Mom curses every sentence and has absolutely let her heart go... and its flying in the right directions. She is doing what she loves and helping thousands, but she has also become my best friend. Mom carries you everywhere, you always knew she would, and I am so thankful to have a part of you. DAD... My fiance Kristen (btw I am getting married) and him chat for hours. I wish you could see him - always handsome - he is the happiest I have ever seen him. He still cries whenever your name is brought up, I cry when I realize how much you changed him.

I just wanted to say that you are not a memory. You have always been the missing part, even when you were with us.

This year will be tough for me. I'm getting married and I guess you were supposed to be my Best Man. This year will be tough for this family, because we hate celebrating without you. It's getting easier. I ACTUALLY proposed on the day you left us. May 18th now reminds me of our family. I wish I could tell you how much I love her.

I wanted to post this for myself. But also wanted to let people know that THE RAVENS are doing really well :). Thank you for all of your posts and emotional support.

Today is May 18th, the anniversary of Michael’s death, or at least it was: it is now 3 am, May 19th.

Last night, I was thinking about Michael and decided to look at this Tumblr page, which I had not done in a while. I noticed the tender note from his sister Genie, and I looked at the many pictures that have been posted, so I thought it would be nice to add a new picture to the others.

One of my favorite photos of Michael is of him standing in front of a tequila advertisement in Brooklyn, partly because of the amazing story behind it. After Michael had died—I believe it was two or three years afterwards—a former classmate of his was working in the advertising department of Espolon Tequila, and she chanced upon the photo, which had been taken during an ad campaign in Brooklyn several years before. The anonymous man in the photo she immediately recognized as Michael, so she contacted his parents and sent the photo to them right away.

At the time, it was as if Michael was somehow communicating from the dead.

So tonight I posted the photo.

After I did, I checked my email. As an English teacher, I often receive emails about articles in my field, and tonight was no different. Except this time, having just posted Michael’s photo, I received an email concerning an article titled, “Olafr’s Raven Coin: Old Norse Myth in Circulation?”

Hmmm.

Raven’s coin?

That’s weird.

On the anniversary of Michael’s death?

So I read the article, which is basically about an ancient Viking symbol of a flying raven coopted by the English people in York and cast into their coinage as a symbol of victory.

The image is now posted here on Tumblr, The Flying Raven of Victory, circa 10th Century, York, England.

I cannot tell you how much I was surprised, and heartened, by this coincidence.

The story for me, however, does not end at this point.

Earlier in the evening of May 18th, I had received a message from a former student from last semester, informing me that her father died of coronavirus at the age of 57 on May 4th. I was saddened by this news.

The young woman in question, a first-year student, is a devout Catholic, and she had written an essay in my composition class for an assignment about grand narratives (or philosophies of life) about her own religious experiences. So when I replied to her about her father’s passing, in part this is what I wrote to her:

“I remember you wrote about your own experiences of the faith, what I would even call a mystical experience. Trust those kinds of experiences. When a loved one dies, especially a parent, you will have dreams and sometimes more. These moments will bring you consolation. All consolation comes from God. Despair is not from God. So have hope, even during these days of sadness and loss.”

Soon after I sent this email to my student, I began looking at Michael’s page on Tumblr, decided to post the Tequila photo, and then received the email about the Flying Raven of Victory.

Coincidence?

I will take my own advice and accept the consolation.

Paul Stapleton

May 18th, 2020

I was 23 years old when I met Michael and from the start I knew he would changed my life forever and he did. I am now 30 years old and still this kid shows up in my dreams, meditation, and even daydreams randomly with a big smile on his face.

If Michael would read this, I’m sure he would say something like “hard!”, lol. 

I bring this up because, I saw Michael in a guided shamanic journey to the Akashic field: Connect with your spirit guides. 

The funny thing is my favorite angel is and has always been St. Michael the Archangel. My Argentinean mother would tell me when I was little that he was always protecting me and as I got older I always believed it to be true. 

Anyways, in this guided meditation I was in this ancient forest and people started surrounding me lovingly holding hands, and as I looked up and around the circle being created I saw his face big smile. He walked forward to me smiling and happy to see me and he just hugged me as I started to cry both in my meditated state and real life.

I felt his warmth and smelled his coco-butter sun-kissed skin, he brushed the hair from my face and gave me a big kiss on the forehead. Then told me to tell his mother that he was in peace and he was always watching and protecting them.

He told me, “my queen, I’ll always be there to guide you and to protect you so don’t worry.”

I felt grateful to still have him on my side, and just the realness of the state felt honest. I know I sound crazy, but thats my truth. The kid was powerful in thought and mind, what can I say.

 I hope selma reads this and I send you nothing but love and peace. 

Love always,

August 31, 2016

Today I saw my friend Selma, who is like a sister to me and it finally became the time to show her the poem I wrote about Michael.  We sat in my car and shared the kinds of hugs and tears that sisters do, as we are forever. She asked me to share it here and it is time to do so. #love forever, Sally DeJesus.

Raven at 21

We reach through Tumblr never to forget

read communal heart memories shared

virtual words, photos

he inspires in us still

the things he loved:

my backyard chickens

tending gardens in

India & Spain

Vermont & Bronx

warm parathas

plates of paella

sliced pernil

making cheese from scratch.

 He challenged everything

responded to everyone his

perpetual piercing questions in

Mumbai dancing with orphaned children

or swiping his Metro card back in the Bronx

for fare-less strangers.

 Home again he rides

the number 9 bus

the number 1 train

runs Bronx parks with his mother

hikes upstate with his father

camps in Montauk with brother and sister

shares his passion for

Wu Tang, Sitar, Rumi, Camus and basketball

India & Hunts Point call to him

for justice always

for justice.

 I brought a key lime pie all the way from

South Side Brooklyn for his 21st birthday

last time I saw him and

even though it melted on the hot drive back

he was elated, of course

his mom told me he ate it entirely alone

in their basement with a spoon.

 He loved the world hard

demanded we follow him hard

in and out of comfort zones

in and out of danger zones

in and out of complacency.

 He got a tattoo on his arm of Kohlrabi:

the vegetable he loved the most

never tried it before becoming the

Community Supported Agricultural Manager

in the neighborhood.

 Packing up weekly portions of newly

discovered greens he urged us to

Try some too!

local, farm fresh became like religion

so inspired

he’d ride his bike all the way from

the Bronx to Wall Street and back

even after a full shift

plus overtime at P.O.T.S.

which stands for

Part of the Solution

where unclaimed vegetables go

to help the homeless.

 Things were up and down as usual

for someone who didn’t like solutions

that come in little white pills

chose instead to manage his own mind again

believed that vegetables would make him better.

But soon the darkness returned

overtook all desire to grow anything

even Kohlrabi:

exotic purple green turnip cabbage

he introduced us to Kholrabi:

his favorite vegetable

forever inked onto his arm Kholrabi:

it kept him going

it identified his

body downstream in the Hudson River

and we knew he really was gone:

 But for his magnificent dreams, his

notes, letters, concerns, thoughts

written on hundreds

hundreds of journal pages left

for us who remain boosted up by his

spectacular visions

left for all of us who tried

to understand

I am an old friend of Michael’s - we were childhood buddies, for a time - and I’ve only just learned about this.  I wanted to contribute just a single memory of the time Michael taught me the rules of “Puerto Rican Baseball”, played inside his and his family’s Riverdale home, ca. 2001.  

Before I get to the rules, I’d like to address the year in which they were taught to me, and comment on something I noticed on this (https://www.facebook.com/notes/suga-ray/being-black-in-america-a-tribute-to-michael-raven/556572217719524?comment_id=6201895&offset=0&total_comments=22) wall: The climate Michael lived in immediately after 9/11.  I’ll start with an admission, which causes me no small shame: I thought Michael was Indian.  Like, from India.  I thought so after I asked him and he told me no and I didn’t listen or hear; after he taught me the rules of Puerto Rican Baseball; and I continued to think Michael Raven was alive and well and Indian until I stumbled on the aforementioned wall.  And while his being (or not-being) Indian has no bearing on anything, really, or anything to do with 9/11, the backlash he suffered did - we all went basically crazy in the aftermath of that horrid attack, and he - a child, a sweet, friendly, open, kind child - bore the localized brunt.  

Now let me talk about myself: For one reason or another, I was given a weird name upon birth; some 22+ years later, a similarly-named young man left a backpack on a street in Boston that subsequently blew up and destroyed all kinds of things, including human beings.  Henceforth, every new individual I met associated me with that monster.  Assumptions were made - I was some kind of Chechen mountain man, and I was a Muslim - much the same way assumptions were made about Michael.  My assumptions were that he was Indian and alive; others’ were that he was related to someone who knew someone who carried a letter to someone who brought that letter to OBL and thus, Michael destroyed the Towers.  But as we’ve all learned, time and time again, assumptions are rarely, almost-never correct.  

I know from my own rigorous self-analysis how big an impact those kinds of assumptions can have.  After the Marathon attacks, I found myself wanting to change my name, move elsewhere, never, ever meet anyone ever again.  They - the assumptions - destroyed the beautiful spirituality of my name and my selfless parents’ intentions.  I don’t know what assumptions about Michael did to Michael - he may have found himself living the same life I live(d), or he may have shrugged them off - but I know what they did to me, what they continue to do to me, how genuine and sensible they make the impulse to run away, whether it be literally, or emotionally, or - as in the deplorable case of Michael, permanently and biologically.  And if you add the social pressures to a genome nearly custom-built for depression (talking about myself, here, and speculating on Michael), it becomes just.  too.  much.  

Looping back to 9/11 and the months that followed, when fans cried in expressive patriotism at a tenor’s rendition of God Bless America during Games 3-5 of the 2001 World Series, and Bush stood on the rubble, and Stars-’N-Bars poked out of every home suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere - this was when we were all supposed to unite.  Instead, I read now about Michael’s struggles, and I think about my own post-Marathon (and, by the way, my own experiences post 9/11 with my Middle Eastern-sounding names) struggles, and I wonder about which clique claimed patriotism as Their Thing.  It certainly wasn’t my clique (not that I ever had one); and it certainly wasn’t Michael’s clique.  What did I do wrong?  What did Michael do wrong?  

And looping back to Puerto Rican Baseball: I don’t remember a single thing about the rules.  I do remember the Crucifix in the living room, and thinking that made no sense because he was Indian (although, years down the road, I met more than one Indian Jew, and a host of Christian Indians); sending a sock-cum-baseball into the worst-possible crevice of the bookshelf and destroying something like an idiot; and having one of those summer nights you can only have in your childhood, when every shift of the air is basically a kiss from the hottest girl on Earth and nothing can go wrong and the fireflies are in all the right places.  We just played.

I am sorry we lost touch, Michael.  I am so sorry.  I am sorry for each and every ounce of stress you endured, whether externally- or internally-generated.  I am sorry your family lives on without you, and that the best possible situation anyone who ever knew you is left with involves wispy memories, like my own of you and Puerto Rican Baseball.  From now on, I walk with my head in the air as far up as my chronic slouching allows, and I announce my name with pride, and I double-down on my background, and I pay close and careful attention to my family’s and friends’ eyes and I do every single thing I can to make their life better and keep my life ordered and learn the most I can about everyone and everything.  

Last night I dreamed a dream where you were still alive. Now, sitting and writing over breakfast, I can’t even remember the context in which you appeared. But I do remember waking up with the slow, agonizing realization that you had indeed passed, that it was all a dream. It aches and stings. It reminds me of all the times I’ve refused to accept that my father had died, and was not coming back. I grieve for your close friends and family, who must rage endlessly against the dying of your light. 

See, you and I weren’t close. We didn’t call each other up to chill. I don’t even know if I had your phone number. But my close friends were some of your close friends. And we spent many hours together at wrestling practices, matches, and tournaments. This time seems so far away now, but somehow you seem quite close. Maybe it’s because your fearless smile has left an indelible imprint on my memory, by utterly breaking with the claustrophobic social conventions that keep us from truly expressing ourselves. 

Praising the deceased is a cliche that often breeds airbrushed, idealized human images. Based on my bits of knowing you, I think you might have hated this trend. You were bold, honest, and seemingly unrestrained. As a terribly self-conscious, tortured youth, such a persona was like a bright light. I gazed, not quite directly, at your majesty, without ever really understanding. 

Of course, I still don’t know what made you tick. You’re life and death are mostly a mystery to me. But this dream and painful awakening... it means you have not left us. If you still reverberate in me, then you must shake the foundations of those closest to you, every now and then or every day. 

Raven: it’s been two years, almost. Thinking of you is hard; the tears are never too far under the surface. Addressing you directly is even harder, because I know you’re listening. I don’t want to disappoint you. Why did you always speak so highly of me? I’m humbled.

It felt so cruel at first, that you came to give Ben and me the blessing of some final moments with your shining eyes and infectious smile. It felt cruel: only you knew this was goodbye. Maybe you weren’t planning for it to be that way, but now, I don’t see it as cruel anymore: I’m so grateful, dude. I can’t believe you gave us that gift. I only wish I had taken advantage of those days, talked to you more, hugged you more.

Maybe no-one could have changed your mind. You knew that your time here was over. In fact, you probably knew that at a far younger age, and toughed it out, took those fucking pills you hated so much. Every day I think of how robbed we all feel, especially your beautiful, big-hearted family: they will ever get to see the amazing man you would’ve become. 

Even though everyone knows that this stupid, shitty world doesn’t even deserve you to begin with, it doesn’t make your absence hurt any less. No, it makes it hurt more. You being gone is a paradox-- like a loud silence, a hole filled with your overflowing potential, frozen in time by your death. A void stuffed with all of this grief-stricken, bottomless love, from so many people. Hundreds. You touched so many, even people you only shared a few moments with. We all move forward (pa’lante) with your bright rugged face in our hearts, and we all promise to honor you.