My brother passed a little over a week ago. I am mourning the loss of his presence, but trying most of all to polish the appreciation I have into a more living memorium of joy. My speech at his memorial service has its bright spots, but was rather hastily written, and I regret many of its imperfections. What it lacks in ingenuity and posits in wooden, cliched language is easily understood, i assume, considering the time it was written. in true, procrastibatory ;) fashion, I wrote it an hour before the service.
Any stumbling on this post who did not know my brother should know that he was adopted by my
very Catholic family shortly after I was born, and was born severely mentally retarded- it is estimated that his mentality was that of a two-year-old. A professor, in shock after hearing part of the story, remarked that it might have been more of a blessing that he had gone- and I couldn't disagree more.
Following are the remarks that I gave at my brother's memorial service a few days ago:
Twenty four years ago, a young man came to live with my family. Being less than a year old myself, i don't remember that moment terribly well, but I heard so many stories about the boy who was to be my brother, Tracy. He was tiny, well under 5'0 tall, and under 70 pounds- he was virtually dwarfed in the pictures that I saw of him and my father. He had half-moon scars on his hands and fore-arms, where either he had pinched himself (out of boredom), or other inmates of "the institution" (of which, to this day, I still do not know the name) had pinched him. Tracy was hunched over, hated to walk, and, to top it all off, was mentally retarded. he had spent the majority of his life being relatively isolated, regulated to a life in which only his most base needs were spoken for and taken care of.
Why did my family decide to take in Tracy? I remember asking my parents this at one point, perhaps at 8 or 9, when I was finally old enough to understand that one doesn't usually inherit 19 year-old brothers from "The Council for Retarded Citizens", or "Community Living". My parents merely said that they wanted me to have a brother. I didn't realize until just recently how amazing their decision was, how much it remodeled their life, and mine as well.
When one looks only at the crude facts I've just recounted, it may be hard to imagine the infinite and finite lessons I've learned from a retarded man. I would like to enumerate a few of them.
Tracy was the master of one-liners, and was infamous for his ability to let you know just how he felt, with very few words, but perhaps a few pinches thrown in ;). In this very church, well before I could remember, Tracy made his presence well known to our fellow parishioners. As he wriggled about one Sunday in our older, slightly uncomfortable pews, father welcomed us as a parish, inviting us to stand and pray, saying "Let us pray." Tracy had no high opinion of prayer at this point, as it involved sitting down, standing up, sitting still, and remaining quiet. With unusual clarity, amazing pitch and projection, Tracy said "Get the hell out of here!"
Thankfully, not all of the lessons I learned from Tracy involve the threat of excommunication.
There were many others, all invaluable; the ability to ignore people who would be bitter at your happiness, as when we came into restaurants and Tracy's distinctive shriek of joy echoed through the restaurant, and certain families would cringe, rather than smile. Other people would begin to laugh, deep-seated belly laughs, whenever they heard Tracy and realized that this sudden, violent, unbridled happiness came from little more than a Mountain Dew, a "hee" as he called 'tea', the wrapping paper on a Christmas present, the buffet at Piccadilly. He would dazzle any room with his laughter and exuberant screaming, as it pealed and reverberated over almost any restaurant, any family members house- especially "Ho ho"- as Tracy named our grandfather. We were confused at Tracy's nickname for Grandpa for years until we realized that Grandpa greeted Tracy by saying "Ho, Tracy!"
Tracy would take breaks from eating only for deep breaths of air, as if he had gotten so carried away with the food that he forgot to breath. This, of course, led to many "musical" exploits, as we politely named them, as my family would try to get him to expel this extra air by laying down on the floor.
Because of his ability to retain air in his abdomen so well, Tracy also became infamous for his ability to float in deep water. He loved nothing more than to be able to splash in water, feeling the coolness across his calloused palms and through his fingers, be it in 10 feet of water or one and a half. He made an amazing spectacle, as he "stood" in ten feet of water, arms outstretched in a "T", and people swum around and underneath him, he joyfuly laughing with a balance that any gymnast or yogi would envy.
It is this bouyancy, and Tracy's tenderness that i will attempt to carry on with me. My family has been infinitely blessed by this fiddler of spoons, this lover of helium balloons and their floating- bouncing. A retarded man who taught us to be joyful, simply, and gracious towards those who couldn't always communicate exactly what they wanted but knew how to kiss a lady's hand, as Tracy often did, much to everyone's surprise. He was amazingly gracious- one couldn't help but sing with him, laugh with him, see exactly what was frustrating him when he would arise out of his chair, arms oustretched, looking for solace in his swing set, his wading pool, or, of course, a shiny bit of plastic you had just taken from a set of flowers.
I realize that my tribute to Tracy could extend indefinately, but I merely want to Thank him for teaching me to appreciate joy so deeply and simply, and to thank my mother for her decision with my father to undergo such an amazing journey with a man who truly blossomed with a little love, a couple of spoons to play with, and an amazing amount of food. I feel that he must be in paradise now, as up until he became sick, he always made it paradise here.
We would often communicate in sing-song with Tracy, and together we would say in tones what we could not say in words. I can't sing, as it Fear that it would make me cry, but the song of my father to Tracy probably said it best: "Tracy lynn mcJones is my beau, he's my gum--boy-ee, and his heart is golden cause his family loves him all the time."
