Glenn

Friendship survives long after we are gone

Glenn with his two kids when they were so young.

One in a lifetime. Maybe two. If you're very, very lucky, you'll know someone who is truly extraordinary. Glenn was one of those people.

He called me Tay, and it was always with an affectionate smile, a warmth and openness. We became friends instantly. I can't even tell you why. We would spend hours talking about our kids, our marriages, our real lives outside of work. He had an incredible disdain for work that made me envious of his ability to craft insults about our employer, about management (you have to say it with a sneer).

Glenn was the guy who would walk through the halls of the building, right past the HR desks, and shout “racist!” at the top of his lungs. Just because he could. “What are they gonna say to the Asian guy for saying that, huh?” he would challenge. And we would all cringe-laugh beside him and hurry him off to the elevator in terrified hilarity.

He took me under his wing when I trained with his workgroup. The things he taught me still serve me to this day. One of those foundational items was the willingness to take responsibility for failure. You don't see that often in anyone, and Glenn performed like a champ in that category. He would often volunteer as the one who made the mistake even if it was not him. He cared so much more about how we fix the mistake.

Glenn always stood up for the underserved populations. He believed in providing all the best resources to those people who work in the hardest jobs or live in the least represented neighborhoods. He was their voice over and over again in meetings and planning events. He cared. He cared greatly.

The famous “one-eyed duck.”

He once sent me a picture of the “one-eyed duck” his son had sewn in summer camp. We both howled with laughter over it. And he would remind me often, “This is what's really important. Family. Kids. Don't lose sight of that, Tay.”

When I decided to go back to college, he waved his flag in celebration. I applied to graduate school and asked him to write me a letter of recommendation. He jumped at the opportunity. It was one of the kindest things anyone has done for me. I treasure that letter.

At some point when we were working in separate buildings, just as the pandemic started up, Glenn was diagnosed with cancer. I heard about it second hand, and… I froze. I'm still so disappointed in myself. My head is in my hands, my heart sunk to the bottom, regret weighing it down. I froze and did not call him to tell him how much I cared, how much our friendship meant, how I was scared for his future.

He deteriorated rapidly. By the end of that year he was failing to respond to treatment. Other friends visited him and told me that he looked thin, his skin sallow, his eyes dull.

I did not want to see that. I'm so ashamed to admit that I hid from it.

And then he couldn't work. Not even from home. He died a few weeks later. My very good friend called me, his voice thick with tears, and we cried together. We cried a long time.

His memorial service was soon afterward, with a viewing and a wake and a burial in a Catholic cemetery. The attendance was incredible. He touched so many lives.

And I had no business being there. There was no place for me. I stayed at home and buried myself and my emotions under work, hiding in my dark office.

Here is what I would explain to him if I had the chance…

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I was struggling. My dysphoria was at an all-time high, and I didn't know what it was. I was so very close to my moment of discovering that I am transgender, and in that delicate state I literally didn't leave the house for weeks. Glenn was a huge trigger for that moment. His entire life was about living out loud, being authentic, not caring about what anyone else thought or said. I didn't even have the chance to come out to him, but I know what he would have said. “Tay, you're still just you. And that's what matters. So be you, and be all of it, and fuck anyone who doesn't like it. Cuz they're not worth your time. And thank God you're done with that horrible ponytail. Who did you think you were, Sue Bird? Nobody should pull their hair back that tight. That's why you have migraines.”

Today I was there for the dedication of the bus stop in Glenn’s honor. I showed up in the right moment for me. I'm trying to let go of the guilt and shame of not being ready to show up earlier. I hope he's laughing and shaking his head at how much I have overthought all of this.

Keith, Glenn, and me, way back when.

Glenn, you showed me that a Prius really can do 110 mph, even when it probably shouldn’t. Yes, the real goal of parenthood is to get your kids to want to move out, and then to show them the door is always open to come home. When I go to the coffee shop and there's no line, I'll go back for another cup just for you. There's irony in getting a bus stop memorial considering you didn't really give a shit about buses. But you did care about people. And I was lucky enough to be one of them.

I miss you a ton. All. The. Time.

Your trans friend,

Robin