As impossible as it is to believe, Wednesday marks three seemingly endless years since Amir went on ahead and left us behind to endure this life without him. The vast, cavernous hole of his absence in our lives never shrinks, however we strive to fill it with love and support, of which my sister, my parents and I are lucky to have from so many sides.
On those occasions when I allow my brain to venture into territory unbefitting of an otherwise optimistic, hopeful human, I ponder how sad it is not to believe in some sort of life after death, if only because I wish so badly I could see Amir again. Then, inching further down that depressing rabbit hole, I think that if I did believe in an afterlife, I'd consider killing myself just to be with him again--even just to spend a few precious hours talking to him. Then, I think how fucking furious he would be with me if I did that and how he'd kick my sorry ass all the way back to the land of the living. Then, as I often do when thinking of Amir, I laugh to myself at the idea of how he'd react to such ridiculousness.
For those who knew him well enough to be beneficiaries of his wit and cleverness, Amir's absence is painfully reflected in the acute decline of sharp humor in our lives and will continue to be felt through the years. As far as I'm concerned, every fucking day that goes by without a snarky text or email from my brother is deficient, for as much as I strive to acquire life's essential levity and ridiculousness from other sources, none will never match what Amir dished out. Nor would I want it to--he had a sharp tongue unlike no other.
So, in asking all of you to remember and celebrate Amir this week specifically, I'll share some further glimpses into his singular mind (from various emails):
Sept. 2005: I'm shamelessly enjoying some Hall and Oates on the radio, nursing my second beer, and missing you intensely, as I have not a soul to share my BRUTALLY APOCALYPTIC thoughts with. With love and disgust, Amir (self-style black sheep of Prizant lineage).
Oct. 2007: After talking to Yael today, I am now firmly convinced that we are a clan Under the Gun. Somebody, something is clearly testing Team Prizant and, of course, we are more than ready to meet the challenge. I can't remember a time in which we've experienced so much uncertainty as a family. I too feel as if I'm in limbo, and change is a foregone conclusion. As for you, I ask that you remember Timon and Pumbaa from "The Lion King" and the wisdom of "Hakuna Matata," which means "no worries." Bobby McFerrin may have been on to something after all. I have no doubt that you will succeed, against all odds. I'll stick with the gambling metaphors and tell you that my money's on YOU; I'm willing to bet the farm that everything will work out fine, as it always does.
Dec. 2009: Bored at work, though I did just have a 50-year-old woman introduce herself to me as the "resident cougar" of the tennis club. I suppose she was hitting on me, though it was hard to see her facial expression through all the Botox.
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As I'm sure I've mentioned on too many occasions, Amir was a committed L.A. Lakers fan beginning from the age of about 8 or 9. He loved Magic and Kareem and Worthy and he reveled in the mid-80s Lakers/Celtics rivalry. Of course, every Lakers fan loved the team's inimitable play-by-play announcer, Chick Hearn (who purportedly coined such terms as "slam dunk" and "air ball").
In 1986, someone produced this fantastic mix of memorable "Chickisms" and interjections over an unfussy, out-of-the-box drum-machine beat. The "Rap-Around" got some airplay on local radio and, of course, Amir and his young buddies went fucking apeshit for it (including Mike Kelly, who reminded me of the song's existence just a few months ago):
Chick Hearn, "Rap-Around" (YouTube)
Amir adored Chick's colorful language and phrasing, just like my father loved Yogi Berra's. I loved hearing them laugh from the TV room while watching a game; joining them occasionally, I'd snicker right along with them when Chick threw out gems such as "The mustard's off the hot dog." Owing to my minimal interest in the sport itself, I found the witty wordplay of announcers like Chick to be the most enjoyable part of listening to a game.
As a young kid, Amir filled notebooks meticulously with pages of sports statistics and scores. He collected baseball cards and preserved them carefully and lovingly in plastic sleeves filling scores of three-ring binders, which he cherished. As a teenager and into his 20s, he wrote fairly extensively and wittily about sports, particularly basketball and baseball. I often encouraged him to parlay his extraordinary perceptiveness, cleverness and natural wordsmithing talent into becoming a sports writer. He could have been so fucking great, infusing sharp humor and wit into observations derived from his bottomless knowledge of and love for sports (a la the fabulous Frank Deford, whose greatness in my eyes comes from the fact that I enjoyed his sports commentary tremendously in spite of my possessing almost no knowledge of or interest in the subject matter).
An aside: in writing this post, I came across this Chick Hearn quote, uttered at the point in a game when it became clear the Lakers were en route to victory: "This game's in the refrigerator: The door's closed, the lights are out, the eggs are cooling, the butter's getting hard and the Jell-o's jiggling." I don't remember having heard the phrase before, but I'm sure Amir had, as its influence was clear in his writing style. Plus, I'd bet he got a huge fucking kick out of it and that makes me smile even now.
The magical Stefan Leikin does not use Facebook and was not aware of this blog until a few days ago. He has since shared with me and Yael this remembrance of some "special nights" with Amir (circa 1994, when Amir was 18):
A bottle of Captain Morgan.
Spinning records (starting with Nirvana)
Playing chess in his room for hours
The debates we had were so much fun. He swore by Nirvana. I leaned toward Pearl Jam. And the debates continued. But we always had the Beastie Boys as our common ground. That was until the discussion switched to which Beatles album was the best. He really loved "Revolver."
No one knew about those nights. We were the only two left in Chatsworth. We spent a lot of time together. Those were good nights. We spent hours listening to records. Chess was the excuse to listen to more. Neither one of us was very good at the game but it didn't matter. Hanging out was the important factor.
And it was always Captain Morgan. It was gross, but he liked the sweet.
Fuck. How is it possible I never knew my brother liked rum? He was never much of a drinker, though he enjoyed the occasional beer or glass of wine and sometimes indulged in Maker's Mark (with or without Coke). And I knew he enjoyed chess and played occasionally with my father but I never knew he played it with his friends.
You see? This is exactly the purpose behind my reaching out to friends to contribute stories and memories to this blog. Nearly three years since my beautiful, brilliant brother left us, I continue to learn about him, to discover who he was and the spaces he filled in this world and this life. And I hope that, through memories like these, I will continue to learn about Amir (and learn from him) until my last day.
Thank you so much, Stefan. May you (and all of us) always remember those special times.
My sweet kitty Melody (1996-2014) was the feline love of my life and the first cat I adopted on my own; with Amir's encouragement, I selected her from a litter of rescued kittens at a shelter in West Hollywood. When I saw her curled silently in a ball in the back corner of a cage full of bouncy, mewling crazies, I knew immediately she was the one. Amir was among the first people I called when I got her home: he knew I was nervous about taking on the responsibility of cat ownership with my busy work and school schedule and he offered gentle reassurance that I'd made a good decision. (One of the best of my life, I can still attest.)
Mel was extremely attached to me and could be fickle and aloof when it came to accepting love or attention from other people. But she tolerated Amir. When he'd visit and approach her with a toy, her wee kitty brain thought "Playmate!" as opposed to "Get the fuck away from me." Amir's former girlfriend once referred to him as the "Cat Whisperer" and the moniker was truly fitting. He had a gentle, easy way with animals in general--and cats specifically--that was sweet and heartwarming. All of our family pets adored him.
Said former girlfriend once sent me an email with the subject line: "Amir has magical cat armpits," along with this photo of him with their newly adopted bundle of energy, Milo. She noted that, while Milo was affectionate with her as well, he would cuddle up and sleep only with Amir.
In that email, she also mentioned that "All cats love to sleep inside his arm," which was true of Neko as well, even in the presence of other people who threatened to disrupt the undivided attention lavished on her by her master/slave. (This is a cat we're talking about.)
Befitting and necessary of cat owners, Amir also had a great sense of humor regarding his feline housemates. He derived a lot of joy and amusement from their hijinks and he often sent hilarious emails updating me on their various exploits and adventures, often with photos. One excerpt:
"The cats have increased their activity level to the occasional chase game at 3AM, followed by 17 hours of napping and intermittent grooming. I would say they are useless pieces of shit if they weren't so damned cute. Neko also takes pride in her ability to puke on the bedspread twice a week. She clearly has body image issues."
I'm missing my favorite cat whisperer today, as always.
A few weeks ago, I received this message via Facebook from a childhood friend of Amir's:
I don't think we ever met. I was a friend of Amir's from elementary and jr. high school. If truth be told, he was my first crush.
I was visiting my parents this past weekend and we were watching old home movies that my parents had digitized. One was of the Germain St. School Halloween carnival. There was a scene of me (dressed as a witch) waiting in line for a game with Amir who was dressed as a Girl Scout. I must admit this brought on a brief desire to cyberstalk him. I was certain that he would be a professor somewhere or an author in a corduroy blazer with suede elbows.
I am so sorry to find him gone. Your tribute blog is beautiful and I'm not sure if this will bring you any comfort, but today there is another person in the world who is saddened by his loss and remembers him fondly.
My heart jumped a bit as soon as I saw Amir's name in her message. This is nothing new. I smiled at the memory of Amir in the Girl Scout uniform--he was 8 or 9 at the time, blond and smirking and cheeky and cuter than any other Girl Scout around.
I shared the message with my sibling-loss support group and I found one friend's reaction particularly interesting: she felt that such messages can sometimes cause more pain than comfort. I disagreed, saying I'm always happy to hear from anyone who remembers my brother, whether in a good light or not. It crushes my heart to pieces to think that my parents and Yael and I are the only ones thinking of him and remembering him every day.
My friends and I ended up having an interesting discussion on the issue of receiving messages such as this. Like me, others said they found such messages comforting and, like me, they wished they would receive them more often. I long to hear that Amir made an impact on people; that they were affected by him in some way. I long to connect with people who miss Amir and who keep his memory alive in their minds, as I do every day.
I thanked the sender for reaching out, telling her how much it means to us to hear from people who have fond memories of Amir. I never tire of hearing stories about him, talking about him, remembering him. That's the whole fucking point of this blog.
There is an enormous difference between "two of us" and "three of us." When it comes to siblings and, in particular, to me and mine, the difference is painfully significant. I cannot overstate this.
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| October 1980 |
I love my sister with every ounce of my soul. She is the closest person to me in every way. That does not make it any less devastating nor easy to accept that it is just the two of us now. When we were three, we were a solid front: one more than our two parents or two grandparents. We were a team, united against any obstacles that tumbled into our path. We each had two siblings to confide in, to collaborate with, to seek advice from. Or just to laugh with over how ridiculous our lives and the world at large really are. There were three of us who grew up in our house, three of us who remembered the particulars of our unique upbringing, three of us who could help each other fill in the blanks of our childhood memories, divergent or not.
Now I find time spent with my sister to be more significant, more important, more special than ever. I mark her words carefully and put them in a special place. I try to imprint her voice, her smile, her eyes, her thoughts, in my memory more vigilantly. I could do so physically somehow, I would.
I do the same with my parents as they age, but without the benefit of seeing them through my brother's eyes as well, I feel as though something in my own perception is missing. I so long for his singular observations on our family dynamic. Yael and I had a long talk recently about our parents and what lies ahead for them and for us as their eventual caretakers. It was helpful and necessary, yet without Amir's input, our discussion feels incomplete. You know when you say, "Great talk. Next, let's discuss it with so-and-so..."? We can't discuss it with Amir regardless of how much we want to and need to. And without him, any decision or thought feels half-baked.
This does not get easier and I know it will get harder as time continues to take Amir further and further away from us. I feel similarly with regard to Jason--I continue to ponder every big decision with him in mind. I seek his voice in everything. He is with me every day, at the forefront, in small ways imperceptible to others but so meaningful to me and who we were together.
For the better part of my life, the two people closest to me absolutely were Yael and Amir. Then, Jason moved into my heart and became my partner. This exceptional trio made up the core of my world, my backbone, my home base. They were my touchstones. Now that two of them are gone, I struggle to move forward in spite of the need and desire to do so. The very core of my life has been shaken, stirred and rocked. I am changed irreversibly. And, though it may surprise people that I still grieve every day for these two remarkable humans, there will never come a day when I don't. Never.
As impossible as it is to believe, Wednesday marks three seemingly endless years since Amir went on ahead and left us behind to endure this life without him. The vast, cavernous hole of his absence in our lives never shrinks, however we strive to fill it with love and support, of which my sister, my parents and I are lucky to have from so many sides. 
