Marc and I met at Bowie High School when we were 14. We were in the Drama Club together and we quickly became best friends. For years we were inseparable. He taught me how to drive, how to make fried chicken. He taught me who Mahalia Jackson was. Took this sheltered white boy to DC to see “For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enough.” We were blown away. Marc vacationed every summer with my family at the Jersey Shore. We would joke that the guard on the bridge onto the island must have let his guard down, allowing Marc into the lily white resort. He threw me not one, but three surprise birthday parties.
In a school that was overwhelmingly white, Marc stood out. Not because he was Black, but because he was different. He had style. He had chutzpah. He made an impression when he came into a room. At one point, he gave himself the nickname “Cool Breeze.” I don’t think we ever really called him that. But that’s how he saw himself. He was silly and incredibly fun, a little crazy and difficult and dramatic. He could be ditzy and impractical.
Sometimes it almost felt like Marc lived on another plane of existence. A different place and time. One more refined and elevated than the current day. A time when ladies wore gloves and stockings and upswept hairdos. Where the hifi played Steve and Eydie, Nancy Wilson and Aretha.
It’s as if he lived in a black and white movie, floating elegantly in black tie with Elizabeth Taylor and Sidney Poitier, Harry Belafonte and Dorothy Dandridge. He often spoke in sweeping tones. Formal and flowery. Dramatically quoting movies, poetry and scripture. He’d never say “the girl wore a pink dress.” He’d say “the young lady wore a dusty rose French tulle gown with a high side slit. With champagne colored princess sandals, her hair upswept into a French chignon!”
Maybe it was the experience of living in Paris as a child and crossing the Atlantic on a steamship at age 6 with his impossibly glamorous parents and adorable little sister. (Michele, ma belle. Ce sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble). Maybe he never fully came down from that elegant black and white world.
Maybe that’s why it was sometimes hard for Marc to live in the real world. A world with suffering and injustice. A world where neighborhood children lived in poverty, without fathers, with drugs and violence never far away.
Marc lived with his own pain and regrets. His resentments toward people from whom he felt he deserved better. And he probably did. But again and again he’d rise. To find his joy. To be there for others. To model character and generosity. To tell his godchildren again and again: You are kind, you are loved, you are important.
After highschool, Marc and I drifted apart, connecting mainly through reunions and Facebook. Today I understand that Marc was my first love and I was his. You never forget your first love. With his passing, a piece of me is gone.
Marc’s great grandmother Beanie used to say “Child, tomorrow is not promised.” None of us know when our time will come. For Grady, it came way too soon.
My mother, who Marc called “Fun Jane,” (he called all our mothers and teachers by their first names: fun Thelma, Fun Bren!) My mom, who was very fond of Marc, had these two Spanish porcelain figurines. Little winged angel boys, one white, one black. She said they represented me and Marc. They sat on her mantle until she died a few years ago. I packed them up and sent them to Marc, who I knew would treasure them.
Maybe Marc is that angel, rising like Maya Angelou. Maybe he is that cool breeze you suddenly feel on a muggy evening. Maybe he’s on that Ocean Liner heading back to Paris, dressed to the nines. To join Josephine Baker and James Baldwin. Or maybe he’s closer to home. Cooking up fresh crab cakes and homemade potato salad and French-style green beans, Silver Queen corn and lemon meringue pie for Milton and Beanie, Brown Sugar, Baby Brother and all the ancestors. Maybe he’s laughing, smiling down on us right now like a fine Black King.
Very thankful for John Leonard's beautiful post about his close friend. I remember John very well, however, I only recall Marc. Our class was so large, if I''m not mistaken the largest in BHS history. I just felt compelled to write something after reading John's post--I felt sad that we lost such a wonderful human being so young. Seems like we have lost a number of 79 classmates recently like Larry Hartzel--brings to mind my own mortality and how short life really is. We are but a vapor in time. My thoughts are with Marc's family and friends as they navigate the tragedy that is his death and allow time to help them heal. The Class of 1979 will miss you too Marc.
John Leonard
The eulogy I gave at Marc's memorial service:
Marc and I met at Bowie High School when we were 14. We were in the Drama Club together and we quickly became best friends. For years we were inseparable. He taught me how to drive, how to make fried chicken. He taught me who Mahalia Jackson was. Took this sheltered white boy to DC to see “For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enough.” We were blown away. Marc vacationed every summer with my family at the Jersey Shore. We would joke that the guard on the bridge onto the island must have let his guard down, allowing Marc into the lily white resort. He threw me not one, but three surprise birthday parties.
In a school that was overwhelmingly white, Marc stood out. Not because he was Black, but because he was different. He had style. He had chutzpah. He made an impression when he came into a room. At one point, he gave himself the nickname “Cool Breeze.” I don’t think we ever really called him that. But that’s how he saw himself. He was silly and incredibly fun, a little crazy and difficult and dramatic. He could be ditzy and impractical.
Sometimes it almost felt like Marc lived on another plane of existence. A different place and time. One more refined and elevated than the current day. A time when ladies wore gloves and stockings and upswept hairdos. Where the hifi played Steve and Eydie, Nancy Wilson and Aretha.
It’s as if he lived in a black and white movie, floating elegantly in black tie with Elizabeth Taylor and Sidney Poitier, Harry Belafonte and Dorothy Dandridge. He often spoke in sweeping tones. Formal and flowery. Dramatically quoting movies, poetry and scripture. He’d never say “the girl wore a pink dress.” He’d say “the young lady wore a dusty rose French tulle gown with a high side slit. With champagne colored princess sandals, her hair upswept into a French chignon!”
Maybe it was the experience of living in Paris as a child and crossing the Atlantic on a steamship at age 6 with his impossibly glamorous parents and adorable little sister. (Michele, ma belle. Ce sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble). Maybe he never fully came down from that elegant black and white world.
Maybe that’s why it was sometimes hard for Marc to live in the real world. A world with suffering and injustice. A world where neighborhood children lived in poverty, without fathers, with drugs and violence never far away.
Marc lived with his own pain and regrets. His resentments toward people from whom he felt he deserved better. And he probably did. But again and again he’d rise. To find his joy. To be there for others. To model character and generosity. To tell his godchildren again and again: You are kind, you are loved, you are important.
After highschool, Marc and I drifted apart, connecting mainly through reunions and Facebook. Today I understand that Marc was my first love and I was his. You never forget your first love. With his passing, a piece of me is gone.
Marc’s great grandmother Beanie used to say “Child, tomorrow is not promised.” None of us know when our time will come. For Grady, it came way too soon.
My mother, who Marc called “Fun Jane,” (he called all our mothers and teachers by their first names: fun Thelma, Fun Bren!) My mom, who was very fond of Marc, had these two Spanish porcelain figurines. Little winged angel boys, one white, one black. She said they represented me and Marc. They sat on her mantle until she died a few years ago. I packed them up and sent them to Marc, who I knew would treasure them.
Maybe Marc is that angel, rising like Maya Angelou. Maybe he is that cool breeze you suddenly feel on a muggy evening. Maybe he’s on that Ocean Liner heading back to Paris, dressed to the nines. To join Josephine Baker and James Baldwin. Or maybe he’s closer to home. Cooking up fresh crab cakes and homemade potato salad and French-style green beans, Silver Queen corn and lemon meringue pie for Milton and Beanie, Brown Sugar, Baby Brother and all the ancestors. Maybe he’s laughing, smiling down on us right now like a fine Black King.
Anne Pillman (Ellis)
@John Leonard - I loved your eulogy for Marc. While I really didn't know Marc, I got to know him better through you. Thank you
Michael D. Wood
Very thankful for John Leonard's beautiful post about his close friend. I remember John very well, however, I only recall Marc. Our class was so large, if I''m not mistaken the largest in BHS history. I just felt compelled to write something after reading John's post--I felt sad that we lost such a wonderful human being so young. Seems like we have lost a number of 79 classmates recently like Larry Hartzel--brings to mind my own mortality and how short life really is. We are but a vapor in time. My thoughts are with Marc's family and friends as they navigate the tragedy that is his death and allow time to help them heal. The Class of 1979 will miss you too Marc.
Respectfully,
Micheal Wood
Karen Frank (Beck)
John, as I told you at Marc's service, your words were (and still are) perfect. Thank you for sharing them here.