Eulogy
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Three weeks ago, I asked Cynthia
(Caporella, Music Director of Saint Francis Chapel and of the Schola Cantorum)
if I could say something at this service. I knew exactly what I wanted to
say. The words were forming themselves in my head. I thought that this would
be the easiest speech I'd ever written, that is, until I started trying
to write it. I realized I had too much I wanted to say about Chris. I wanted to talk about how fun it was to sing with Chris, how we'd terrorize Cynthia's rehearsals, changing lyrics around, and finding pride in being the smallest but loudest section in the chapel choir. I've never felt so good laughing so loud in church. I wanted to talk about the example he set for me when I came to John Carroll as a freshman, showing me that there was never any reason to apologize for being yourself. I wanted to talk about Chris' service to his country, how somehow, the 200-plus years of military tradition in this country gained credibility in my eyes because Chris chose to serve. I wanted to talk about the way he dressed, like he was daring people to try to pigeonhole him. I wanted to talk about ska music and the Boar's Head Carol. Instead, I'm going to talk about superheroes. Chris stopped by my office one afternoon last summer. He pulled up a beanbag chair, and we caught up on things, news from Cleveland, his stay in Kosovo, and then went on to more important things, like music and anime cartoons. I walked Chris to the parking lot, said goodbye, and came back to my office to find these two medallions in the cracks of the bean bag chair. We never touched base after that, so they've been sitting on my desk, fascinating me, ever since. I have no idea what these things mean. They’re mysterious, and beautifully crafted. They’ve got pictures of dragons and eagles and swords on them, cryptic numbers and phrases. It comforts me, actually. I like the thought of our military having secret codes, and task force names. Makes them seem like superheroes, and that's appropriate. With everything we’ve seen on the TV in the past few weeks, it’s easy to look at the thousands of soldiers in their uniforms and lose sight of their individuality. But superheroes don spandex and capes in bright colors. Like Chris, they intentionally and unapologetically wear clothes that make them stand out. That’s what these medals reminded me, as they sat on my computer while I surfed the net for news on the war. Our military is comprised of people like Chris Britton, a proud independent individual who chose to wear the uniform, and chose to serve, and was every inch a hero in my mind. I was a freshman. Of course he was a hero to me. When you see such a strong and confident personality in such a good person, how can you help it? There's a danger to having a hero, though. You have a tendency to let them do all the work. You feel safe, knowing things will get done with them around. How is Metropolis ever going to learn to take care of itself with Superman around? Chris was a person I knew would achieve under any circumstance. In my mind, New York, while Chris was there, was a place where great, important things were being done. Now, when I think about New York, there's a hole there where Chris used to be. There's a hole that people feel whenever any good person leaves this world too early. Chris was a good man, and I suspect a hero to a lot of people. He would have done great things. It’s when I think of the good Chris would have done, as a soldier, a teacher, a father, that I feel a hole. And I realize there is only one way to fill that hole. Every person that loved Chris must step up, and do a share of that extra good ourselves. We must become heroes to others and to ourselves. We have a responsibility to do God's work on earth, or if you will, fight for truth, justice, and the American way. Now comes the interesting part. Mr. and Mrs. Britton, it falls upon me to present you with these -- things. It seems odd and out of place for a civilian like me to be presenting you with Chris’ military honors. Odd and out-of-place in exactly the way Chris liked it, like a skate rat in the Chapel Choir. You know better than I, but I'm sure you have shelves and shelves of medals and trophies and certificates at home that talk about Chris' accomplishments. Like those awards, these medallions will serve as a physical reminder of what Chris did for his country. That is important. Let them also serve as a mental reminder of what Chris did for me, what Chris did for anyone who was lucky enough to know him, and know that I will be the superhero that Chris was to me. |
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