Remembering Dylan

Dylan laughing while trapped between a lens and my best E.T. impression. Credit: Blake Hatherley

Three Rude Dudes in GR at the CR show, 2015. Credit: Blake Hatherley

Every July for the last four years, I’ve wanted to publish something about Dylan. He was a part of my life for a few fleeting years and profoundly impacted me as a friend, a writer, and a person. But whenever I used to write about him, I felt this deep insecurity that maybe I wasn’t deserving of recalling his memory. I’m close with people who grew up alongside him through every stage of life. People who shared a home with him during or after college who could tell you his daily routine, every last one of his idiosyncrasies, or how he would look if you happened to walk past his bedroom, his door cracked, and see him working his way through a book or hunched over at his desk typing up his most recent article. They have hundreds or thousands of memories with him to the tens of mine.

In the time I knew Dylan, him and I only hung out two or three dozen times. And about a third of those times would have been in the last year and a half Dylan was alive. As someone who's experienced it firsthand, I can attest to the strangeness of being in a long-distance relationship. A deep longing paired with the irrational notion that no matter the amount of time, money, and effort spent in order to cross that expanse and sustain that bond was reasonable. Our culture normalizes and rationalizes romantic love like that, but it does not consider the love for a friend anywhere near the same tier as one would feel for their partner or the lengths one should be willing to go for them.

For me, it was even stranger being in a long-distance friendship. Having someone that you feel a deep closeness to and have an array of overlapping similarities with:

- A great admiration for George Saunders, Jeff Tweedy, and Anthony Bourdain.

-This deep need to be our authentically goofy selves and make others laugh.

-Having similar personalities in the sense we could handle ourselves well in larger group settings but appreciated the quieter get-togethers and one on one time with friends most.

-The hope that maybe all the hours we spent writing alone would amount to something, even if that only meant others looked at it and acknowledged it, let alone whether or not it was published. 

Yet while having that kind of connection with someone, only getting to experience that with them either sparingly in person over years or with semi-regularity through letters, emails, and drafts of articles and stories we’d send each other for feedback. The written word linking together the weeks or months we might go without being physically in the same space. On occasions where Dylan gets brought up and people ask how I knew him, it feels complicated to express our friendship when it spans and connects in ways that don’t translate well to a minute long anecdote.

My generation has a fixation with imposter syndrome. I think it stems from a lot of us missing supposed benchmarks our parents or other adults we modeled ourselves after reached well before many of us have now. Even if we possess one or two of these “grown-up signifiers”, a lot of us feel like we’re just masquerading through our adulthood, wondering when this performance of ours will finally transcend into our reality. Where I’ve struggled with this concept is when it comes to attachment. A persistent thought that in the past pervaded every friendship, acquaintance, or relationship I’d ever been in was:

 “Does this person actually like me or are they just putting up with me until someone better comes along?”

Which was always followed up by (if it seemed genuine):

 “But why do they like me?” 

Those thoughts haunted most of my life and left me unable to be completely at ease with all but a handful of people. With the rest of my relationships, it always felt like I was waiting for the other person to suddenly turn, smile and wave to the crowd, take my hand to bow in unison, and then the curtain would drop on our two-person show. Which would seem from that perspective to make a friendship like Dylan’s and mine, separated in significant parts by geography and time, an ill-fated one.

But I never once had that feeling with Dylan. One of his most beautiful qualities was his sincere approach to each of his friendships, even though he had more friends than anyone I ever knew. Despite the fact he was close with so many, it didn't make those friendships superfluous. For someone who was a prolific published writer, dedicated runner, played in multiple bands, was a full-time employee at the library, and donned many other hats throughout his life, he always found the time for everyone he loved. I truly believe anybody who thinks of Dylan kindly couldn’t ever describe his involvement in their life as superficial.

We all have or have encountered people that we were friendly with but who we knew when they were with us were scanning the room for “a better hang”. Even if their eyes were staring right into yours, they were somewhere else; waiting for you to finish what you were saying so their body could meet up wherever their mind had been since the start of your conversation. When you were with Dylan, he was right there with you. Making you really think in a way you hadn’t before. Getting you to laugh with a quip, quick turn of phrase, or his seemingly endless collaborative list of fictional band names that he’d thought up or others formulated and brought to him once they’d learned about this ongoing project of his (Poop From Yesteryear, Weed Bullet, WiFi at the Hockey Rink, The Fleeting Weenies, and Suede Nachos clinched my Top Five, but with hundreds of incredible fake names on the list, it could easily change depending on the day). Or just actively listening to you and making you feel heard in a way a lot of people nowadays are incapable of.

The first time Dylan and I hung out just the two of us perfectly encapsulates who he was. In early 2016, I had bought two tickets to a Courtney Barnett show for myself and my then girlfriend. By early summer she was my then ex girlfriend and I didn’t have anyone to go with. When I reached out to my friend Casey to see if he wanted to go he replied that he already had made plans but that I should reach out to Dylan and see if he was interested. Dylan accepted immediately and borrowing Casey’s PT Cruiser (which Dylan referred to lovingly as “The Sex Barrel”) made the hour-long trip out to Brighton to then drive with me in my Windstar another hour to Detroit. I was worried initially. I sometimes struggle with getting a conversation going and feel as though my small talk is lacking even with people I’ve known for years and years. 

But as soon as he got out of his borrowed barrel, Dylan was ready to go and made it feel like we’d always hung out like this. Skimming through my I-Pod between Wolf Parade, The Clash, Wilco, Buzzcocks, Yo La Tengo, and others while I drove, Dylan began to interview me. Starting with our usual points of conversation like “What are you reading?” and “What are you watching?” he’d expand with related questions on whatever answer I gave him. We’d talked like this before. Pseudo (in regard to myself) intellectual guys of our age, whenever we’d hang out, we always asked each other our thoughts about what we were reading, watching, listening to, what we liked about it, and why we thought it was important. 

After a half an hour or so of our usual exchange, there was a brief pause, then Dylan asked:

“So, how’d you end up with an extra ticket?”

My eyes on the road, I glanced over at him and could see he was giving me a look that was curious, knowing, and completely understanding, somehow all at once. I stumbled for a few moments on how to respond and finally said:

“Well… My ex and I were supposed to be going to this show.”

After that, our usual casual topics fell to the wayside. I told Dylan a lot of what had happened between her and I. He listened and shared parts of his own heart breaks and what he’d been through in his dating life. Even after arriving at the Majestic Theater while standing in a loud crowd all night, between sets our conversations went deeper as after a year or more of hanging out casually in a group setting, we dove headfirst into subjects I never really talked about with anyone. Let alone a relatively recent friend. But what made Dylan a great interviewer was what made him a great friend: generous with his time, thoughtful with his subject and what they were saying, never afraid to follow up with a question if it meant a better understanding of who they were, yet gentle enough to leave space to breath and allow things to come on their own terms. No matter the situation or the person, he always just naturally seemed to know the right course of action.

In January of 2019 I unexpectedly lost my Uncle Jeff to death by suicide. While losing anyone, particularly a relative, in that way is jarring and upsetting, my Uncle was so much more to me than that. He was my friend, editor, mentor, and someone I admire immensely. After he was gone, for months after, I was a ghost in just about every sense. I couldn’t really tell you much of what happened through that winter and most of that spring. I moved through my life and my work on autopilot, replies to my friends’ messages went days or weeks without getting back to them, if at all. Months passed around me and I hardly noticed. Dylan was one of those people who reached out multiple times to try and get me out of my apartment or just to see how I was doing. To a couple of his messages I replied with brief non-committal answers. The thought of being honest about what I was going through with anyone at that time felt impossible. The rest I just didn’t answer.

At that time, I was teaching ESL as part of a non-profit in partnership with the Grand Rapids Public Schools. My students were parents whose children were enrolled in the school system and wanted to improve their English and get more involved in their community. In mid-spring, one of the activities my co-teacher and I proposed to our class was taking them and their children to the library after school to get library cards and enroll them in the summer reading programs being offered. Our learners were very excited and so a few days beforehand I called the branch nearest to our school to let them know we’d be coming. In the mental fog I found myself in at the time, I forgot to follow up with them the day of our field trip. Or recall who worked at the branch we were going to.

The day of the field trip, my co-teacher Kari piled learners and kids in her van, I squeezed as many as I could into my tiny Focus, and another learner with their utility van brought everyone else as we made the trek. I can only imagine what the Seymour Branch librarians (who, seemingly from the two staff members in attendance, had not been informed that ten parents and their children were coming) felt as we poured out of our vehicles. I only recall my shock when we entered and Dylan was standing behind the front desk, seemingly equally shocked by the platoon of people storming his sleepy afternoon shift. Let alone this assault being led by the guy who had been avoiding his well intended messages for months at that point.

Any justifiable feelings Dylan might have felt given the situation (annoyance, anger, frustration, etc.) didn’t appear on his face. After his initial surprise, he was right back to his usual self, seemingly really happy to see me and unperturbed by the large group of people I’d just made his and his co-worker’s responsibility to assist. They split the parents between them to help register them for their library cards and in breaks in registrations, would ask me how I was doing and what I was up to. We chatted as if it’d been just the week before since we’d last hung out. All the while, he was patient with the kids, great with the parents, and switched between different levels of English based on who he was working with and how comfortable they were with the language. In a little under an hour, everyone was registered and was filing out to the cars.

I stuck around to apologize, telling him I’d called ahead the week before but obviously hadn’t double checked the day of. He just laughed and said they’d been having a slow day anyway and that it was nice to have a little action to speed things up. I then told him I hadn’t gotten back to him because I’d been having a harder time lately then I’d been letting on. He told me from what I had said and what he had heard from a couple other people he’d figured that was the case but didn’t want to force me to hangout or talk if I didn’t feel like I could. I suggested we meet up at Johnny B’s later that week and catch up. He grinned and told me he was looking forward to it. Then I ran out the door to get my learners and their kids back to their cars. Even when thrown a curveball by an elusive friend in the form of a classrooms worth of English learners eager for library services, Dylan had a way with letting come what may with empathy and a sense of humor.

One of the last times I hung out with Dylan is one of my happiest memories. It was at our friend Blake’s birthday party, about two months before Dylan was gone. Between it being a perfect night and Blake being a well-loved and popular guy, his and Kelsey’s home was full of people, with more flooding into the back yard. I was totally overwhelmed surrounded by faces old and new. Luckily in that sea of people, I had Jack, McKenna, Mikey, and Dylan. The five of us sat around the table on the deck in our own little island, just making each other laugh. Recounting our favorite sketches from “I Think You Should Leave”, riffing off of topics ranging from nonsense at our jobs to the wild things we’d heard people say, and whatever else that came to mind that made us laugh so hard, I was wiping away tears and struggling to breathe by the end.

Of the nights I hung out with Dylan, nearly all of them were like that. He was one of the most rigorous thinkers I knew. Could talk circles around anyone when it came to literature, art, music, or any of his numerous passions. Cared deeply for those he loved. But he was also, for lack of a more fitting term, funny as fuck. If I had to recount all the times I’d laughed hardest in my life, multiple nights with him would land on the top of my list. His humor came from creativity that was uninhibited, a mind sharpened to a point, and an ever curious and critical gaze on the world that made his observations uncanny.

We all (whether you knew him or not) lost Dylan Soper Tarr on July 12th, 2019, and I can say without hesitation, the world is sorely missing a spectacular human without him here among us. I hope after you read this, you take something of Dylan with you. Look up his articles and recognize what a singular voice he had. Run until your lungs burn, then realize how cathartic and life affirming that feeling is. Listen to his music and appreciate the anger and joy he brought to every song he played on. Check in on a friend you haven’t heard from in a while. Make something that means something to you. Or write something stupid, silly, or skewering, if only for the pleasure of making yourself laugh. While Dylan was fond of long days on the porch, having a few beers, shooting the shit with his pals, and would have found “rise and grind” culture something to deride mercilessly, he actively and passionately participated in every last second of his life. Making art, friends, and memories that will remain with all of us who knew him for the rest of our lives. 

Afterword

Something I will always be proud of was that Dylan enjoyed my writing. Back in 2017, Dylan came to me saying he wanted to put out a zine called UFO GMO and asked if he could put a piece of mine alongside other local writers and artists. Excited to be a part of his project, I sent Dylan three short pieces I had written. He came back to me days later and told me he loved my flash fiction story “Many Instances”. I had posted it on Facebook months prior and based on the tepid response it got, I assumed very few people (if any) had read it. But Dylan had read it and it had stuck with him. When I sent him my pieces he told me he’d hoped that would be one of the three I would include to be considered. It was my first piece that I had really tried to experiment outside my usual form and felt I’d actually achieved what I’d set out to do. And while Dylan’s life got busy after that and UFO GMO never ended up materializing, that experience epitomized what it felt like to have him engage with your art.

 This blog is ostensibly a place where I try to feature my best stuff in its most polished form. I thought hard about rewriting “Many Instances” before putting it up here. I strongly considered excising this last part from the essay entirely, (because to me at least) it feels a little gross and nearly shameless to have it here. But the best writer I ever knew saw something in it and I include it at the end, unedited from the final draft I sent to Dylan six years ago. Because while I hope what I’m writing today has improved from then and ultimately I’ll always feel weird about “promoting” myself, the fact it got such a strong and loving response from him means more than most of the praise I’ve ever received for my creativity. 

I’ll never be able to express to Dylan what his appreciation for everything I shared with him over the years meant. Or how the confidence he instilled in me to keep going when I didn’t believe in myself affected me and my writing. I just know you probably wouldn’t be here right now reading any of this if it weren’t for him. Everyday I’m still making mistakes and improving my art. Anything that reeks of bullshit or amateurism is mine alone. But if you ever find yourself responding to something on here in a way you didn’t think a piece of writing could make you feel, I hope you think of Dylan. He brought out the very best in everyone by exemplifying what it meant to be genuine, artistic, and alive. I consider myself among the many lucky individuals who are much better iterations of themselves for having created alongside, been influenced by, knowing, and loving him like I did and do.

Love Always,

MATTIE B.

---

        Many Instances
        #
I was born on September 19th, 1955, with a bad heart in Dearborn, Michigan; 5 lbs, 11 ounces. It was not certain I would leave the hospital alive because of a defective heart valve. My Mother said that one of those long, uncertain nights she woke up to my Father softly sobbing as he held me in his arms. This was the first time either of us had ever seen him cry.
	#
I wept with my father for the third time in his life in his hospice room as he left this Earth on July 1st, 1985. I told him I loved him and that Allah was with him. He blinked away tears and repeated that back to me until he was gone.
	#
I saw Alice Cooper play his new 37-minute album ​Killer ​live, in its entirety,​ ​at Harpos in Detroit, Michigan on December 21st, 1971.
       #
I was spit upon by one young man and watched as another spray painted “Towel Head” on the windows of my family's restaurant in Allen Park, Michigan on September 20th, 2001. 
       #
I broke my Father’s heart on October 31st, 1965, when instead of dressing as a soldier on Halloween I begged my Mother to help me find a floppy khaki hat so I could be Gilligan. 		 
       #
I wrote Lisa Bergetti a love poem on February 14th, 1964 with a pink marker on white construction paper cut into a heart that I then strung pink tissue paper through to make a bow. My Mother gushed to her friends, my Father rolled his eyes.
       #
I listened to “Across The Universe” in May of 1973 (off of ​Let It Be​ by The Beatles, released May 18th, 1970), hanging my head out the window to blow smoke up into the air I had inhaled from the pipe my older brother had bequeathed to me, all the while my parents played Euchre in the kitchenette with the neighbors.	
       #
I wasn’t sure if I was living or dying in the back of an ambulance on January 3rd, 1989 due to a failed stent that had left my heart murmuring since August 10th, 1988.
      #
I married Lisa Bergetti on February 14th, 1980, fifteen years after my first valentine. Prince’s “I Wana Be Your Lover” (released on August 24, 1979) played in the rented limousine as we drove away from the mosque. I watched from the window as my Father beamed and wiped away tears, this was the second of three times in my life I would see him cry.
       #
I sat in silence in my dorm room at the University of Michigan (located in Ann Arbor, Michigan) on November 20th, 1973, as my Mother told me in an emotionless voice over the phone that my older brother Kiaan had died in a POW camp on October 1st, 1973.
	#
I took my first trip out of Michigan for our honeymoon on February 15th, 1980.  Lisa and I vacationed at a couple’s resort in Jamaica where we went to the Pineapple Festival in Gregory Town, took long walks on the beach, drank too much, and then laid naked in each other’s arms every night, talking about what the future held for us. I swore I saw Bob Marley while we were there. Lisa said I was mistaken and just not used to seeing so many men with long braided hair, but I knew it was him. He would be dead in Miami on May 11th, 1981. 
      #
I was told in an unknowable time and place that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.