Jeremy

Rage Against the Machine. As we plopped ourselves into the car, cranking the heat and wiping the crust out of our eyes, Jeremy would blast Rage Against the Machine. The wall of noise, the intensity, would fill our quiet neighborhood and assault my eardrums while I waited for him to scrape the ice off the windshield.

“Killing In the Name Of.” Same song, every morning, first thing. Who needs this at 7 am? Just take me to school and let me live in peace.

I heard that song on the radio the other day. Turns out it's kind of a jam. Very 90s, very political. Jeremy loved their music because he loved their point of view. He was deeply skeptical, and had a strong sense of justice, even at sixteen. He was so kind even as he raged against the shitty world we were inheriting.

He used to give me all kinds of grief, his playful way of taking me in. I rebelled, too, but we rebelled in opposite directions. He was athletic and popular; I was skinny and bookish. It was our shared sense of outrage, our belief that there was too much bullshit behind too many of the adults around us, that brought us together on common ground.

We didn't stay together long. Our parents eventually divorced. We were stepbrothers no more. I moved to New York and he to Hawaii. Two rebellions in exactly opposite directions.

I still rage at this shitty world, at the assholes who run it and the killing they do or allow in the name of America, which is to say, money. I hope he rages too. He burned, intensely, with a rage surpassed only by his goodness. His candle lit mine, and his fire shaped who I became.

May you rage, Jeremy, wherever you are.