Eulogy: Steven Arredondo aka Sandy December 20, 1951-January 18, 2008

Given by me January 28, 2008.

Illness was a part of my Uncle’s life ever since he was first diagnosed with lymphoma as a teenager. Everyone here knows that history to some extent or another.

Steve’s life wasn’t about illness or tragedy or victimhood; more than anyone I ever met, Steve’s life was about living and cherishing and sometimes railing against the wind and fighting against the grain because he understood that it was meaningless to play along for the sake of playing, to waste time crouched and tense, afraid that the worse might be around any corner.

Steve was a teacher in living. He was a pro at it.

Difficulty in life was a non-event, a big “duh” that wasn’t to be tripped up on.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote, “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places.” Steven Arredondo was strong in the broken places, stronger than most of us are in those that life has left whole.

For one, despite it all, He loved people unconditionally. To wash someone I think is the greatest act of kindness a person can bestow on another human being. We rarely do it in this culture. It is improper to show up at someone’s door dirty and no one would ever invite a filthy guest to their home. Steve had no such compunction. Whenever he saw a homeless person in SilverLake near his home he would say “sweetie come to my place and take a shower and I’ll give you a haircut and clean clothes.” I don’t know who was more bewildered by the event, the neighbors watching him park a bag lady's shopping cart in front of his place or the veteran whose hair he cut and nails he clipped, whose humanity he cared for and loved.

Most of us at best fold a dollar when feeling generous, and fold it so that we don’t have to touch when we place it in a filthy hand. To Steve, who understood that life was full of dirt, it didn’t make sense to spend your life avoiding it.

Steve never blamed, never thought why me? He understood that to say why me was to insult yourself, because you are what are, and he lived his life without afterthought or apology for who he was but he balanced that not with dismissive selfishness but compassion. In that way, Steve took responsibility for his own mess. Whenever he and I were out, one of us would inevitably drop our drink on the floor—Steve dropped his leaping to dance to his favorite song, me because the glass slipped from my drunken hands. The bus boy would come to pick up our mess, as he certainly did a hundred times any given evening, without thanks or notice. Steve would always give the busboy, consistently Latino, five dollars and taught me to do the same saying, “mijo, no matter where you go in life or how successful you are, never forget that they are your people and never forget that no one gets paid to pick up your mess and if you spill, that mess you made is extra.”

Steve could see beauty. He would find a chair, a piece of a mannequin, a bust, or a pile of rocks on the street and create magic with paint and glue. He made me a cleo gold fish once of rocks carefully placed and glued--he found a delicate sculpture in a pile of gravel--he could make anything beautiful. Humbly, the only awkward drawings he made were of himself, bald and big eared. At the same time he wouldn’t waste his time being down on himself. He taught me that anywhere you go there is probably someone, somewhere, saying something about you that is not so nice. To Steve that was a good thing, because it meant you didn’t have to waste your time on it. Every social situation came with it’s own ready made staff.

He was so proud of his mother and his sister. Really the role models for Sandy. His mother’s style, moxie and charm he loved. His sister “chueli’s” humility in the face of what he considered to be drop dead looks struck him in the heart, he’d say to me “you mother, she doesn’t act like it Eric, but when she was younger she was gorgeous. She still looks good but oh, her long hair she was younger.” He must have told me that a thousand times and I don’t think it was forgetfulness, I think he loved talking about the two women he loved in his life, and in his sister’s case giving voice to the “I’m beautiful dammit,” that she would never say. And then, just as often, he’d tell me that my mother and I were such nerds, frowning our foreheads, working all the time and would say how he admired that we had what he didn’t. Whether he meant frown lines, nerdiness or worker bee masochism I never knew, although he’d be happy to know we’ve both gotten a lot lazier.

Finally he was wise and astute. There used to be a coffee house on Beverly Blvd. called Red. It predated Starbucks, Coffee Bean and was in the first wave of pay 5.00 for a big cup of coffee joints. Every time we drove passed Red at around 7 p.m. on a Friday evening it was crowded and he’d start to giggle. Then he’d say, “I’m sorry but all those people paying 5 dollars for some cafe because they are too big shot to get their 50 cent café at Winchell’s, like it makes them important.” And he’d laugh some more. Fifteen years later, just weeks ago, the New York Times ran an article saying that suddenly, out of nowhere, Starbucks was hurting financially because of the rise of it’s biggest two competitors. The 50 cent café and Mcdonald’s and 7-11.

Two things are true in this world, you can’t argue with inevitability and you cant argue with Steven Arredondo. May his lessons live on within all of us and enrich our lives forever. I love you Uncle Steve.

Te amo tia Sandy.