So rather than write something new, I am sharing the eulogy I delivered at his memorial service. It remains one of the most important things I’ve ever written. And since we were such mutual admirers of each other’s talent, it seems an appropriate way to remember him.
If you would like to make a gift in Jesse’s memory, I believe strongly that the work of Mental Health America will lead to a brighter future for many people dealing with mental health issues.
There’s a word for what you’re feeling; you just haven’t learned it yet.
There are words that come close to the ache we feel in our hearts — anguish, sorrow, grief. But so far, the closest words I’ve found to what I feel are lyrics my brother wrote in one of his journals months ago:
There is something scratching its name on a wall to be remembered: Jesse Hanawalt is dead.
I have felt that low, steady scratching every waking hour since I got that awful call.
Heard it etching Jesse’s name across my heart. A backing track to sobs and cries, growing louder when we run out of tears — just for a little while. Unbearably loud in those few moments things seem almost normal. When I almost forget…
There is something scratching its name on a wall to be remembered: I lost my little brother this week.
I lost someone with whom I shared many things — love, of course, more love than I can say. And mutual admiration for each other’s art. Stories so horrible only family can see the humor in them. We shared our hidden fears. And one Halloween, decades ago, we shared the same tube of green face paint — Jesse a radical ninja turtle and me a wicked witch.
I’ve lost a part of myself. I never knew how big a part until it was excised, leaving a wound that stretches from the middle of my rib cage to the bottom of my gut.
I hear that thing scratching its name on a wall, and I want to build that wall higher and deeper. To erect a fort in which to hide from the hurt, and loss, and that scratching.
This is something else my brother and I shared.
Jesse built up his own walls. How else are you supposed to protect a heart that — no matter how broad your shoulders grow — is too big for your own chest? A heart that returned hurt with twice as much love.
From inside his fort, I don’t know if Jesse could see how much he was loved. But I know that Jesse loved.
My brother loved more than any of us asked for or earned.
Inside of him was gentleness, and talent, and goodness that lit up his bright blue eyes even in his darkest moments. But to share that light with others and have it rejected would have been too much for Jesse to bear, so he built up his walls to hide it away.
This is the only thing at which my brother failed. Because I know everyone here saw that gentleness, that goodness, that light.
Whether he was playing any one of his guitars, discussing film, or telling a joke you couldn’t help but laugh at — despite it being at your expense — we all saw that light and loved him for it.
So I will mourn all the times I won’t be able to tell Jesse I love him. And I will grieve the concerts, the films, the wedding, and the births at which I will not play the beaming big brother.
But I will not let that wall stand. I will wear Jesse’s name etched across my heart as a reminder of the love I was lucky to receive from him. And a promise to tell the people I love just how special they are — whether they believe me or not. No matter how many times I’ve told them before.
I will wear Jesse’s name etched across my heart as a promise to create art — no matter how tired, defeated, or unskilled I feel. And to share it with others whether or not I feel it’s any good. And as a promise not to hide my own goodness from them for fear of how they might treat it.
That is how I will remember, honor, and love my little brother.
And if I falter along the way — if I forget this promise even for a moment — I will remember Jesse’s music, the beautiful art he left for us, and I will let my walls come crumbling down.
— John Hanawalt, Brother, 06.03.13
