Owen Giraldo 1970-2005

I have just returned from Houston, where I attended the funeral of air hockey champion Owen Giraldo. Owen was brutally murdered earlier in the week; his body was found stripped almost naked and run over (some say repeatedly) by a truck. His torched car was discovered somewhere else.

I did not know Owen well but the few times I talked with him he was warm and welcoming. No one can understand his death. It appears random to us but the details of the murder seem very premeditated. There is definitely something we do not know, and it is this, the Not-Knowing, that pushes everyone over the edge.

I felt a similar thing back in 1997 when my friend A disappeared in India and was never found. He called his parents 10 days before his return flight to Vancouver and asked to be picked up. I know that he was travelling up north, perhaps to Kashmir, and he is probably dead. But the Not-Knowing keeps that absurd hope alive--the hope that might come home some day. Closure is impossible.

But Owen is gone and there's nothing we can do to unwind these events. T is beside himself with grief. His eyes are red and he looks pale. He looks like he's barely keeping things together. My instinct is to try to cheer him up, but why? Really I should just embrace him and let him cry it out. But we Americans have a hard time with death and mourning. Perhaps it's because the funeral is like the front porch in a weird way. It's where the public and private intersect--where people reveal very private emotions in a public setting. As Americans (especially as American men) we are programmed to "keep it together." But why in the world should grief be private?

The worst is when S, Owen's gentle giant best friend, goes up to speak. S is huge, maybe 6'5 and probably up over 300 pounds. But he's so choked up and speaking in such a low voice that I can barely understand. I feel like an imposter--that my tears are unearned--but I cannot keep myself from crying. This is awful, just awful. I hate this.