Jude

This is one of those moments when I'll write about the past. A distant past in this case. But I just got in from watching Slumdog Millionaire with P. And after the movie, we got to talking about reasons. Motivating factors. And determinants.

I met mine when I was eight. I'll call him Jude. After his favorite Beatles song.

Jude and I went to the same elementary school. And he lived up the street from me. Across the light. In the fifth grade, Jude started sleeping on my front lawn, outside my bedroom window. I'd wake up to find messages from him written on the dirt ground, with a flower next to it. When I learned that he was sleeping there, I'd try to make sure that he got a sandwich to eat or something. Then, when I got to school the next day, I would give him my allowance, so he'd have money to buy food.

Those who knew Jude knew him to be a nightmare. My nightmare they thought. He beat up any boy who tried to befriend me or speak to me. And yet, he'd chase me around the school yard, and pull my skirt up. He teased me, yelled names at me, embarrassed me, and at times even struck at me when he threw his explosive tantrums. Once he drew with liquid paper all over my Ricky Schroder poster, and made me cry. The next day, however, he came to school with a new Rickster poster for me. And all that time, I still gave him my allowance. I still knew that he slept outside my bedroom window.

I remember, after our sixth grade "graduation," my parents threw a party for me at our house, and Jude was the last to leave since he spent most of the time in a corner crying. I walked him to the light, and before he crossed he made me promise not to forget him since we were going to different junior high schools. That I would always be his friend. That I would still invite him to my family parties. I promised.

But seventh grade was a whole new world for me. New friends. And Jude seemed so far away. He was sent to foster care that year, so I didn't know where he was. Then, one day, towards the end of the school year, his cousin finally told me that Jude was coming back for awhile, so I waited and waited for him. On my front porch. Waited for him to pass by my house. But when he finally did pass by, it was only long enough for him to tell me that they were sending him away. To another country. I remember that I cried and cried. And my mom couldn't understand why I was so sad. I remember telling her I loved Jude. She said I was "too young to know what love is."

I moved at the end of eighth grade. I remember that one of my biggest fears was that Jude wouldn't be able to find me should he return.

But, during my freshman year of high school, we somehow found each other. I randomly ran into him at a park. Of all places. He told me that he came by my house when he returned, but I was no longer there.

High school wasn't easy for me. My parents were constantly fighting, separating, until they finally divorced. But life was never easy for Jude either. And although we never really talked about the details of what was going on with his parents, I knew that he just never liked being at home. So, he always ran away. Lived with friend after friend. Got involved with gangs. Drugs. But even when I heard stories about the trouble he made or got himself into, to me, he was always the boy who introduced me to his dad as the girl he was going someday marry. My friend, who tried to act tough, but always sang Beatles songs to me over the phone. We talked for hours. Late at night. We both wanted different lives. But we didn't know what that different life was.

Then, in the eleventh grade, I realized that education was the key to the different life I wanted. My counselor told me that if I wanted out, go to school. So, I wanted the same for Jude. I made him promise me that he would go back to school. I told him I'd help him, support him, but I just wanted him to go back. And he promised. He said that he wasn't going to talk to me until he straightened out his life, and returned to school.

But after one of Jude's best friends, the person he had been living with, died while playing Russian Roulette during an acid trip, Jude's plans of going back to school was postponed. And it became harder for me to reach him.

He got more involved with gangs. Drugs. And any attempt I made to reach out, he rejected. Then, he started living with another friend, who I happened to know, so I was relieved that at least I was still connected to him. Somehow. If I couldn't reach him, at least I could reach F.

Then, probably the most frightening nights of my life happened at the end of my senior year. My boyfriend at the time called to tell me that there was a shooting at the races. And he thinks that Jude was killed. I can't even remember how I responded. Everything about that night was one hysterical, chaotic blur. But it turned out that Jude wasn't killed. It was F. However, it might as well had been Jude. Because he died, too, that night. And I lost him forever.

My last contact with him was through a letter, since he refused to see me. I thought I was leaving for college. I was actually ready to go in two months. So, I wrote him. And in the letter I told him that no matter where I was, I will always be there for him. That I loved him. And that if he needed me, to just call and I'll be there. Always. I included a twenty dollar bill in the letter since until then, I still had the habit of giving him my allowance. My boyfriend's brother delivered it to Jude. He came back and returned the twenty dollar bill to me. He said Jude wanted to return it, after he cried and sat silently in the corner of the room for hours.

Although I went on to college, law school, had a pseudo-marriage/pseudo-divorce, and many difficult and happy times, I never forgot Jude. The last I heard, he was locked up in some mental institution. He was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic.

During the summer after my first year of law school, I looked for him. I worked with a psychiatrist doing research on murder suicides, and as I researched surviving victims and witnesses to interview, I searched for Jude. I tried to ask friends who knew him, and finally found someone who did know where he was, but they told me to let it go. It wouldn't do me any good to see him because he wouldn't recognize me.

But I always remember Jude. Whether he remembers me or not. I always think about him. Especially during times when people ask me why I do what I do.

There are just some people who touches our lives, who we love, and even though it hurts to love them, we do. And we can't explain it. And sometimes, we even ask ourselves why. I don't know. But I've always loved him. Ever since I was eight.

He was my "Thomas J." ('My Girl')