Of the many things we all admired about Michael one of the foremost was his long term commitment to social activism. It is certainly one of the things I have always admired and respected about my brother. From his early 60s college days in San Francisco helping ferry food to the American Indian Movement occupation of Alcatraz Island, to his participating in the 70s Vietnam-era anti-war march on Washington, D. C., to his more recent literacy work with Angeles encouraging self-liberating poems and stories from inmates through a creative writing class in Oaxaca state prison, to so much more. Michael has always been a fighter for resistance against any politics or injustice or marginalization he encountered or ever learned about.
I suspect Michael became a fighter against power structures and injustices because, as the youngest of three brothers, he had to become a scraper to survive. His oldest brother, I like to think I helped instilled this quality in him early on. We three brothers came from a blue-collar working class family and grew up in a small suburban neighborhood in the San Francisco Bay Area where we three boys shared the same bedroom. Our father build bunkbeds onto opposite walls, and as the oldest I not only had the bunkbed with no one sleeping over me, but I also had the only study desk, also built by dad. I was top dog, for sure. But Michael and Frank were always getting into my stuff. I had to spend a good bit of my pre-teen and teen years beating the crap out of my brothers: for disturbing my Mickey Spillane books, Wonder Woman comics and my Elvis, and other 45s Rock & Roll record collection--or whatever else was MINE in those keep-out drawers of my desk.
As any sensible accused or threatened younger brother, my brother Frank could usually blame such riflings or, worse, the outright theft of a missing Snickers bar on Michael. But beating the shit out of Michael was never an easy task. Although growing up four years behind me and the smaller of the three of us then, he was stubbornly tough in a fight. Just taking a few swipes at Frank and he would retreat to his own side of the bedroom. But Michael was never this sensible. While not always innocent, he always resisted energetically the imbalance of power from an older brother bent on his destruction. No matter how pummeled or tearful Michael became, he simply would not accept the humiliation of surrender. He would continue fighting until he exhausted me or I would have to back off at his unrelenting fighting spirit.
Fortunately, for his continued existence (as well as saving me from many a near fratricide) our bedroom—where most of our fights took place—had a very large dirty clothes hamper our dad had also built, matching the rest of our room’s furnishings. The clothes hamper was always a perfect, although somewhat obvious, hiding place for younger hide-and-seek games. But it also saved Michael’s life on numerous occasions when he just wouldn’t give up when I was trying to beat him into confession or surrender for transgressing my desk. Despairing of Michael ever yielding, despite the clearly overwhelming odds against him, I developed the technique of tossing him into the large hamper and sitting on the lid until we both realized the futility of continuing our no-win conflict.
Those early hamper lessons, I’m sure, were formative for both of us. The bigger the force arrayed against you, the harder you resisted and fought it. Yet peaceful reconciliation was always a possibility after any confrontation, if both sides could find a face-saving way out of the dirty laundry, so to speak. Such was my youthful influence on my little brother, and he on me.
One of my fondest adult memories of Michael is our meeting some years ago at an academic conference in New Orleans. While both academics, he an anthropologist, me a literature professor, we had never met professionally together, although we knew and discussed one another’s work over the years. I don’t remember either of the brilliant papers we both presented there—brilliant non-rememberable papers being the usual function of academic conferences.
But, aside from the formal academic excuse we just wanted to get together and enjoy one another’s company—which over the years didn’t happen that often since us three brothers had basically scattered to different worlds once we left home in our teens.
New Orleans is a fun place to be with someone fun-loving (a basic Higgins genetic trait). Michael and I both love Creole food and New Orleans, of course, is famous for such spicy delights. Over several days of gumbo, crawfish etoufee, jambalaya, and powdered sugar-heaped beignets with chicory coffee we spend hours of catch-up conversation solving the geopolitical woes and injustices of the world from our varying points of view. Very heady stuff, especially at our food-memorable evening restaurant meet-ups. After two or three double-rum-over-ice cocktails that Michael introduced me to as a favorite drink of his—although decidedly non-Creole—we could, predictably, wax witty and humorous, as well as brotherly brilliant. Anyone who’s heard Michael’s smile-inducing giggle-to-laughter knows what a fine time we had together into the late hours of the morning.
Before we left New Orleans I went for a brief solo shopping trip in the French Quarter, where I stumbled on a small boutique that sold only Hawaiian-print shirts. Now I think Hawaiian shirts are butt-ugly with their gaudy Polynesian floral patterns and shapeless, straight-cut style. Seriously ugly. But Michael loved Hawaiian shirts—or maybe it was only the one Hawaiian shirt he seemingly wore all the time—including there in New Orleans. As I stumbled into the boutique, nearly overwhelmed with bright-colors nausea and aloha overload I experienced a near evil glee at the thought of buying Michael a gift of our New Orleans time together. I started looking through the racks of abundant floral patterns for the ugliest damn Hawaiian shirt I could find. Not an easy task with so much overflowing ugly to choose from. Finally I found it: an exceptionally gaudy, super-bright Gauguin-yellow, cliched floral pattern that had to be slipped into a dark plastic bag so I wouldn’t be arrested for offending the entire aesthetic world on my way back to my hotel.
Later that afternoon I presented my butt-ugly gag-gift to Michael at his hotel as he packed to return to Colorado (and who the hell wears a Hawaiian shirt in Greeley, CO.!). Michael loved the shirt. He immediately shed his other butt-ugly Hawaiian shirt for my gaudy-gift one. He wore it back to Greely. He wore it to Oaxaca. He probably wore it to Cuba and Nicaragua. For years, every time he’d send me a picture of himself from whereever he was, he’d have that damn super-bright yellow Polynesian shirt on. He loved it. He also loved teasing me for buying it for him.
Michael clearly had no taste in shirts. But he love the incongruous. And he loved the bright colors of life and love and laughter. We’ll all miss the bright gift he was himself.
