Yesterday I took the stage at my old high school, spoke into a microphone, and told three hundred teenagers what it was like to come to an affluent private school in a big city from my life on a small sheep farm. There was so much I didn't understand: I had never tasted a Coke or a candy bar; I had no idea how to negotiate the whole boy issue; I had none of the right clothes. There was plenty to share, a couple humorous bits, and all the words came easily.
In my days as a student, though, I had a speech impediment that left me stammering and stuttering in class. I would wade into a discussion trying to force words out of a throat that had tensed and closed. Without graduate school (where I was forced to speak extemporaneously, over and over again) and without my time in the monastery (where I learned to short-circuit a stutter-in-progress by putting my mind in my feet) I would be tongue-tied still. So these days words usually come easily, and even on stage they issued forth neatly and succinctly.
I was supposed to be speaking to the kids, but really I was focused on the row of teachers at the rear of the room. Many of the old-timers who taught me are still at the school; the house lights refracted through their glasses and glinted off the occasional bald head. These were the people who prodded me to think, to stretch my limits, and--most importantly--to write. Words and ideas were available, even if speaking was difficult. I wrote essays and research papers, an epic, and poems. I am still in awe of those ones who guided me, and still feel very much in their debt.
The teacher who had the biggest impact on me, though, is gone. Missing him has become a defining part of my re-experience of the school. The more serious I become about writing, the more motivated--and the more willing to face the mystery of expressing myself in words for the sheer joy of the experience--the more I love and miss the man who taught English my sophomore and junior years.
Bob Ashe, from Northern Ireland, still had an accent after twenty years in the states. He was an avid soccer player and coach; he moved and spoke with the energy of a much younger man. I loved his class, and I wanted so much to please him and earn his respect--which only made the stutter worse! We were on the same wavelength, though; whatever I wrote seemed to please him, and I valued his insight and viewpoint tremendously.
We disagreed once, over abortion. Actually, the whole class disagreed with him. That was the only time I detected sadness in his voice. These days, I'm not sure I would disagree so much, but back then I would not allow myself to consider what he was saying: that actions have consequences, and that by taking action we take on the results of that action.
I never saw Bob Ashe after I graduated. He left the school suddenly, in the wake of allegations of improper conduct with an underage girl he had coached in soccer twenty years before.
When I got the news--it was in the city newspaper--I had to think hard about what I knew about my hero. What could I think? I knew this person, or thought I did; I had confidence in him; and...perhaps he had made a terrible mistake.
I never had the chance to hear Bob's side of things. He moved back to Northern Ireland, and died a few years later. There was no chance to tell him what an incredible and indelible impact he had on me. The school seems empty without him now, as if it's limping along ever so slightly out of kilter. I keep expecting to see him in the hall, or to see his small wiry frame trotting across one of the lawns.
I do encounter Bob quite a bit lately, in dreams. I know what they mean: this teacher of mine embodies the secret part of myself that knows I can write, that knows I can do terrific work if I polish a piece, that finds joy and wonder in the process and in the unexpected result. Bob is my guts, my courage--my often-buried capacity to argue, to be brilliant, and to inspire.
Yesterday as I sat on stage and talked about my old self, about the awkwardness and naiveté and lack-of-wealth that distinguished me from my peers--as I watched the familiar heads at the rear of the room--I saw Bob. It was the strangest thing. I caught him in every glance at that row of teachers' heads. I could almost tell you which seat he was in. But when I looked more closely, I couldn't quite see him.
I wish so much that I could talk to him now. It would be a great conversation. I know what I would say to him about intention and consequence, and becoming the person you feel yourself to be. And I think I know what he would tell me. I need to hear it from someone.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Friday, October 20, 2006
Frozen Time
Twenty-five years ago I was behind these eyes. Thinking my ice was just a bit larger than my little sister's. Nothing special, nothing more than that.
That world is now gone; and the present world will have to be gone, too, before I can see this current life at all clearly.
My dad took this photograph--I don't think he ever had it printed. He had slides made, and recently scanned them. So the colors are truer than you might expect from an old photo.
I'm grateful that he took his camera on that winter walk out to our pond. To see this shot for the first time today gives me a feeling I can't describe. Like finding something I didn't know was lost; like finding out how much is in fact, lost.
That world is now gone; and the present world will have to be gone, too, before I can see this current life at all clearly.
My dad took this photograph--I don't think he ever had it printed. He had slides made, and recently scanned them. So the colors are truer than you might expect from an old photo.
I'm grateful that he took his camera on that winter walk out to our pond. To see this shot for the first time today gives me a feeling I can't describe. Like finding something I didn't know was lost; like finding out how much is in fact, lost.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Buddhas Functioning in the World
How does the inner wisdom manifest in the outer world?
By means of our thousand arms, working according to the tool at hand.
By means of a thousand heart-rooted eyes observing things as they are.
By means of our thousand arms, working according to the tool at hand.
By means of a thousand heart-rooted eyes observing things as they are.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
The Outer World: Birthday Party
Meave pointed out that this blog is almost all about my inner life. And, honestly, how interesting is that to anybody but myself? For the remainder of my loyal readers, here is a couple peeks into my extremely pedestrian and boring life.
See, no story there worth sharing....
See, no story there worth sharing....
Friday, October 13, 2006
End of Story
A great flower darkens the sky
dusky petals mile-long veins
One word; it shatters
The light goes everywhere.
I forget, again and again, how good the truth tastes.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Note to Self
When stressed and worried, it's not enough to stretch and breathe and try to move ch'i in the body.
The emotions and mental state are the source of the imbalance. These worries born of worry need to be addressed at the level of the heart.
So: when worry arises, to cultivate openheartedness, curiousity and surrender. The sense that, if I allow it, the right response will come forward. That our every experience is the ripening and the coalescing of new karma.
So much energy is lost to worry, and so much inner devastation is wreaked--to no benefit--on its account.
The emotions and mental state are the source of the imbalance. These worries born of worry need to be addressed at the level of the heart.
So: when worry arises, to cultivate openheartedness, curiousity and surrender. The sense that, if I allow it, the right response will come forward. That our every experience is the ripening and the coalescing of new karma.
So much energy is lost to worry, and so much inner devastation is wreaked--to no benefit--on its account.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
On the Bus
Since moving to Portland, the city bus system has been my primary mode of transportation. The Tri-Met bus drivers are a special breed. This morning the driver, who seemed quite normal in every other respect, was flossing his teeth at the stoplights. Last night on the 15, the driver was offering peculiar comedic insights over the PA system.
Of course the passengers can be pretty odd as well. I'm thinking of the giant transvestite who shared my space last night, perfectly coiffed and muttering to herself.
Often when I ride I occupy myself with some silent chanting. The Metta Sutta is best; it speaks so movingly to the tableau of human life sighing and quivering and ranting all around.
Of course the passengers can be pretty odd as well. I'm thinking of the giant transvestite who shared my space last night, perfectly coiffed and muttering to herself.
Often when I ride I occupy myself with some silent chanting. The Metta Sutta is best; it speaks so movingly to the tableau of human life sighing and quivering and ranting all around.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
In Honor of September 31
Many Septembers ago, when my mother was five years old, she took herself to school. She was five years old, and the cutoff date for first grade was October 1. If you weren't six years old by then, you waited another year.
My mother's birthday was October 31st. She would have to wait to start school until she was almost seven.
Even so, when her older brother got on the school bus, she did too.
The principal contacted my grandfather. The cutoff date was October 1; wasn't she too young?
Why no, my grandfather replied. She squeaks in just under the wire; her birthday is September 31.
The principal accepted that answer, and my talented little mother stayed in school. Whether she grew up to be as brazen as her father is another question!
[Little Uncle Fred; Grandma Madeline; Little Ann]
My mother's birthday was October 31st. She would have to wait to start school until she was almost seven.
Even so, when her older brother got on the school bus, she did too.
The principal contacted my grandfather. The cutoff date was October 1; wasn't she too young?
Why no, my grandfather replied. She squeaks in just under the wire; her birthday is September 31.
The principal accepted that answer, and my talented little mother stayed in school. Whether she grew up to be as brazen as her father is another question!
[Little Uncle Fred; Grandma Madeline; Little Ann]
Losing Boris Albinder [Part 2]
The post below, originally from September 23 2006, has been modified from its original form. I wrote it initially as an exploration of my feelings in response to the death of a young man I liked but did not know well, whose death nevertheless affected me quite profoundly.
At the time I considered “anonymizing” the personal information, since what I wrote was, in many ways, not about him as much as it was about me and my inner life. Because his death was publicized, his family was undoubtedly receiving a lot of attention. On the other hand, his death was already a matter of public discourse.
So I wrote a piece, using names, which incorporated what little I knew about the situation. This blog is not a news site; in keeping with that fact, this post is a subjective observation of myself and the world in light of some unfortunate events.
The young man’s mother and stepfather wrote to correct some factual errors I made in the post (looking back, I can see how they happened, but no matter) and also took issue with at least one aspect of my interpretation of the world. I suspect that they disagree with more than they say.
In deference to them I took down the post and, having no other way to contact them, wrote a response on the blog. I haven’t heard back from them. I respect that they would exert their entitlement to “own” some part of their son’s life and legacy. He was clearly an incredible person, and it is because I was touched by him, that I offer what little I can.
I have corrected or elimated the factual mistakes that were pointed out, and I am now posting a corrected version of the original piece. The comments to the original version should still be appended to this post, and my letter in reponse now follows as the next post (for now). I keep these because I think they help explore the point I am getting at.
For all our sakes, I hope that Boris’s nearly twenty years on this earth--and the fleeting news coverage of the end of his life--lead to something other than unmitigated grief and bitterness.
Someone I know died a week ago Friday. I wouldn’t presume to call Boris a friend, but I liked him.
Boris’ grandmother, Bella, worked in the research lab where I earned my PhD. She was a technician and I was a graduate student. There were a trio of Russian-speaking ladies who kept the place going; they were actually Jews, not Russians, and Bella was from Moldova.
Bella was on the phone a lot for family matters, and so I heard Boris’ name a thousand times before I ever met him. When I started to work as a tutor, Bella asked me to work with Boris; I don’t remember if it was math or science, but I do remember sitting with a mild-mannered boy in the break room of the lab, fifteen stories in the air. He had clear golden skin and a good sense of humor. He was fifteen or so, and had the makings of a charming and successful man. At that point, I think, his little sister already had died.
The girl, Bella’s other grandchild, was diagnosed with a childhood cancer when she young--maybe four years old. I only saw her once: she was too weak to walk, so she rode awkwardly in a too-small stroller.
It was wrenching to see and hear the little I did: Bella on the phone, a language I didn’t understand; glimpses of the girl; stories from the pediatric oncology unit, which connected through a maze of hallways and elevators to the quiet genetics lab where I sat, studying genes that dictate the lifespan of C. elegans nematodes. Normally, these millimeter-long creatures live for a few weeks, but with genetic and environmental manipulation, one tiny animal in our care lived for over ninety days. Bella’s granddaughter lived for…maybe two thousand days?
How do you lose a child? Fighting, scared, peaceful; they leave, exhausted. And you have to stay, exhausted.
The little girl’s father, Bella’s son, didn’t stay. He committed suicide. This second loss seemed like too much for anyone to bear. We worried about Bella, and about Boris. Everyone in the lab went to the funeral.
It was my first time in a funeral home; and I was struck by the refuge of awkward formality. A Star of David hung over the casket. Down in front, I could see Boris, people shaking his hand. What an awful time this must be for him. He was mobbed with attention; with people’s imaginings of what his life must be like; of what his life would become. Enough projection for one very young man. I left him alone.
I didn’t see Boris again. I left the lab, left science, lived in Zen monasteries, and just this fall moved to Portland, Oregon. I have begun to work as a tutor again.
I got the news about Boris on Monday, right before a session with a golden-skinned, bright and charismatic boy—like Boris—Jewish, athletic and still somewhat innocent to the world. Because I was in the shock that comes immediately after bad news, and the session was unremarkable.
And life contiues unremarkably. Except for these headaches I’ve been having. And the strains of the old antiwar song--written in the wake of the American Civil War—that have been going through my head:
And there have dreams, too, about war: bombs on the farm where I was raised; bombs that sweep rows of houses away. People in the rubble, looking for food.
I didn’t know exactly how Boris had died, only that he had been killed. As I thought back over the circumstances of his life it occurred to me that he might have fallen in with a bad crowd. I could not imagine Bella’s grief.
So I made inquiries, and today there was an article in the paper. Boris died coming to a friend’s aid in a fight over a parking spot. Seems that he and a friend were driving somewhere, and the friend hopped out to claim a spot by standing in it, while Boris circled around to come at it from the right direction. As the friend stood there, a bunch of guys in a van tried to take the spot; bumped the friend with the vehicle; and then jumped out and started beating the crap out of him.
At this point Boris shows up. What would you do? What would you like to say you had done? There are five of them.
You have to remember, this is San Francisco, where parking is serious business. That aspect of the story gives the senseless violence an absurd twist—propelling it onto the evening news, and selling newspapers. “Youth Dies Over Parking Spot”—but that misses the fact that Boris died, not for the sake of parking, but coming to the aid of his friend.
The man who killed him was a Cambodian refugee, unable at last to get his life together after past scarred by genocide and brutality (How do I know this? If you are Cambodian, and you’re still alive, that’s what the past was.)
Bella herself was a refugee, who escaped anti-Jewish violence in Moldova in the 90s, and nothing could convince her that Israel should make concessions of any kind. I can still hear her, insistently, her accent, saying “Where can we be safe?”
There is a makeshift memorial now, by the parking spot. A blurry photo there, reproduced in the newspaper, shows a body more adult than I recall. Turns out he was a swimmer. He looks well, and healthy, more mature than I recall.
I‘ve been praying and talking to him as I sit, and I know Boris is in a good place now. But there is no place in this world where any of us are truly safe, or insulated from sorrow and harm: not in Israel, Moldova, Portland or San Francisco; not while we destroy others’ lives and our own.
There’s war outside and a war inside, and lives of value and promise are snuffed out by some hijacked notion of entitlement, some forcible version of how the world should be.
Even so, these things come as a shock. Because it is so lovely to sink into a life of plenty and comparative comfort. If I’ve been dwelling on the other side of things lately in my writings and musings, it’s because I want to keep remembering there is a price and a context to my life.
FROM THE SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
A 19-year-old Pacifica man was stabbed to death in a dispute over a parking space on Geary Boulevard over the weekend, and San Francisco police have arrested his alleged killer, a former Cambodian refugee featured in a documentary about immigrant life in the Tenderloin.
The victim, identified Monday as Boris Albinder, whose parents were Russian immigrants, died Saturday morning of stab wounds he suffered during a brawl just after midnight in front of a club at Geary and Third Avenue.
The fight began when a friend of Albinder's tried to reserve an empty parking space for him as he drove to the Richmond District neighborhood for a private party at the club. A van with several men in it started to pull into the spot, and when Albinder's friend tried to shoo them away, the van nudged him twice, police said.
Albinder drove up to find his friend struggling with as many as five men who had been in the van, investigators said. Albinder got out to join the fight and was stabbed. He died later that morning at San Francisco General Hospital.
Police pulled over a van in the 300 block of Leavenworth Street at 12:38 a.m. that matched the one involved in the clash and arrested Pounloeu Chea, 25, of San Francisco, said Sgt. Steve Mannina, a department spokesman. Chea has been booked on one count of murder and five counts of assault, police said.
Albinder was remembered Monday as a hardworking, dedicated athlete and student who graduated from St. Ignatius College Preparatory High School last year.
"It's awful and devastating, any time you lose someone this young," said Joe Vollert, director of development at the school, who taught Albinder in a math class. "It's a life gone too soon.''
Albinder was on the school's swim team and was ranked among the top competitors in the region in the butterfly stroke during his senior year, said a coach, Greg McCarthy.
"He was a great guy," McCarthy said. "His senior year, he matured quite a bit. He was very respectful. He led his team very well.''
A friend of Albinder's, Joe Hills, said Albinder had been taking classes at Skyline Community College.
"He was a real genuine guy. He always spoke his mind,'' Hills said. "I guess you could say he lived each day,'' he said.
His death, Hills said, was senseless. "All over a parking spot.''
Chea, whose family fled the Khmer Rouge in the 1980s, was featured three years ago in a 20-minute documentary film, "Who I Became," about the life of Asian immigrants in the Tenderloin.
The film portrayed Chea's struggles to escape the street in recent years after first his mother and then his father returned to Cambodia. At one point, Chea was convicted of taking part in a car-theft and smuggling ring, but was allowed to stay in the United States as long as he fulfilled the terms of his probation, said one of the filmmakers, Mike Siv.
Siv said Monday that he had seen Chea a few times in the Tenderloin since the documentary came out in 2003, and that he still appeared to be hanging out on the street.
In the year that Siv worked on the film, Chea completed a construction training program but was told he couldn't get a job unless he had a high school degree, Siv said. A friend got Chea work at a hotel, but he couldn't keep it.
"When I was following him, he wanted to stay away from the street life,'' Siv said. But he added, "I don't think he ever got his GED. All he had to do is get a GED.''
Siv said Chea had a young son and was living with his girlfriend in the Tenderloin.
Siv said he was sad but not surprised that Chea had been arrested. "When you are put at a disadvantage, it's hard to dig yourself out," he said. "He chose his lifestyle. For him to be arrested ... to tell you the truth, it was a matter of time.''
E-mail Jaxon Van Derbeken at jvanderbeken@sfchronicle.com.
At the time I considered “anonymizing” the personal information, since what I wrote was, in many ways, not about him as much as it was about me and my inner life. Because his death was publicized, his family was undoubtedly receiving a lot of attention. On the other hand, his death was already a matter of public discourse.
So I wrote a piece, using names, which incorporated what little I knew about the situation. This blog is not a news site; in keeping with that fact, this post is a subjective observation of myself and the world in light of some unfortunate events.
The young man’s mother and stepfather wrote to correct some factual errors I made in the post (looking back, I can see how they happened, but no matter) and also took issue with at least one aspect of my interpretation of the world. I suspect that they disagree with more than they say.
In deference to them I took down the post and, having no other way to contact them, wrote a response on the blog. I haven’t heard back from them. I respect that they would exert their entitlement to “own” some part of their son’s life and legacy. He was clearly an incredible person, and it is because I was touched by him, that I offer what little I can.
I have corrected or elimated the factual mistakes that were pointed out, and I am now posting a corrected version of the original piece. The comments to the original version should still be appended to this post, and my letter in reponse now follows as the next post (for now). I keep these because I think they help explore the point I am getting at.
For all our sakes, I hope that Boris’s nearly twenty years on this earth--and the fleeting news coverage of the end of his life--lead to something other than unmitigated grief and bitterness.
Someone I know died a week ago Friday. I wouldn’t presume to call Boris a friend, but I liked him.
Boris’ grandmother, Bella, worked in the research lab where I earned my PhD. She was a technician and I was a graduate student. There were a trio of Russian-speaking ladies who kept the place going; they were actually Jews, not Russians, and Bella was from Moldova.
Bella was on the phone a lot for family matters, and so I heard Boris’ name a thousand times before I ever met him. When I started to work as a tutor, Bella asked me to work with Boris; I don’t remember if it was math or science, but I do remember sitting with a mild-mannered boy in the break room of the lab, fifteen stories in the air. He had clear golden skin and a good sense of humor. He was fifteen or so, and had the makings of a charming and successful man. At that point, I think, his little sister already had died.
The girl, Bella’s other grandchild, was diagnosed with a childhood cancer when she young--maybe four years old. I only saw her once: she was too weak to walk, so she rode awkwardly in a too-small stroller.
It was wrenching to see and hear the little I did: Bella on the phone, a language I didn’t understand; glimpses of the girl; stories from the pediatric oncology unit, which connected through a maze of hallways and elevators to the quiet genetics lab where I sat, studying genes that dictate the lifespan of C. elegans nematodes. Normally, these millimeter-long creatures live for a few weeks, but with genetic and environmental manipulation, one tiny animal in our care lived for over ninety days. Bella’s granddaughter lived for…maybe two thousand days?
How do you lose a child? Fighting, scared, peaceful; they leave, exhausted. And you have to stay, exhausted.
The little girl’s father, Bella’s son, didn’t stay. He committed suicide. This second loss seemed like too much for anyone to bear. We worried about Bella, and about Boris. Everyone in the lab went to the funeral.
It was my first time in a funeral home; and I was struck by the refuge of awkward formality. A Star of David hung over the casket. Down in front, I could see Boris, people shaking his hand. What an awful time this must be for him. He was mobbed with attention; with people’s imaginings of what his life must be like; of what his life would become. Enough projection for one very young man. I left him alone.
I didn’t see Boris again. I left the lab, left science, lived in Zen monasteries, and just this fall moved to Portland, Oregon. I have begun to work as a tutor again.
I got the news about Boris on Monday, right before a session with a golden-skinned, bright and charismatic boy—like Boris—Jewish, athletic and still somewhat innocent to the world. Because I was in the shock that comes immediately after bad news, and the session was unremarkable.
And life contiues unremarkably. Except for these headaches I’ve been having. And the strains of the old antiwar song--written in the wake of the American Civil War—that have been going through my head:
Last night I dreamed the strangest dream
I’d never dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war.
I dreamed I saw a mighty room
All filled with women and men
And the papers they were signing said
They’d never fight again.
And when the papers were all signed
And a million copies made
They all joined hands and bowed their heads
And grateful prayers were prayed.
The people in the streets below
Were dancing round and round
While guns and swords and uniforms
Lay scattered on the ground.
Last night I dreamed the strangest dream
I’d never dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war.
And there have dreams, too, about war: bombs on the farm where I was raised; bombs that sweep rows of houses away. People in the rubble, looking for food.
I didn’t know exactly how Boris had died, only that he had been killed. As I thought back over the circumstances of his life it occurred to me that he might have fallen in with a bad crowd. I could not imagine Bella’s grief.
So I made inquiries, and today there was an article in the paper. Boris died coming to a friend’s aid in a fight over a parking spot. Seems that he and a friend were driving somewhere, and the friend hopped out to claim a spot by standing in it, while Boris circled around to come at it from the right direction. As the friend stood there, a bunch of guys in a van tried to take the spot; bumped the friend with the vehicle; and then jumped out and started beating the crap out of him.
At this point Boris shows up. What would you do? What would you like to say you had done? There are five of them.
You have to remember, this is San Francisco, where parking is serious business. That aspect of the story gives the senseless violence an absurd twist—propelling it onto the evening news, and selling newspapers. “Youth Dies Over Parking Spot”—but that misses the fact that Boris died, not for the sake of parking, but coming to the aid of his friend.
The man who killed him was a Cambodian refugee, unable at last to get his life together after past scarred by genocide and brutality (How do I know this? If you are Cambodian, and you’re still alive, that’s what the past was.)
Bella herself was a refugee, who escaped anti-Jewish violence in Moldova in the 90s, and nothing could convince her that Israel should make concessions of any kind. I can still hear her, insistently, her accent, saying “Where can we be safe?”
There is a makeshift memorial now, by the parking spot. A blurry photo there, reproduced in the newspaper, shows a body more adult than I recall. Turns out he was a swimmer. He looks well, and healthy, more mature than I recall.
I‘ve been praying and talking to him as I sit, and I know Boris is in a good place now. But there is no place in this world where any of us are truly safe, or insulated from sorrow and harm: not in Israel, Moldova, Portland or San Francisco; not while we destroy others’ lives and our own.
There’s war outside and a war inside, and lives of value and promise are snuffed out by some hijacked notion of entitlement, some forcible version of how the world should be.
Even so, these things come as a shock. Because it is so lovely to sink into a life of plenty and comparative comfort. If I’ve been dwelling on the other side of things lately in my writings and musings, it’s because I want to keep remembering there is a price and a context to my life.
FROM THE SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
A 19-year-old Pacifica man was stabbed to death in a dispute over a parking space on Geary Boulevard over the weekend, and San Francisco police have arrested his alleged killer, a former Cambodian refugee featured in a documentary about immigrant life in the Tenderloin.
The victim, identified Monday as Boris Albinder, whose parents were Russian immigrants, died Saturday morning of stab wounds he suffered during a brawl just after midnight in front of a club at Geary and Third Avenue.
The fight began when a friend of Albinder's tried to reserve an empty parking space for him as he drove to the Richmond District neighborhood for a private party at the club. A van with several men in it started to pull into the spot, and when Albinder's friend tried to shoo them away, the van nudged him twice, police said.
Albinder drove up to find his friend struggling with as many as five men who had been in the van, investigators said. Albinder got out to join the fight and was stabbed. He died later that morning at San Francisco General Hospital.
Police pulled over a van in the 300 block of Leavenworth Street at 12:38 a.m. that matched the one involved in the clash and arrested Pounloeu Chea, 25, of San Francisco, said Sgt. Steve Mannina, a department spokesman. Chea has been booked on one count of murder and five counts of assault, police said.
Albinder was remembered Monday as a hardworking, dedicated athlete and student who graduated from St. Ignatius College Preparatory High School last year.
"It's awful and devastating, any time you lose someone this young," said Joe Vollert, director of development at the school, who taught Albinder in a math class. "It's a life gone too soon.''
Albinder was on the school's swim team and was ranked among the top competitors in the region in the butterfly stroke during his senior year, said a coach, Greg McCarthy.
"He was a great guy," McCarthy said. "His senior year, he matured quite a bit. He was very respectful. He led his team very well.''
A friend of Albinder's, Joe Hills, said Albinder had been taking classes at Skyline Community College.
"He was a real genuine guy. He always spoke his mind,'' Hills said. "I guess you could say he lived each day,'' he said.
His death, Hills said, was senseless. "All over a parking spot.''
Chea, whose family fled the Khmer Rouge in the 1980s, was featured three years ago in a 20-minute documentary film, "Who I Became," about the life of Asian immigrants in the Tenderloin.
The film portrayed Chea's struggles to escape the street in recent years after first his mother and then his father returned to Cambodia. At one point, Chea was convicted of taking part in a car-theft and smuggling ring, but was allowed to stay in the United States as long as he fulfilled the terms of his probation, said one of the filmmakers, Mike Siv.
Siv said Monday that he had seen Chea a few times in the Tenderloin since the documentary came out in 2003, and that he still appeared to be hanging out on the street.
In the year that Siv worked on the film, Chea completed a construction training program but was told he couldn't get a job unless he had a high school degree, Siv said. A friend got Chea work at a hotel, but he couldn't keep it.
"When I was following him, he wanted to stay away from the street life,'' Siv said. But he added, "I don't think he ever got his GED. All he had to do is get a GED.''
Siv said Chea had a young son and was living with his girlfriend in the Tenderloin.
Siv said he was sad but not surprised that Chea had been arrested. "When you are put at a disadvantage, it's hard to dig yourself out," he said. "He chose his lifestyle. For him to be arrested ... to tell you the truth, it was a matter of time.''
E-mail Jaxon Van Derbeken at jvanderbeken@sfchronicle.com.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Confidential to Helen & Vadim
Dear Friends,
I appreciate your comment on my post about losing Boris Albinder. Because there is no way to respond privately to your post, I will respond publicly here, and hope you will excuse me:
First, please accept my condolences for the loss of Boris. There is no way I can imagine your pain, and perhaps it is better to keep my thoughts to myself rather than to have an opinion about something that is so tragic and so personal. Even a well-intentioned homage may be inappropriate.
Boris was one of my favorite students, and his death has been very difficult for me. I did not know him well, but even a simple acquaintanceship was sufficient to see his goodness and strength of character. That he died coming to a friend's aid is the only bright spot in this grief.
As you noted I made some factual mistakes in the piece I wrote: I must have mistaken the address for Third St and Geary and thought of the Tenderloin--I imagined they might be going to that Indian restaurant there that's so good. But yes, like you I would never have imagined Boris driving around the Tenderloin looking for trouble!
And sorry about the T Shirt; I was thinking of something else, and imagined the connection to the lab.
Finally, about sympathizing with his attacker: I will admit I was surprised that the article in the newspaper gave so much space to a biography of the person who killed Boris. I felt it was insensitive and inappropriate.
Having said that, I think it is naive to imagine that the Cambodian genocide would not have an impact even today. The two Cambodians I have known were defined by it; they grew up in refugee camps. They were kind and peaceful, as people can be, even though they have experienced violent conditions.
However, almost always a vicious person has had a terrible childhood, and the point I was hoping to make was that violence and anger propagate and move in cycles. Stopping those cycles of anger and violence takes place inside each person's heart, first and foremost. This is not to say we should forget, or even forgive. But when our pain and grief is replaced by anger, we do harm to the world, and we harm ourselves.
This has been my personal experience with the deaths and misfortunes of my own life. It is extremely difficult to just feel the pain--anger seems so easy and right. That is what I work on as I think about your son. I cannot express how sorry I am that he has been taken from you, and from the world.
Your Respectfully.
I appreciate your comment on my post about losing Boris Albinder. Because there is no way to respond privately to your post, I will respond publicly here, and hope you will excuse me:
First, please accept my condolences for the loss of Boris. There is no way I can imagine your pain, and perhaps it is better to keep my thoughts to myself rather than to have an opinion about something that is so tragic and so personal. Even a well-intentioned homage may be inappropriate.
Boris was one of my favorite students, and his death has been very difficult for me. I did not know him well, but even a simple acquaintanceship was sufficient to see his goodness and strength of character. That he died coming to a friend's aid is the only bright spot in this grief.
As you noted I made some factual mistakes in the piece I wrote: I must have mistaken the address for Third St and Geary and thought of the Tenderloin--I imagined they might be going to that Indian restaurant there that's so good. But yes, like you I would never have imagined Boris driving around the Tenderloin looking for trouble!
And sorry about the T Shirt; I was thinking of something else, and imagined the connection to the lab.
Finally, about sympathizing with his attacker: I will admit I was surprised that the article in the newspaper gave so much space to a biography of the person who killed Boris. I felt it was insensitive and inappropriate.
Having said that, I think it is naive to imagine that the Cambodian genocide would not have an impact even today. The two Cambodians I have known were defined by it; they grew up in refugee camps. They were kind and peaceful, as people can be, even though they have experienced violent conditions.
However, almost always a vicious person has had a terrible childhood, and the point I was hoping to make was that violence and anger propagate and move in cycles. Stopping those cycles of anger and violence takes place inside each person's heart, first and foremost. This is not to say we should forget, or even forgive. But when our pain and grief is replaced by anger, we do harm to the world, and we harm ourselves.
This has been my personal experience with the deaths and misfortunes of my own life. It is extremely difficult to just feel the pain--anger seems so easy and right. That is what I work on as I think about your son. I cannot express how sorry I am that he has been taken from you, and from the world.
Your Respectfully.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Feeling
I need to feel a little bit every day.
The body slowly opens; it doesn't always want to.
And so often the First Noble Truth is manifest:
There is always something to stretch the heart with grief. Or fear.
Always some new story of greatness or evil (or happily-ever-after-ness).
None of this Truth can be controlled or cut off. I do know though, that if I feel, the energy of thought and emotion flows through rather than becoming trapped in the body.
Trapped energy is tightness and dysfunction: I can say that from my own experience. And I think that reluctance to feel is one of the main impediments to spiritual practice.
The body slowly opens; it doesn't always want to.
And so often the First Noble Truth is manifest:
There is always something to stretch the heart with grief. Or fear.
Always some new story of greatness or evil (or happily-ever-after-ness).
None of this Truth can be controlled or cut off. I do know though, that if I feel, the energy of thought and emotion flows through rather than becoming trapped in the body.
Trapped energy is tightness and dysfunction: I can say that from my own experience. And I think that reluctance to feel is one of the main impediments to spiritual practice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
