Remembering Bear Pross

August 14, 1950 - July 20, 2010

These things are awkward you know, because we’re all going to be emotional in front of one another. Bear would say, “Well, you’ll just have to get over that.”

When Ellen asked me to speak I of course, said, “Yes.” But that was nearly two weeks ago and it was early this morning that I finally made myself sit down and put some words on paper. In my procrastination I found this passage:

“When sudden loss or trouble occurs, we feel shock and bewilderment. For so long we expected things to be as they have been, had taken this as much for granted as the air we breathe. And suddenly it is not so. Maybe tomorrow we will wake up to discover it was all just a temporary mistake, and that things are back to normal. After the shock passes, fear and despair arrive. We are anxious about our uncertain future, over which we have so little control. It’s easy to fall into the paralysis of despair, caroming back to our childish default position of feeling completely vulnerable and unprepared in a harsh and hostile world. This fearful feeling of self-diminishment may darken our view to such an extent that we find ourselves wondering whether we are worthwhile people, whether we’re capable of surviving in this tough world, whether we deserve to survive, whether our lives matter, whether there is any point in trying to do anything at all.”

So wrote Norman Fischer, an American Zen teacher.

My partner John and I have known Bear and David for nearly 20 years. We know each other so well, that it is actually difficult to know what we know.

As I was looking through photos I thought, “When was that vacation? Where did we have that meal? Where was that photo taken? What was that cat’s name? Which Christmas was that?”

Our experiences together blend in such a way that the essence—the love, laughter and impressions of our intermingled friendship—push details into the far background.
The details really don’t matter…what I am left with is the reality that Bear’s love, wit, charm, passion, fussiness, and sense of deep personal responsibility to the world are all, now, every bit as much a part of me as they were a part of him. And perhaps, you feel this way, too.

I think that’s what Bear intended.

Bear Pross was, and I think continues to be a great teacher. You could not be with Bear without learning something, without being changed.

The lessons he taught are everywhere. They are in the design of our home, where in every room I can find a photo of him, or David, or us, or some collection of cats that lived on Hillsdale…or a photo taken by Bear.

I have on our fireplace mantel a red ribbon—one of the thousands of ubiquitous red ribbons that Bear wore as long as I knew him. The red ribbon I have was a gift from Bear, a lesson packaged as a gift, really.

The note that came with the ribbon is a lesson on history, of his participation in a march on Washington DC in the 1980s.

The note, handwritten in that script that was so remarkably and unmistakably Bear’s, tells in one page of the passion, anger, fear, and intolerance that was so horribly present during the early years of the AIDS pandemic.

And of how this ribbon is a cutting of a larger ribbon used in the march.

Today, the world is a bit kinder, and we are all a bit healthier because of Bear’s participation, not only in that march, but because of the march he did everyday—through his neighborhood, through Lansing, through the halls of hundreds of hospitals, clinics, and training sites; through San Francisco, and Washington, DC. He also left evidence of his marches in our hearts.

Bear taught us to:
love everyone,
question everything,
leave everything better than we found it,
use profanity,
have manners,
and be polite (but not unnecessarily).

He taught us that a beautifully decorated Christmas tree had one primary purpose: that for at least three months the tree had to withstand the antics and explorations of numerous cats (some who were permanent residents and others who David snuck in). Oh, and that you needed as many Christmas trees as you had public rooms in your home (this is a tradition that we still uphold…profanity fills the halls of our home every year on the Friday after Thanksgiving when we start the process of installing numerous holiday trees).

He reminded us that wrapping a gift is an art—it required a glue gun, costume jewelry, yards of ribbon, and anything else that you might find while assembling the gift. Sometimes, the adornments on the gift were more remarkable than the gifts!

He taught us that one did not make a cheesecake—one allowed the ingredients to somehow miraculously emerge into the best dessert you could possibly imagine. And that the only whipped cream option had to be hand whisked in a cold copper bowl and should include a little liqueur.

He handed down his mother’s macaroni and cheese recipe to us—with all sorts of annotated instructions (“you can use any white cheddar, but the best is really Vermont or Wisconsin; top with sliced tomatoes or a pretty, veined cheese…”).

Bear also was a student of beauty…he noticed everything in detail. Flowers, food, children, décor, and of course men. (He would unabashedly ask any handsome man if he might take their photo. They might look taken aback, but I never saw any of them decline the invitation. Bear put them at ease and his charm and sincerity seemed to leave them feeling proud, just of being who they were).

He was overwhelmingly sincere. When he gave you a compliment, you wanted to thank him, because you knew he really meant it. And when he was critical, you knew he was right. He was impossible to disagree with.

Bear taught us that collecting Waterford is not extravagant—it is a basic necessity. The stairs and halls of the lovely home that he shares with David is a collection!

Oh, and that any book worth having was worth having two or three copies of.

When you left Bear and David’s, it was probable that you left with much more than you came with—a book, a photo, a cheesecake, crystal…and sometimes a cat.

David once (actually numerous time) invited us over to pick a kitten out to take home. He assured us that although the mother was feral, the 6-week old kittens were docile. Of course, they were under the porch or in some crevasse that required careful entry. Bear and I stood back in the driveway while David carefully coached John, whose hand was provided the protection of an oven mitt. David cooed at Mama Cat, assuring her that all was well and that we were good cat parents, while John tried to have faith in this disaster waiting to happen. Bear and I watched from afar. John finally offered his oven-mitted hand to the kittens, only to be met with Mama Cat’s teeth and at least 10 feral claws. John flailed waving Mama Cat back and forth. She was puffed up and hissy and had become an extension of his oven mitt. Mama Cat and John’s arm were finally parted. Bear and I laughed uncontrollably, which further upset John. Bear finally said, “Well, that went well.” David, seemingly having not noticed the entire thing said very quietly, “Well, let’s try one more time.”

Hunter S. Thompson wrote,
"Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of
arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!"

Bear did that—he lived life out loud, with passion, gusto, and no fear. We were all his students. Bear, we love you.