The Dead People I’m Still Friends with on Facebook
By: David Tran
Tags: Teaching, Death, Personal Development, Boxing, Facebook

Facebook sent a reminder that it was Lucky’s birthday, my boxing instructor whom passed in September 2014. I hate this feature because there are some things I don’t want to be reminded of — like my dead friends’ birthdays. I was overwhelmed while browsing the messages left by his friends, family, and students. His page is a digital memorial, but I don’t leave a message. What do I write? The dead can’t read, but I’d gladly welcome the idea that I am wrong. All of them, including myself, miss him.

After a friend’s wedding in 2010, my girlfriend and I were watching the video of her moonwalking in heels. We had been together for as long as the recently wedded couple. “Do you ever think about us getting married?” We had been together for 3 years. I don’t remember much after the “no.” We broke up a week later.

Afterwards, I altered my life: I buzzed my hair, deleted her photos, updated my dating status, took up photography, reorganized the apartment, and began boxing. The chiseled fighters, athletes, and soldiers filled the sweltering gym. I was a doughy, sad man that didn’t know the first thing about boxing, but it didn’t stop me from trying, because inside, I was crumbling. Anything was better than nothing, which was what I felt every day.

Lucky, an ex-boxer from South Africa, was the club instructor. “Do you know how to wrap your hands?” I didn’t. It was humbling offering him my hands. I felt like a child having his shoelaces tied for him. “It’s important to pad the wrists,” he said, slamming my fist into his palm. “Keep them straight. Lazy punches can break a wrist.” He said all this with a smile.

Sept. 8, 2014 — “Picked my son up from bed, trying to wake him up for daycare. Noticed something jabbing me in the ribs. Then realized it was his 4-year old baby boner.” — that was my last status update that Lucky liked.

Each boxing class was grueling. We jump-roped, ran the stairs, endured endless push-ups and sit-ups, and tossed a 25 lb. medicine ball — and that was warm up. Lucky would demonstrate the day’s combination. I’d practice against my reflection — a sweaty, mouth-breathing man, but Lucky danced around and cheered on his fighters. He called each one of us “Champ.”

As a teacher of special needs, I appreciated his positive attitude. He met each fighter at his or her skill level. For the pros, he’d address advanced technique. For novices, he demonstrated form. He encouraged me to dig deeper. “A fighter only knows how good he is when he fights tired. You haven’t met yourself yet.” So, even gassed, I continued boxing, but not because of me, but because Lucky begged me to keep punching. Students don’t always work hard for themselves, they sometimes do it for their teachers. I did it for Lucky, and in time I learned to do it for myself.

Facebook is a living time capsule. In 2010, I was a cocky and impulsive man-child that posted about food, fantasy football, and criticisms. Now, I post about my children and links to articles, sometimes my own. My life looks vanilla, but I’d like to think that time has turned me into someone more thoughtful and considerate.

The last time I saw Lucky was at the top of the W San Diego Hotel. It was my going-away party, which also happened to coincide with Pride Week which led to a drag show joining our party, a pleasant and memorable surprise. He told me how proud he was of me for following my dream. I was leaving to teach in Asia, and he had been taking city college classes in education, hoping to be a teacher someday. I was drunk and don’t remember much of what I said, but I was grateful to have him there. He taught multiple boxing classes and trained fighters, so his time was limited, but on that night, he made time so we could have a proper good-bye. His blurry profile picture is of him with a beer on a rooftop bar standing in front of the city lights. I can’t be for certain that it was my going-away party, but everything in me wants to believe it is.

When I’m gone, my friends may do as I did, scroll through a memorialized Facebook page, revisiting short posts, quirky selfies, and a collection of likes. My page will be an archive of my life for my loved ones to visit, like a digital headstone.

I can’t remember Lucky as a whole person, but rather in little facts and anecdotes. His wife couldn’t have children and told him to find another woman to bear him one, but he declined. He loved her, and only her. Children didn’t define their marriage.

When he pronounced his given South African name, he clicked his tongue. It was amazing to hear.

On that last night, I told him to visit me in Vietnam. “No bullshit.” Looking back, if I knew it would be our last meeting, I don’t know if I would gush, telling him everything I have ever thought since his passing, but instead I would have spent more time asking him questions. Listening. Learning. I would have tried to be a student of his life.

Afterwards, I didn’t give him, or anyone else for that matter, much thought. Vietnam was my life. Like any expat, I traveled, ate, and documented my exploits on Facebook, which he liked. I was going to write this great memoir, but I didn’t because I had fallen in love with a Saigonese woman. Though San Diego was another life, I still boxed when I could, punching an old mattress or sparring against my reflection. I can still hear his words. “Don’t square up. Chin down. Eyes forward. Hands up. Make him miss, make him pay.”

Recently, my son witnessed a fight and asked my advice on what to do if he was cornered in the bathroom. “Yell,” I said. “Or pull away and run.”

“But what if they trap me in the bathroom like they did to that boy?” My 9-year old’s words frightened me, but I didn’t flinch.

“Kick him in the shin,” I said. “Or kick him in the balls.”

“Really?” He lit up at the possibility of being allowed to fight.

“Really. It’s called self-defense. You have the right to protect yourself. And if you’re close to his face, punch him in the nose. I’ll teach you.” I told him to make a fist, which I slammed into my palm.

In September 2014, Lucky died, but I didn’t learn of it until January — a complication from asthma. No one knew he was sick, because even weeks before his passing, he was still training fighters. The local gyms and fighters hosted a fundraiser to send his remains back to Africa. I missed it all on Facebook.

Today, I am the same age as when he passed.

I wrap my son’s wrists. “Keep them straight. Lazy punches can hurt your wrist.”

“Who taught you,” he asks.

I playfully slap him with a pool noodle that he’ll hit and dodge. “A good man. His name was Lucky. I’ll show you pictures of him later. I think there are even videos of him fighting. It’s all on his Facebook page.”