Gregory James Potter
Eulogy for Gregory James Potter
A Rare & Special Light
August 28, 2003
How does sunlight describe the Sun? We have been blessed to breathe
this moment's bittersweet air only because we have been lit and become
the light that was born in the breast of a gentle soul before he drew
first breath and tasted Earthly flight. Gregory James Potter was the Sun
and in our living we go forth as his eternal light. Our task from this
time forth is to live as couriers of the joy he bestowed to each of us
in so many ways. Ours is the task of taking Greg's love and laughter and
compassion and sharing those gifts with the next child whose path we
cross; with the next soul whose way is lost.
It is written in Jeremiah 18:2, "Go down to the Potter's house and
there I will give you My message." On November 13 of 1968 this world
received a newborn life, a child of mischievous grin and delighted eyes.
Fate would have this child separated from his family of origin, only to
months later encounter the family of his destiny. For the Sky had
whispered into his tiny ears: "Go down to the Potter's house and there I
will give you My message . . . "
This eight-month-old sensed the overwhelming love flowing from the
woman he had just met, a love he had been deprived of since birth. He
knew this new woman was his salvation. She knew this new baby would be
hers. He clung tightly to her and would not let go. Her heart melted
into a pool of devotion that would never evaporate.
In this new home, this Potter's house, baby Greg would receive his
Divine message. And though we may have failed all these years to
understand fully what this message was, all along Greg was the living
embodiment of his God-given purpose. His Master Drumbeat spoke loud unto
him from the dawn of his days. It said: Go forth and love the children
and the people of this world. Love them with a quickness for their time
is short. Love them with a smile. Love them when they hurt you. Love
them all the while. Love them when they scorn your sable skin. Love them
as they steady stray and sin. For these are My children and they fail to
love each other in the same way they proclaim their love for Me. Show
them what Godly loving truly means. This shall be your purpose, child.
Greg obeyed this Word. As Mom and Dad bathed him in affection, Greg
returned the favor with an absolute devotion to his family. He ran
around the house, restless for action. His little legs pumping like
pistons, he was racing life from the beginning. Racing to sneak cookies
from the jar, racing to open presents on Christmas morning. Racing to
make someone, anyone laugh. Racing with friends up and down 43rd street
and then 47th street. Racing to escape the wrath of our neighborhood
whirlwind, Dean Cummings. From the moment Greg could run, he sprinted
like the wind. And any of you who know Dean know that you had to have
inhuman speed to outrun him!
Our house was always full with Greg's wisecracks and mischief. He
showered his sister Kristin with his affection by tormenting the
freckles off her face. She reciprocated with her own world-class level
of sister warfare. In our home we had deep thinkers, deep feelers, loud
voices and quiet demeanors, but Greg's presence was like having a
court-jester jacked up on candy and Kool Aide bouncing from
room-to-room. He split our sides with his physical comedy and his
dead-on impressions. He was a mimic master. We didn't even have to put a
quarter into Greg. He would freely offer up any performance requested on
demand. He was Flip Wilson's Geraldine, Michael Jackson's moonwalk,
Richard Pryor's rawness, Eddie Murphy's outrageousness, and Bill Cosby's
coolness. At Mountain Elementary School he dominated his classrooms with
personality. Forget about English and Math, for him, it was all about,
"How can I get everyone in this room, including the teacher, to crack
up?" Greg never could understand why the subject of happiness wasn't
included in the basic curriculum.
Life was at its peak for Greg in those moments when he could simply
have a fun time with those he loved. In a community focused on education
and work, all Greg cherished was making the tears stop falling down the
cheeks of a crying friend or cheering up Mom by clowning around. Greg's
academics couldn't be measured in textbooks and grades-thank
goodness-his was an exploration and cherishing of the human heart. In
this way, Greg carried an under-appreciated intelligence and a curiosity
for life. He was always interested in what was going on in the world and
he dreamed of traveling abroad. For him, it was always about meeting new
people and feeling alive inside. He was philosophical like Dad about the
nature of humankind. He was passionate about life like Mom. Like his
sister, Kristin, his heart was tender-his feelings got hurt much more
than he let on. It was more important to him to maintain a happy spirit
for those around him. He was so proud of his baby sister, Anna, and his
baby brother, Rudy, as they blossomed from infancy to adulthood. He
admired Rudy's nonconformist freedom and Anna's angelic nature.
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As a small child he set about matching his Grandpa Danz's ornery ways
stride for stride. He took that thick-skinned World War II veteran and
made him putty in his hands. Grandpa couldn't help but fall in Love with
Greg, just like the rest of us. Like rabid fans, they urged on the
Chicago Cubs, Bulls and Bears through the TV set. They forged a
friendship and polished up a rhythm of back-and-forth bragging, jesting,
taunting and harassing anyone in their presence. They expressed their
love like this. Greg's friendship with Grandpa only made him feel that
much more a part of the family that he needed so badly, the identity
that he strove for so enduringly. He needed to be the center of
something, and so many times he was. Right now, in this gathering space,
Greg is smirking with satisfaction, for he is the supreme center of this
moment. He is saying to himself, "If only I could get out there and say
or do something wild to lighten up the mood!"
We have our memories of him break-dancing at school, so often more
physically talented than others. He loved music, a wide range of music,
just like the wide range of people he made feel special. In the morning,
getting ready for school, Greg primped and preened. He loved those
mirrors. Had to have the clothes just right and looking good; the hair
patted down tight. He was built like one of his childhood hero's,
Herschell Walker-all muscle, wound tight and full of promise. He'd flex
his arm and say to Kristin, "Kris, feel that muscle. How you like that?"
and burst on a high note out of the house for school. His smile was
generous and unrestrained. He'd break your ribs with his hugs not
because he was trying to be funny but because he loved you that much. He
needed you to feel loved that much. Just like the desperate grip he had
on Mom when they first met, he held people tight the rest of his days.
Greg loved hanging with family. Grilling green chili cheeseburgers in
the Jemez as we searched for each year's Christmas tree. Churning
homemade ice cream on the mesa top waiting for the Fourth of July sky to
cry its floral colors. If family was the occasion he was at his greatest
peace. His nephew Ben and nieces Michelle and Jordan could not have been
loved more than by their Uncle Greg. He was absolutely the most loyal
family member there could be. In this area of his life, he displayed an
unmistakable sense of responsibility-to care for and be there for his
family.
Pueblo Junior High was but a social internship for his reign at Los
Alamos High School: Burning up the racetrack with Will Stolpe, breaking
tackles on Sullivan field under the bright lights that were envious of
his luminosity. He strode the hallways with style to his gait and
gathered up friends behind him like the Pied Piper as he headed to the
lunchroom. In his wake there was so much admiration, fascination and
appreciation. He fed off of it, but never held onto it. For Greg, the
purpose of receiving the love was always to give it back. He was a clown
but when it came to comforting another, he threw down.
Those who can put any man, woman or child-regardless of race,
ethnicity, age, culture, personality or life circumstance-immediately at
ease in their presence must be called gifted. In this regard, Greg was
rich beyond description. Every single area of his life was an exhibition
for his particular brand of wealth. In Boy Scouts, he earned the merit
badges, but he was far more interested in teaming with his good friend
Rick Wangen to fill the heads of the younger scouts with tantalizing
tales about the Girl Scout camp just over the ridge. From science fair
projects, to Halloween costumes, to fishing trips with his cousin Dale,
Greg didn't just do the moment. He did up the moment. We all were bland
in comparison to his seasoning. He put the frosting on every occasion,
just with his presence.
We have to understand that Greg had a need to be king. Not in an
arrogant way. He was just one of those natural-born performers who had
to shine. On the dance floor, he had to do more. In every way, Greg just
had to be more. And he was more. He had more rhythm, more soul, more
funk, more spirit, more shine, more mouth, more jokes, more love, more
compassion, more loyalty, more energy, more life. We think he passed at
thirty-four, in truth he lived a lifetime more. On the sunny meadow of
Heaven's mountainside, there is a tree that shades all departed souls. A
crowd is gathered there. They listen, entranced, with smiles wide, to a
man holding court and loving every minute of it. He paces, parades,
jokes and gestures, struts and grins. He's on a roll; he's feeling his
flow; he's the whole show. The audience is thinking, "Who's this new guy
and how come we haven't had him perform before?"
Greg was like a rare stallion, bursting at the seams with energy and
hardly one to be kept constrained within the stables and corrals that
growing up presents. When he was young you couldn't get him to color
between the lines with his crayons. His whole life you couldn't get him
to toe the line. He had his own line, his own time, and his own sublime
compass. That sense of direction may have been difficult for us to
understand, but for Greg it was his old and trusted drumbeat calling him
to focus on moments and relationships, not linear processes of living.
He was not linear; he was dazzling entropy. And in that fireworks show
he found a personal comfort and logic that suited him just fine.
As a lifeguard for several years at East Park Pool, Greg was
literally a king, perched high atop the watchtower, chilling in his
shades, bobbing his head up close to the clouds. He marshaled over the
waters, thriving on the knowledge that he was depended on. He soaked up
the hordes of children who admired him so deeply they virtually cried
tears of glee all the way into the deep end as they waded after him,
playing swimming pool games with old rules that took on new pleasure
when Lifeguard Greg was leading the way.
Greg and I were bound by race, adoption, and a bedroom shared. In
that intimate embrace, we spoke a language to each other that could not
be decoded. It is important that we recognize Greg for his extreme
intuition when it came to reading people. To a greater degree than
anyone ever, Greg looked past the surface of my life and sensed the
truth of my journey. It was his journey too-in his case placing
everybody else's expectations that he be the happy keeper of the joy
ahead of his own need to feel as though he belonged. Perhaps part of
Greg's purpose was to walk with me long enough until I could tell our
story and stand on my own. Without contention, Greg, you were your
brother's keeper.
We are being tame in saying that Greg was a storyteller. May the
stories hereafter launched from our lips be of how his circle of family
and friends admired his singular essence. Those stories will reach him
in the place of peace, that world he now dominates with his light. We
can't expect him to write the stories down (at least not legibly!) but
we know that he will keep them as bear hugs tight against his heart.
Greg would want the names of his numerous friends called out in this
moment, because his relationships were everything to him. He lived for
that connection, that intimate sharing and bonding, that harvesting of
memories. He lived for Kenny and Marshall Swain, Debbie and Robbie
Harris, Mike McKay, Brian Wickham, Rick Wangen, Steve Mosley, David and
Chris Motley, Matt Walters, David Valdez, Will Stolpe, Mark Rutherford,
Isaac Varela, Tyler Bone, Steve Chavez, Mike Yanez, John Martinez,
Antoinette Martinez, Heather Sherman, Harl'o Fisher, Mike McNeese,
Jackie Arellano, Sippi Saiz, Freddie de la Cruz, Fermi Romero, Stoney
Sondreal, Perry Rutherford, and the many more for whom Greg would shout
their names to the sky with adoration. Every time Greg and I talked, to
the very end, most of his conversation was about running into or having
heard from so-and-so. What you, his friends, must know is that when he
spoke your name he said it with admiration dripping from his voice. You
all looked up to him, thought of him as the mountain and you the mound.
But in Greg's mind he was always that little foster care baby in
disbelief at his good fortune that someone loved him. To Greg, he was
only the glisten; you were the gold.
He was a dark brown sugar-skinned beauty who brought the light. He
was every tired soul's sweet kiss goodnight. His aura dwarfed the
morning bright. And if we now asked him how he's doing, he'd smile and
say, "Hey Man, don't worry, I've finally got it right."
Gregory James Potter went down, from God's perch to the Potter's
house, and there he did receive his message: Show them what Godly loving
means. This shall be your purpose. And keep not the clock on your
earthly endeavor for I shall keep your time for you. I have never been
wrong in this. And when you have reached that moment come back to Me so
that I may hold you close, closer even than your dear mother, so she may
know you are finally at your peace. This shall be to her My gift of
grief's relief.
Greg saw beauty in those whose beauty escaped the common eye.
Prejudice did not know him well. And even the stranger on the street
received his admiration. This purity of heart should remind us that God
gave His beloved son, Jesus, 33 years. Then, that mighty task was done.
He gave Greg 34 years. Right now Greg is giving thanks in his grateful
way for the extra year, the extra days. Now, Greg's task is done. His
race is run. As always, he has won. He was no saint, that wasn't his
point. His point was to feel good and make you feel good and get in a
little laughter along the way.
Little brother, because we love you, we send you on your way. We'll
look for you in thunder, knowing the rumble under is God's
belly-laughing at your clownish ways. We'll see you in lightning bolts
that streak the sky as you and God race side-by-side from cloud to Earth
and back again. We'll find you in starlight as you turn up your aura to
soothe us in our plight. We'll let you swallow us in your bear hugs by
dancing in the rain. All the while you'll be up there crafting more
humor, knowing you'll see us again.
How does sunlight describe the Sun? Greg would say, "By racing me!
Ready, set . . . let's run!"
All My Love, Dear Brother . . .
Jaiya John
www.soulwater.org
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