Mitchell and I met in Kindergarten. We hit it off when I informed him that his last name meant “teddy bear” in Hebrew. From then on, Mitchell was part of nearly all of my childhood experiences. From elementary, middle, and high school, to Hebrew school, and productions at the Morgan-Wixson Theatre, it’s hard to think of a childhood memory that doesn’t in some way involve the Dubey family.
Maybe so many of my experiences in different parts of my life are intertwined with memories of Mitch because he had this incredible ability to avoid and transcend any sort of labeling. He was involved with anything and everything that he was passionate about. He was a punk rocker. A theatre kid. The nerdiest yet coolest kid I knew. Sensitive yet tough. The most fun at a party but a hardcore straightedge. A musician. Everybody loved Mitch. The punk rockers. The theatre kids. The nerds. The cool kids. The musicians. You get the picture.
For some reason when I look back at our time together, I keep thinking of the beach by our childhood home in Southern California.
Here is a picture of us there, ages 13 and 14:
When I think of Will Rogers Beach, I’m transported back to fifth grade, to Ms. Poteshman’s class. Mitchell approaches me after class. “What’s your favorite candy bar?” he asks. Oddly, I had never really thought about it.
“A Milky Way, I guess,” I answer.
The next morning, a king-size Milky Way bar greets me at my desk. The chocolate bar gifting continues for several days, culminating in a play date to the beach. Mitchell's dad, Larry, picks me up in their truck, and we hang out all day in the sun. We discuss Nintendo 64, music, and our dogs (Wolfie and Bisli) to the soundtrack of the waves.
Now it’s a couple of years later, and my mom is driving Mitchell, me, and several of our friends down the Pacific Coast Highway, zooming by that same beach. It is the summer before ninth grade, and we’re carpooling to a rehearsal for our production of Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About Nothing.”
Mitchell asks if he can play us a song. He knows my mom is cool and would love the idea of blasting a loud, inappropriate song out the car windows in Pacific Palisades, our notoriously conservative neighborhood.
“It’s the ‘Angry Anthem’ by ‘the Forces of Evil’” Mitch informs us, handing me a burned CD.
Soon the lyrics begin to blast: “Fuck all you motherfuckers, fuck all you motherfuckers, fuck all you motherfuckers, fuck youuuuuu!”
Mitch is headbanging in the back of my mom’s minivan. Soon we’re all singing along -- the lyrics aren’t particularly hard to learn and the song is catchy. We were all in hysterics. It was so incredibly funny. I guess you had to be there.
Right now, I want to sing my own “Angry Anthem.” I confess that I am angry that my friend was taken from me. Mitch would understand that we might be angry about what happened. Yet, somehow, I know he’d want us to hold our heads up and keep going, just like the tide that keeps crashing close to our childhood homes.
Mitch knew there were real “Forces of Evil” in the world, but he consciously chose to be a positive force in so many people’s lives. I know he was and still is one in mine. His absence will be palpable at future events where I’d expect to see his lively face -- parties, reunions, weddings -- but in these times, I know I will remember how lucky I am to have had such a passionate, caring, and kind friend.
