Remembering Gabe Hudson
"I'm a firm believer in you telling your truth," he wrote. "As well as you possibly can. Because it will protect you and the telling will make your spirit grow and everything else be damned."
Hello Friends,
Stephanie here. My final, in-person book event was last night in Spokane, Washington. It was at Gonzaga University, which was my dream college in high school. The event was sponsored by Auntie's Books, one of my favorite bookstores, and Northwest Passage, with a couple hundred people in attendance. My daughter, Story, and I drove here and arrived a bit too closely to the time I was supposed to be at the event, but everything went well. The audience was incredible and warm, my moderator, Emma, and escort from Northwest Passage, Kristi, put me at ease. Afterward, I returned to my kinda fancy hotel room, ordered food with Story and watched a movie that made us laugh a lot. It was really nice.
I set my alarm before I finally tried to fall asleep at midnight. I don't sleep well when I travel, so setting my alarm is usually not something I would do by choice. But my friend's funeral was this morning, which they graciously offered to view online. I'm lucky that this was only the second funeral of a friend I've ever had to attend.
I'm not sure if it's right for me to call Gabe Hudson a friend. Lots of people call me a friend who I've never met before, and that feels odd to me. But I don't think it would feel odd to Gabe. We connected during that first winter of the pandemic. I'd taken to staying up most of the night when the house was quiet to listen to music, watch old movies, and do this frustrating puzzle with an almost impossible amount of difficulty. Gabe tweeted something about MFA students being somewhat ridiculously full of themselves in workshops and I chimed in that I never even got to be one. He told me later that the fact I'd been rejected from an MFA program was the part of my story that interested him the most.
After that, we had a healthy amount of banter, and I folded him into what I've come to call my Twitter family. His presence online (because that was almost the only presence we all had in the pandemic) was warm, encouraging, full of light, and really, really wonderful and necessary. When I learned of his passing last week, it was the "necessary" part that saddened me the most. Gabe was a person who made the world better by knowing he existed.
Now, it's no secret that I hold a sort of hatred for podcasts. I loathe them. Maybe despise them. When Gabe asked me to be on his, I immediately said an enthusiastic yes. "Only for you," I added, because it meant I'd get to talk to him in real life. Over Zoom, and in front of a fancy microphone that his team sent over, but in real life nonetheless. His first podcast, Twitterverse, had a format where he'd send you a DM in real time as you were talking to him of a tweet he'd found of yours that touched his heart in some way. The ones Gabe chose mostly made me smile and laugh, and one about my chosen Dad, Frank Gonzales. He had me read part of a letter Frank sent to me out loud. Gabe cried. I still cry whenever I listen to the interview.
We recorded this conversation during the summer that I absolutely had to write my recent book, CLASS. It was a struggle, to say the very least. I was horribly afraid of the content that was coming out of me and into the book. I was scared of the backlash, of exposing too much of my children's lives, and that I was accusing a University of discrimination. Since Gabe and I had just talked for an hour or so to record our conversation, I reached out to him to, well, freak out a bit. He, of course, responded in encouraging ways and was more than gracious with his time in doing that. One part of his message drove me forward, into the true, raw vulnerability that the book needed:
"I'm a firm believer in you telling your truth," he wrote. "As well as you possibly can. Because it will protect you and the telling will make your spirit grow and everything else be damned."
Gabe's cousin read those words to close his funeral this morning before ending with a song by Frank Sinatra.
The livestream cut off rather abruptly and I removed my earbuds. My teenage daughter stirred in her sleep. The song "My Way" still running through my head, I looked out the window for a few minutes, then realized it was snowing. Not the little pithy flakes that are barely visible, but these huge, heavy snowflakes. I got up and looked out the window of our hotel room to the street below, already decorated for Christmas. It's not often that I get to wake my oldest daughter up anymore. She's busy with probably too many things, and gets up to go to school for cheer practice at 5 a.m. several times a week. I went over to nudge her and softly said her name a couple of times. When she opened her eyes and looked at me, I said, "Story, it's snowing" and she gasped like she was six years old again, then leaped out of bed and ran to the window. We stood there and watched the flakes fall for a few minutes, since the first snow of the season is magic in that it demands your awe and attention.
This trip with my daughter is precious. I've been traveling for the last month, and we're heading to Seattle today to see a concert by Alt-J, whose albums I still play whenever I make pancakes on a weekend morning, making their music part of the soundtrack of our lives. I've been looking forward to this weekend with her for a long time. I'm an atheist, but I will say I know that scene, with us looking out the window to watch the snow, would make Gabe smile. Just like he would have definitely called me a friend without hesitation, I know he would have loved to know that we had that moment after I had watched his loved ones share their memories of him. Almost like he brought a little magic, just to remind me that he's still there.
His passing last week, and the outpouring of love online from the writing community, has gutted me. It's hard to not take a long look at your own mental health after learning a friend has suddenly passed. I chose to not do any interviews for the rest of the year, because the thought of doing one made my heart race and stomach heave. I hope everyone understands.
One of Gabe's friends spoke of his commitment to opening space for other writers, especially ones who are marginalized, and fighting back against social injustices. After I've had some time to recover from book tour, I will make a point to take on a small part of his work and energy to create that space. I'm not sure exactly how, but I'm committed to continuing his work by lifting up stories from the margins of society. More to come on that after the new year.
Thank you all for taking the time to read this. I need to get on the road, listening to Story's music and hearing her talk about her friends at school. I can't believe she'll be moving out in less than two years. It makes my eyes water just thinking about it. But Gabe's presence this morning as I woke her up will remain with me, and for that I am grateful. Thanks, friend. You will be dearly missed.
With love,
step
In lieu of a Call for Support or Organization Spotlight, I am including a book recommendation for Gabe Hudson’s book, Dear Mr. President, because there is no better way to celebrate a writer than to buy and read their book.
In Dear Mr. President by Gabe Hudson, readers are treated to a compelling blend of devastating humor and keen cultural observations that fearlessly delve into the darker facets of American military power. The book, described by The Washington Post Book World as "weird, wonderful, and worrisome," stands out in the realm of war literature.
Hudson explores the unique aftermath of the Gulf War on soldiers like Larry, who returns home to a shocking transformation—hair gone and bones disintegrating. The USA Today likens the book to Salvador Dali rewriting All Quiet on the Western Front, capturing the surreal nature of the stories within.
With audacious comedy and poignant humanity, this short story collection offers a unique perspective on the Gulf War and its aftermath. Dear Mr. President is a testament to Hudson's ability to craft engaging narratives that not only entertain but also provide profound insights into the complexities of military experiences. Published in 2002, the book continues to be a must-read for those seeking a thought-provoking exploration of war and its lingering impact.
That’s all for this week, folks. Take care of yourselves and check in on your friends. ❤️