Remembering Anne Bryan

There are plenty of people who knew Anne Bryan better than I did, some of whom are good friends.  I hadn't spoken to Anne for a long stretch of time.  We didn't hang out too often when she attended Scripps.  But I still feel the news of her loss in my gut.  Twenty four and vibrant and alive.  Young, in years and soul.  Anne was a light.  I remember her as someone who was always ready to share a laugh, always ready to genuinely engage with people, to share her joy.  One time, when I was at the Mudd hole waiting for my order to be filled, I saw Anne at a table on the right side of the soda machine.  I was up to my ears in a paper, I don't remember about what.  She called out to me, waved me over.  We hadn't hung out too much at this point, and I was still a shy little social wall fly, but she reached out to me anyway.  No hesitation.  I don't know what we talked about, but I left feeling light, refreshed.

I remember dinners at Mudd with friends.  Anne was a vegetarian.  That feels right somehow.  She seemed to live from a place of compassion.

I remember a conversation we had about something we had learned in class.  We conflicted on some point, and she said something about human pain.  I had been talking about conceptual social politics, and it was jarring to me.  It took me a long while to see the relevance, but I see it now.  She was talking from the heart, thinking from the heart.  A rare thing to behold in academic spaces, which are often hostile to that kind of thought, to putting the heart and human compassion first.  But it is a sacred thing, something we all can learn from. The heart matters.  People matter.  Interpersonal contact matters.  Anne was saying something about this.

I remember Anne as someone who always looked me in the eyes when we spoke, who seemed to really want to hear what I was going to say, to really want to know how I would respond to her, to really want to know how I was.  She was genuine in a way a lot of people don't know how to be.

And she was hilarious!  Quirky in her humor.  Always ready to express herself, she never seemed self-conscious in her jokes, in her words.  She seemed honest.

Yes, she was honest.  I helped her with a paper once, informally, I think, when she wanted an outsider's perspective.  She was so forthcoming about her thoughts, and was so sincerely invested in developing them.  In remembering that conversation, I see no ego-tint in it.  She wasn't trying to prove anything.  She wanted the paper to be good.  That was all.

I remember that Russian accent everyone has been mentioning.  So lighthearted.  So quirky.  So hilarious.

I remember a conversation about killer squirrels.  Those damn conspiring Scripps squirrels, simultaneously sneaky and bold.

I remember some crack about jungle juice.  What was it, exactly?  We had been talking about the college party scene.  We were wee freshwomen.

I remember joining Anne and other friends outside, laying in the sunlight on the Scripps lawn, talking about nothing, laughing about everything.

I remember Anne Bryan.  Anne Bryan, I remember you.  I remember you as a beautiful human soul, whose unique sense of humor filled the world with laughter.  I remember you as someone who never hesitated to share your joy with others.  I remember you as inquisitive and bright.  I remember you as a warm, youthful presence who I know will be sorely missed for longer than anyone can tell.  I remember you.

Rest in peace, Anne.