Crashing a wake.

Fire for the memory of Brad Will, November 11, 2006.

We stumbled out of brunch. We had a couple hours of unlimited mimosas under our belts, and were walking through Tompkins park with my friends feisty Boston terrier, Cooper. Through the park we saw a marching band. Cooper's legs are short, so he was scooped up and we did what any good citizen should, we joined the march. The musicians had no sheet music, but they were dead on, playing beautiful New Orleans jazz. It was like walking into a nightclub full of the musicians that Dr. John likes to rip off.

Marching along we had no idea why, but there was this energy that we should be there. We were doing something, and we were in the right, a great sense of justice and good vibrations. The march took a few laps around the blocks in alphabet city, finally filing into a community garden on 9th and C, the people wrapping around a bonfire in a trashcan. The musicians fell silent and we all formed a circle, putting our arms around each other. A man with the kind of accent someone from 9th and C in the '80s would have, before alphabet city was cool, before it was safe, instructed us to shout out memories for Brad Will.

Brad Will was shot and killed on October 27, 2006 covering the dispute in Oaxaca, Mexico. And we were in the middle of his wake. Hearing the stories and memories of who he was and what he did for all these people that saw the lower east side through its darker hours showed what a dent one human can make. And all the loose ends of why this feeling that we were doing the right thing and involved in a good thing were tied up.

Brad Will fought elegantly for the meek.