Eulogy

An excerpted chapter from David Hale Sylvester’s Traveling at the Speed of Life
davidhalesylvester.com
267.252.1974
Twitter: @thehumanhigh5
Instagram: thehumanhigh5
1

!  
 
 
Eulogy
 
Any story about my life after 9/11, or any attempt to explain who I
am, has to start on the day I buried my father. No excursion, trip, or
expedition to any county, country, or continent can compare to the day
I traveled from pew to podium to eulogize my father.  
 
I was 28 years old on that day and openly acknowledged to my
friends, my father’s colleagues, my family, and even perfect strangers
that I was alone and unaware of where I was going. I was adrift, and
knew that I was going to need my father but more than needing him, I
was going to want my father—all of them.  
 
2

You see, while your average person may get one father per lifetime,
I’ve had the luxury and blessing of having three.  
 
First, there was Daddy.  
 
Daddy had three things with him at all times: admirable charisma, a
perspective-giving life lesson for every person he encountered, and a
cigarette dangling from his mouth. All of that combined to give him
something that all truly great men have: presence. His presence made
him much, much larger than life and seem like he could do anything.
This made me want to study him in every way, from how he spoke
down to his signature fist pump and the words he used to end every
conversation: “Be good.”  
 
A great basketball player in his day, Daddy was more excited than I
was when I told him that I made my seventh grade team. His face lit
up as he put on a dribbling display around the house, using the
furniture as defenders. There was a magic and exuberance about him
that the walls of the house could not contain.  
 
“Let’s go outside,” he said. Once outside, he performed a few more
tricks and started doing a drill he called taps, where you shoot the ball
onto a spot about ten feet high and then jump up and tip it back to the
same spot with the same hand. He did all of this with his ever-present
lit cigarette dangling from his lip.  
 
As an adult, I can look back on this memory and clearly hear the
huffing and puffing as he talked about how his jump shot could never
be taken away from him. But when I was a kid, his display left me
amazed and wondering if any of Daddy’s spark, athleticism, and
charisma might be in me.  
 
It wasn’t—at least not at that point.  
 
After this demonstration and a few weeks of riding the bench, I was
excited to finally get in a game. Maybe I was too excited. My heart
pounded furiously as every sentence of sports advice I had ever been
given screamed in my head all at once. My mouth dried up and my
legs felt heavy, but the longer I played, the more everything settled
down. I started to feel more in control, and that’s when I saw my
3

opportunity.  
 
My opponent mistook my anxiety for lack of skill and got sloppy with
his handling of the ball. I stole the ball from him, ran down the court
and beautifully laid the ball up for two points. I then pumped my fist—
just like Daddy—and felt like I was on top of the world.  
 
I turned to look at him in the stands, only to find an expressionless
stare on his face. I then wheeled around to look at my bench of
teammates and coaches, each of whom sat with the same glass-eyed
gaze. Even the referee stood silent for a moment.  
 
Apparently, in my eagerness to make the play and be Daddy-like, I
didn’t dribble the ball once, except for the single bounce I did before
the lay-up.  
 
And if that wasn’t bad enough, I argued the call.  
 
Daddy and the rest of my family were natural competitors at
everything, from debates to cards. He would tell me that once you got
in an opponent’s head, the competition would soon be over. So, in an
effort to try to ignite the same competitive fire in me, he was
merciless while beating me in any game we played.  
“All day,” was just one of the things that he would say while wearing a
wry smile and trash-talking nonstop. He did all of this with a glint in
his eye, only stopping to tell me, “Think. Remember everything and do
different.” He would then repeat the same move in the same way, over
and over, until I learned to defend it. During every game we watched
or played, he would remind me that all great competitors remained
focused, at all times, on what was going on in the game. But I was an
underachieving schoolboy at the time, and the concept of paying
attention to anything all the time — let alone paying attention to
everything, all of the time — seemed a Herculean task.
 
I never really got what he was saying until much later in life.  
 
How a person thought and what they thought about was a big deal to
my entire family. Each day, as a part of my parents’ “homework” (not
my regular schoolwork), I had to read a newspaper and be prepared to
4

weigh in on any local, national, or social issue with my mother, father
and sister at dinner. Being the youngest afforded me no breaks.  
 
Neither did my position at the kitchen table. My beautiful, willful,
caring, and driven mother sat to my right. My sister, who embodied
intellectual excellence, sat across from me. My father sat to my left.
Each conversation slowly (though for me, much too quickly) made its
way around the dinner table, eventually putting me in the crosshairs.
I said that I didn’t have an opinion once, but that didn’t get me a
break, because I then had to be able to express why I didn’t have an
opinion. I quickly learned that trying to defend my own apathy was
much harder than learning all the sides of an issue, so I developed an
ability to grasp the broadest concepts of an issue. 
 
As a kid, I was obsessed with action heroes — but Daddy appreciated
men who thought while taking action and always pointed out the huge
differences between the two. Whether talking about an athlete,
activist, or artist, my father would say, “Talent’s not enough in this
world,” and then give glowing words only to those who leveraged their
talent to do something more. “You can’t just take. You have to give
something back,” he once told me.  
 
Daddy was a thoughtful and thought-provoking man.
 
He was my daddy, but to everyone else he was Mr. Sam.  
Though I saw Daddy every day, I never got to truly appreciate Mr.
Sam, the esteemed professor at the University of Pennsylvania’s
School of Social Work, until I saw him through the recollections of
others. Mr. Sam would stroll the grounds of the Ivy League campus
acknowledging everyone, from the president of the university down to
the custodial workers, and was always willing to share a smile or a bit
of wisdom with either.
 
At seventeen, I was in two different summer basketball leagues and
barely knew when one of my teams was practicing and the other one
was playing a game. During one game, after I committed a dumb foul,
I was surprised to hear “Think. Think. Think,” resonating through the
grandstands. As I watched my opponent take his second foul shot, I
5

was convinced that I was hearing voices in my head. 
 
But then I glanced up in the bleachers to see my father, holding a
rolled-up newspaper and talking to the gym manager. Cigarette
dangling from his mouth, he shouted the word “Think” once more.  
 
As play resumed, I stood there with a puzzled look, silently asking him
how he knew when and where I was playing when I had barely made it
to the game myself. “I’ve told you,” he yelled across the court, “you
don’t know who I know. Now get your head in the game.”  
 
Mr. Sam was as relentless at engaging and debating my friends as he
was with me, and they gravitated toward him because they rightly saw
a man that gave a damn.
While many fathers would cheer and encourage only their sons, Mr.
Sam yelled for all of us to play our best, and to always keep thinking.  
 
After a football game during my senior year of high school, Daddy
hugged and kissed me, but believing myself too old for such displays
of affection, and flush with teenage bravado, I pushed him away.  
 
My friend Ray hit me in the head with his football helmet and said,
“Don’t do that to Sam!”  
 
I was embarrassed and told Ray that he didn’t understand. 
 
Ray retorted, “Nah, Beef [my nickname at the time]. You don’t
understand. Some of us have no one coming to our games.”  
 
Everyone found Mr. Sam funny, but he always reminded us that he was
no joke. When he thought that we were bordering on being
disrespectful, he would remind us it would not be pretty if he decided
to “go back home” to his roots on the tough corners of South Philly in
order to put us back in line. “I can go there in a second,” he would say
with a sly wink.  
 
When I was in high school, a friend of mine came over to the house to
speak with my father. I had no idea what they were talking about, but
I could tell from their body language that it was serious. It was only as
6

an adult, when my friend told me, that I found out that he had been
sexually abused. At an age when most young men wouldn’t speak to
anyone, especially another male, this boy sought out and talked to Mr.
Sam. I still run into this friend from time to time. Before we part, he
always hugs me and says, “Thank God for Mr. Sam.”  
 
Mr. Sam was a father and friend to many. Even those who never met
him appreciated and admired him. A college classmate who was raised
by a single mother only knew my father through my countless stories.
One day she tearfully told me that I naturally smiled when I spoke of
him, and that she felt she had missed something essential in her life.
Even when not physically present, Mr. Sam had a way of leaving an
indelible mark on lives.  
 
Most got an opportunity to enjoy Daddy and benefit from Mr. Sam, but
I alone met Samuel.  
 
Samuel Sylvester in any incarnation always deserved my full respect
and admiration, but another level of understanding developed between
us when he was diagnosed with cancer. Each conversation we had
during his battle was like no other. Our talks were a spontaneous mix
of hugs and memories during which we shed tears and I learned even
more life lessons. Though a lot of the lessons he communicated were
hard to grasp at the time, they were impossible for me to forget. I
knew that he was trying to tell me as much as he could during our last
moments together.  
 
Our relationship evolved beyond the limits of father and son, or even
of friendship. I’m not going to imply that this evolution in our
relationship was due to any action on my part; this change between us
was all due to Samuel. I did nothing but stand there and let his love
and perspective on life steep within my being.  
 
During his illness, Samuel displayed the most basic and best qualities
that a man can display. He exhibited bravery, because he continued to
move forward even though he was scared. He projected intelligence,
because he didn’t fake anything and admitted what he didn’t know
about life when it mattered most. He showed strength, because even
in a weakened state, he did everything he could to strengthen my
resolve in life and living. He was thoughtful, because during our
7

private conversations, he let me in on what he was thinking. He was
beneficent, because he gave me what I would need in life before his
own life ended. He was a visionary, because he knew that in order to
be successful, his son would have to see the world through the eyes of
someone who wasn’t going to be alive much longer. Doing all of this
solidified his presence as my enduring hero, because, above all of this,
Samuel was beautifully human.  
 
During his final days, Samuel called me to his room to tell me that
over the course of his life, he had been holding onto years of
unexpressed feelings. He went back over some of the less-than-stellar
events of my life. 
 
He said in his professor’s voice, “Now that I am at the end, [the
negative emotion] I held onto was worthless. David, whatever you
feel, express it and get it out of you.” I gave him a droll smile, which
he immediately (and correctly) read and responded to: “Don’t be a
butt.”  
 
Then he addressed one of my biggest weaknesses, and urged me not
to say the first thing that entered my mouth. He admonished me to
really try to learn how to clearly communicate my feelings properly. He
told me that whether it was love, disappointment, sadness, happiness,
or whatever, I should struggle to find a way to communicate it. He
explained that people could then walk toward me, walk away from me,
or work with me, but once the sentiment was outside of me, I was free
to move. He told me that doing this wouldn’t stop the hurt of living,
but it would help with the healing of life.  
 
Daddy, Mr. Sam and Samuel were my three fathers.  
 
My family and I stayed with my father in shifts toward the end of his
illness. After what would be my last shift with him, I drove home,
exhausted. My only thoughts were of him and getting some rest. My
whole being groaned when I approached my house and saw two
figures standing on my doorstep. I had absolutely no energy to be
hospitable.  
 
A great sense of relief came over me, though, when I recognized one
of the people standing on my porch. I knew that he was well aware of
8

the gravity of my father’s situation. We didn’t say much. We didn’t
have to.  
 
“Get some sleep. I’ll answer the phone and take care of things,” Kevin
Bowser said.  
 
I told him that would be a great load off my mind. We started to enter
the house, but he stopped right at the threshold and said, “Wait a sec,
you still have cable, right?”  
 
“Yeah, we got cable,” I said.  
 
“Cool. We’re going to be here all night.”  
 
Kevin and his twin brother Kelvin were the sons of my father’s good
friend and grew up one block away from me. Even though I was ten
years younger, with no brothers of my own, and without any boys my
age living on my block, I was relentless about turning them into the
brothers that I wanted.  
 
Kevin and Kelvin had very distinct personality traits. Kelvin was more
effusive and cocky, and Kevin was more deliberate. But both men were
very driven toward their own pursuits, and also driven to help guide
me through life. I could say so much more about my relationship with
the twins collectively, and specifically about my friendship with Kevin,
but the bottom line was that this was no ordinary man joking about
cable TV at my door. He was family. He was my brother.  
 
Worrying whether I had crammed as much life into each remaining
moment I had with my father made me feel trapped—ensnared in the
present, unable to run back into the past when my dad was healthy,
and very fearful of a future without him. Feeling emotionally and
physically drawn and quartered I fought sleep during those days.
I was beyond tired, but with Kevin manning the house, it was
different; I could comfortably turn off the lights and relent to the
darkness that eventually ushered in peace along with a few hours of
sleep.  
 
Later that night, light filled the room. Kevin stood in front of me with
9

the phone in his hand. Because I trusted that Kevin would not wake
me for anything minor, I knew who was on the phone and what was
going to be said.  
 
“I don’t want it,” I said.  
 
Holding back tears, Kevin said, “You have to take it.”  
 
All I clearly remember was my mother saying two words: “It’s time.”  
 
Frenetically, I moved everywhere but went nowhere. Thoughts of my
father’s final moments, his last breaths, and what he would see before
he closed his eyes seized me.  
 
Kevin’s hug centered me. He wept with me as I broke down crying at
my doorway. “I know,” he said, “I know.”  
 
Kevin wasn’t reiterating empty platitudes; he knew how time and a life
could slip away, even when you are holding tight. His mother had
passed away from cancer two years earlier. His words and his
brotherhood made me very conscious of what was going on—so
conscious and aware that I still remember running two lights while
speeding to the hospital. I remember my mother’s and sister’s faces in
the hallway. I remember entering my father’s room. I remember him
being gone, but still strongly feeling his presence as I sat alone with
him one last time.  
 
Daddy was dead.  
 
Mr. Sam was gone.  
 
I was already sorely missing Samuel.
I am extremely fortunate to have known each of these men all
wrapped up into one marvelous man. They each imparted nuggets of
wisdom that continually challenge me, to this day, to struggle toward
my greater potential.
 
In his eulogy, I spoke about my father’s ubiquitous presence, his
attending basketball games that that I never had told him about, and I
10

jokingly imitated the way he yelled my name. I acknowledged my
fortune at having such an excellent father when others had none and I
admitted to everyone in the church that, now that my father was gone,
I was going to have to grow up.
 
My parents and their friends valued a person who gave and honored
their word, so I made a vow in front of them to be a walking,
breathing, thinking monument to my father. I pledged to be smarter,
more helpful, more healthful, and more passionate about life. I
pledged to be more compassionate to those in my life who have not
been as fortunate as I have been to have received as great a gift as
my father. I knew that when I made this pledge, my family and friends
would hold me accountable. I also knew if I made such a weighty
promise, that they would guide me should I ever stray. The day I stood
up to make this speech was the day that I started my journey of
becoming a man.  
 
Both Kevin and Kelvin were pallbearers at my father’s funeral, and
both helped me get through those initial days by simply being there to
listen to me cry.
 
My relationship with and respect for Kevin had grown a great deal
during my father's last months. Kevin lived in Philadelphia, but worked
ninety miles away in New York City at the World Trade Center. His daily
commute called for him to catch a train by 6:45 a.m. Despite this,
after working a full day, he opted to come straight to our home to visit
my father at least three times a week. The radiation treatments my
father received had depleted his energy to the point where some of
Kevin’s visits consisted of him just sitting next to my father or doing
small things that we were too busy to do. But regardless of what Kevin
did, he would always find me before leaving the house to urge me to
talk about how I was feeling.  
 
Even though our fathers were contemporaries, and in spite of the fact
that I found Kevin’s care and concern vital, I was also intrigued by his
attention to my father and to our family. When I asked him why he
came over so much, he told me that my father would be the first
friend that he knew he was going to lose. He said, “Until I figure out
where to be, I would just like to be here.” After he said this, he took
off his suit jacket and tie and started sweeping the floor.
11

 
 
My father may have been the first friend that Kevin knew he was going
to lose, but because he was familiar with the unique pain and anguish
of losing a parent to cancer, our conversations on my father’s
treatment became spirited. Each discussion Kevin and I had about my
father’s cancer treatment immediately brought forth a passionate
response on his part about alternative healing methods, macrobiotic
diets and the quality of my father’s life.  
 
Those talks were tangential strands of discussions that began around
1979, when Kevin decided to become vegan. At the time, I was a
meaty, meat-eating, high school freshman who was highly influenced
by stimulating conversation and the willpower of others. Kevin’s
sudden switch intrigued me to no end. While Kevin ate tofu, I ate
cheese steaks. A typical exchange involved me asking ”Why are you
eating that?” and Kevin countering with “Why are you eating that?”  
 
Since Kevin was older and much more insightful than I, he always had
more answers. When I would say that I didn’t know something, he
would stop talking and tell me to go look it up so we could finish the
conversation. 
 
Most people I knew back then liked to remind me that no one likes a
person who is dumb or lazy. Kevin was no different. He bluntly
reminded me that if I was either, I could not hang around him
anymore. So because I didn’t want to seem stupid or lazy, wanted to
hang around my “big brother,” and had the competitive drive my
parents had bred into me, I always looked up whatever Kevin and I
spoke about.  
No matter how long it took for me to look up the answer for
something, Kevin was willing to pick up the conversation right where
we left off. Even if I didn’t find the right answer and only found just a
bit more information, Kevin was there to have another conversation—a
higher, intellectually-informed conversation that always went well
beyond what one ate and onto how one thought, acted, voted, trained,
and lived.
 
Looking back on it, I am amazed at just how much information I
12

learned about different thought processes surrounding varying
disciplines while trying to only learn about Kevin’s strong self-discipline
toward veganism. The sheer volume of knowledge exchanged between
us was priceless to me.  
 
Whenever something weighs on my mind, I like to get up when it’s still
dark out and ride my bicycle into the rising sun. On one of those
morning rides, I saw Kevin running across the street toward the train
station and rode up to him. He knew me well, and from the look on my
face understood that something was bothering me.  
 
The more I talked, the more he heard, and the more he heard, the
more he slowed down. We sat down as the first call for his train was
announced on the PA. He smiled and said, “Screw that train; you’re
more important. Just relax ... but talk fast, because another train is
coming in 45 minutes.” Nothing was solved in those minutes, and I
can’t even recall what was so pressing, but Kevin’s smile and attention
to my small drama made me remember the moment.  
 
The last time that I spoke to Kevin was Friday, September 7, 2001.
While standing in a market, I heard a familiar voice behind me saying,
“Wheat grass juice, salad, and water? Man, you are really doing it!” I
turned to see Kevin peering appreciatively into my basket. When we
started talking about our lives, he told me that he needed my help in
getting back in shape.  
 
“What can I tell you?” I said. “All I learned was because of you.” I was
incredulous. What could I ever really say to Kevin? It was the casual
conversations we had had throughout my first two decades of life that
had spurred my interest in health, fitness and wellness, and what
finally made me decide to become a personal trainer.  
 
He said, “You’re training a friend of mine. You spoke at the church of
another friend. You’re bodybuilding. I’m hearing some real good things
about you. You are beyond me now, brother.”  
 
These were essentially Kevin's last words to me. He chatted more and
invited me to a barbecue that he was having that Sunday, but I didn’t
really hear it. All I heard was that “You are beyond me now, brother.”  
 
13

It wasn’t 1979 anymore. I wasn’t fourteen years old and he was no
longer 24. We weren’t even really mentor and mentee anymore. We
were grown men.  
!
Hearing such a strong statement casually come out of this grown
man’s mouth was truly a gift. He had a lot to do with my maturation,
and I never thought I had, could, or even wanted to be “beyond” him.
That moment was worth extending, and that comment was deserving
of a lot of acknowledgment. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to express
so much but all that came out was a stuttering, stammering, and
bravado-fueled, “Thanks, dude.” I left the market telling Kevin that I
would see him at his party, but I wanted to do so much more; I
wanted to say so much more.
 
As I drove out of the parking lot, Kevin was leaving the market. I can
still see him walking through the door, smiling at everyone and no one,
wearing sandals, olive green shorts, and a crisp white tucked in T-
shirt. I stopped the car, wanting to get out and say “Thank you.” But I
didn’t, and drove off figuring that I would see him later and just say it
then. 
 
I can still see it all, as clear as day.  
14

 
Saturday,September 8, 2001. I never made it to see him because I got
caught up in my day and planned to talk to him later.  
 
Sunday, September 9, 2001. This was the day of his party, but I opted
to go watch football at a sports bar instead.  
 
Monday, September 10, 2001. Kevin took the day off and I went for a
bike ride. I rode right past his house but didn’t go in, thinking that I
was much too sweaty to visit.
Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Kevin went to work on the 98th
floor at
the World Trade Center. I was in Philadelphia and decided that the
warm, cloudless day was perfect, certainly too perfect to be trapped in
a gym. I canceled all my personal training appointments for the day
and decided to go ride my bicycle.  
 
There is no need to go into the details. We all have our own deeply
personal memories of that day, and mine are no greater than yours.
All that I will say is that I had a chance and blew it. My opportunity to
do and say something so simple, so appropriate, so human, so
necessary, and so natural was taken away in an instant.
 
Kevin’s memorial service was so packed that I stood outside ready to
resign myself to the fact that I wasn't going to get in. it was then,
when one of Kevin’s friends called my name and said, “You belong in
there. Take my spot.” 
 
The scene inside was surreal. Experiencing the death of a friend is
enough to shake anyone, but when that friend dies while working at
his desk 95-plus floors above the ground, and a plane, purposely, flies
into his office and instantly incinerates him, leaving you with nothing,
not a trace to even say goodbye to, it leaves you more than shaken. It
leaves you broken.  
 
Before I sat in that pew, I took in the sight of Kevin's friends, many of
whom I had looked up to my whole life. The sight of these men
standing there lifeless, like marionettes with lax strings, pained and
captivated me. During Kevin’s service, many of his friends, coworkers,
and family members stepped up to the podium to speak about Kevin’s
15

many genuine acts of kindness. Listening to their words and thinking
of my own experience with Kevin made me redefine the word
“extraordinary.” Being extraordinary is not the performance of
superhuman acts; it is the action of one person performing very
human acts on a highly consistent and caring level.  
 
Kevin was one extraordinary individual.  
 
“How can this be the way it is supposed to happen? How the hell can
this be right?” These were the questions that were in my head when
Kevin’s wife came to me and whispered in my ear “Oh, David, I feel so
sorry for you.”  
 
I walked away from the service feeling dazed and weeping for the
Bowser family. I wept as well for the huge loss that the black
community of Philadelphia was being dealt. I felt that something had
to be done, and because I had the extreme honor of knowing such
men as my father, Kevin’s father, Kelvin, Kevin, and others, it was up
to me to do it.  
 
Little did I know that the something I came up with was going to
change my life.
 
16

Eulogy

Recommended

Recommended

More Related Content

What's hot

What's hot (19)

Viewers also liked

Viewers also liked (15)

Eulogy