On Thursday, Nov. 11 around 11 a.m., I learned that my boss died.
Ray.
Their name is still visible on my graphic design project emails, Asana columns and Microsoft Teams chats. I have a sticker on my laptop that they gave me – “POOPOO PEEPEE.” It’s less a sticker and more a label from a label maker, but that is the mark they left on my computer – one of a talented, imaginative and silly creator that will never again walk through the office suite Student Affairs Marketing.
The last time I talked to Ray, I was doodling with them and Alex (short for Alexandria), my other boss. We were having a competition on who could draw the best Hello Kitty. I knew Ray was an artist, so I didn’t really stand a chance. The most whimsical cartoons appeared on our papers as we all giggled and compared our drawings. We ended our (very productive) work shift with an exchange of “POOPOO PEEPEE” labels that Ray had created. I was initially jealous that Alex’s “POOPOO PEEPEE” had emojis, but I was happy nonetheless to receive such a gift, not knowing that this would become something to remember them by.
Despite this warm memory, to be honest, I didn’t talk to Ray that much. Ray was my graphic design supervisor in Winter 2024. They seemed less accessible to me than Alex, my current supervisor. Ray didn’t chitchat much – maybe only to check on me once in a while. Ray’s humor would occasionally show itself during our graphic design team meetings, where they would offer some quippy remark to someone’s rose-bud-thorn. I think they were also a graduate student at Northwestern, but I can’t be certain. Really, I only know a few things: Ray was young, likely in their 20s. They were Ukrainian and a first-generation immigrant, I think, and spoke multiple languages. I don’t know when Ray started their graphic design career, but I know that they had projects throughout Chicago, like designing the marketing material for a Queer Halloween event. Ray was trans or non-binary. I’m not really sure, but they were never afraid to toss up gender norms with their colorful outfits, crop tops, and flamboyant hair and makeup.
On that Thursday morning, when the Student Affairs Marketing team gathered all the student workers in the living room that held Ray’s old office, I had no idea what to expect. I was chatting it up with the other graphic designers and Maria, our graduate assistant. The room brimmed with food: bagels, pastries and a brilliant fruit platter on the coffee table. Free coffee, juice and yogurt were displayed around the room. I carelessly exclaimed that if we had this much food every time we met, I would come in-person more often, not knowing that it was death that brought this entourage of delicacies. The room was filled with strangers whose presence only made sense when they introduced themselves as HR and CAPS.
“We are very sad to inform you that Ray passed away this week.”
Immediately, one of the students began sobbing, rushing out of the room shortly after. I was frozen. A flurry of thoughts tunneled to one emotion: regret. I couldn’t help the tears that filled my eyes as I thought of all the times I walked into the office without greeting Ray, instead heading directly to my computer. I realized that every time I neglected to interact with Ray was a forever lost opportunity to learn about a beautiful human being. I tried to gather myself multiple times, especially when the room was silent in grief, but the thought of death consumed me. The woman next to me offered me a box of tissues, which I ended up holding in my lap. Throughout my life, I always found comfort knowing that no matter where someone was, at least we were co-existing in the world. It’s okay when old friends drift away and live only in my memory. After all, somewhere they exist, somewhere they live.
I had only known of the pain of death twice – once when I learned that my middle school friend Ophelia committed suicide, and once when my grandmother, riddled with Parkinson’s, passed away. But I was far removed from both situations, either by time or distance. I learned about Ophelia’s suicide years later, long after I had lost contact with her after she moved to California. I barely remembered her depression or my jests to try and make her smile. My grandma had lost her physical mobility and her ability to converse before I had even learned to speak. Every time she stayed at my home, she was a stranger that I skirted around and gave greetings to as a formality. Ray, however, I had seen just last week. Their name was everywhere, making the gaping hole even more jarring.
I was confused as to why I was crying so much. I didn’t cry for my grandmother. I didn’t even know Ray very well – not like Alex, who grew inseparable with them over the past year. Yet, as snot dribbled down my face, I felt light-headed. Numb. Despite knowing that we will all die one day, nothing has made it more real and tangible than an empty desk. Not visiting my grandma’s ashes at the cemetery, and not even seeing photos of Ophelia pop up in my photo spotlight on my iPhone.
At Ray’s remembrance this past week, one feeling stuck out to me: disbelief. I did not believe that if I sent Ray a Microsoft Teams message, they wouldn’t get back to me. How could they not be coexisting with me in this world? I asked Alex how old they were. 24. 24 years old. Although ages aren’t usually a hot topic in the workplace, there was nothing that Ray didn’t share with Alex. Ray had finished high school and college early and I assumed started working right after. That likely means they were born in 2000. I shiver, remembering that I was born only three years later.
***
One school night, I asked my Loafs – a nickname for my friends or my “loves” – where they thought we would all be in 10 years.
“Girl, I just hope we’re all still alive by then.”
She had said this a few weeks before Ray passed away. Now, it often resurfaces as a reminder to treat each interaction as a precious gift, carrying the weight of life (and death) behind it.