amirlopatin

I miss him

I met Amir on my first day at Stanford. It was lunchtime during orientation to our doctoral program in education. My first impression of Amir, I am embarrassed to say, was so stupidly knee-jerk. We were talking politics, and Amir asked my impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger. Amir told me he was “middle of the road” polticially…pretty much on par with the rest of America. I thought “who is this guy?” I pretty much dismissed him. Since then, Amir has taught me much.

There is not one conversation I had with Amir that could be described as mundane. Amir’s inquisitiveness sometimes rubbed me the wrong way, particularly when he would ask questions like: “Aurora, you’re gay, how do you feel about religion” or “Are gay people attracted to themselves?” and he always caught me off-guard…these were happy hour, end of the week type questions. What I loved about Amir, is that he had the courage (audacity?) to ask the questions and did so in such a good-natured, friendly way that all I could do was give a little sigh, turn to him, and answer honestly. He made me reflect and give a little more of myself than I think to give. And to me, that was a very profound gift.

I am haunted by the long conversation Amir and I had about what kind of car he should buy. He was so excited about the Honda Element, and wanted to know a woman’s opinion… would it attract the girls? I told him I would prefer the Subaru wagon he was considering, but that he should go with what makes him happy. He couldn’t wait to get on the road with his new car. I wish he had dropped his work and joined the cohort trip to Tahoe… I wish…

Amir and I talked about relationships. I had just ended one, and he had a lot of good wisdom for me about endings. Amir got drunk on margaritas at my house and sang Les Miserables duets with Colin and told funny stories. He said nice things about me. I thought a lot about him after that.. about how first impressions are not always correct, about how complex people are, about why I hold back. Jon and I ran into Amir while hiking the dish. He had been running, and Jon and I were both impressed. They talked about climbing the wall sometime. I smiled at Amir. He said “have a good spring break if I don’t see you before then.” It was two weeks before spring break, and I hoped I would see him before then, but I didn’t.

Amir didn’t hold back with people, at least not with those of us in the SUSE cohort who knew him. I learned a lot from him in the few months I knew him. I think I can honestly say that Amir was one of the most unusual people I have ever met. My faith does not help me understand what happens to souls when they move on, but something in me believes very strongly that Amir’s soul is doing some profound work for our world, and my hope is that his friends and family feel his love and amazing presence even now.

Amir, you were so clearly a gift to everyone who had the privilege of talking to you even once… thank you for your time here. I hope you like where you are now. I will miss you.

Amir makes me think of my Cyprus goal

Before I begin, I want to let Amir’s family know that I think about him everyday here at Stanford. At least once every other day I pass another student and think for a moment that it’s him. I realize that you have suffered two losses in the last 12 months – Amir and his father. Having gone through a similar situation several years ago, I know that words don’t do anything. Faith is what matters.

That being said, I thought I would share my exchanges with Amir, which were unfortunately very limited. I first met him last September when I went to the orientation party for new students. I was riddled with anxiety, and so I went straight for a beer and then to the opening in the back of the room that led out onto a patio. I didn’t want to stand there by myself, so I nervously introduced myself to the guy next to me who seemed to be quite comfortable in the situation. The smalltalk was forced, and I was just thankful that he kept it going. Amir later told me that he didn’t know anyone either and that I was his first conversation. He must have had a better poker face than I did.

We exchanged e-mails, and he later told me that he needed a ride to Target. A foreign student came with us, but as Amir sat up front with me, he did most of the talking, which was really asking questions about my interests. As many others have said on this website, he struck me as very smart, and I was a bit reluctant to engage in deep conversation with him out of fear that I wouldn’t be able to hold my own. But he sensed my insecurity and made me feel more comfortable with sharing.

On our way back, I told him that I’m working on a peace plan for Cyprus that uses a paradigm not yet considered by Kofi Annan and others in the international community.

I felt very vulnerable when I shared this idea with Amir because for me, Cyprus (and its divided capital, Nicosia) is simply a 30-year proving ground for something that I envision working eventually in Jerusalem. There would be certain accommodations that both parties (Jewish and Palestinian) would have to make, and Amir was the first Jewish person with whom I shared my idea. I wasn’t sure how he was going to react emotionally.

It turned out that he treated me to one of his beers, and we stood out in the Rains parking lot for close to an hour. He asked probing questions and generally made me feel more comfortable with describing it. I think I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts to learn more about his PhD LDTS program. Hearing about tank simulators was too complex for me!

We had decided that we would get together for a beer or frisbee, but unfortunately time got the best of us. I only saw him in passing after that, but he was always quick with my name and a smile. Who knows if my Cyprus (and, modestly, Jerusalem) idea will gain a wider audience, but I’ll be going to Singapore in June to present it at a cooperative learning conference and plan to share it eventually with those who specialize in that island’s affairs. I’ll certainly be thinking of Amir on a usual basis, just like I do with my best friend in 2nd grade who died in a car accident.

Since it was Amir and not me, I’m going to put a lot of energy into this pursuit. He would likely to do the same if our roles were reversed. Watch over us, Amir; we need your guidance as we follow our responsibilities, loves, and dreams…Peace be to all of you.

– Mills Chapman

From a stranger

I barely knew Amir. I might have taken some computer science classes with him, we might have even worked on projects and homeworks together. I don’t remember. All I know is that I remember him and that the news of his passing hurt me.
I can see how wonderful a person and friend he was to all of you who knew him well. What I wanted to share with you is that even for those of us who had only fleeting interactions with him, he was, and will always be, memorable.

Your American Child

It was so many years ago it seems that Sara and Yossi welcomed me and my family to Englewood. We had a wonderful Shabbat dinner at their home one frigid Friday night. It was in their teeny tiny dinning room. It was at that time that I got to meet all the Lopatin children.

Shosh quiet, intelligent and beautiful, Uri, the Judo enthusiast and Amir. There was just something about Amir that I could not explain… a defiance of spirit done with charm, the challenge or pronouncement delivered with a half smile and twinkle in his eye.

It was another time that I drove Sara and Amir home from the JCC and after listening to Amir explain to Sara why he needed to do what he wanted to do, making an eloquent argument for his position that I turned to Sara and said, “Sara, this is your American Child.”

Memories

My memories of my last few months in high school are among my most cherished largely because of Amir. More than any particular episode, I remember certain feelings. I remember sitting in the passenger seat of Amir’s car as he was driving to Englewood and feeling like I was one of the luckiest people alive because Amir had let me into his world. And what a unique world this was. In this world, literary allusions shaped daily experience, social status served as a source of comic relief (as he wrote below a picture of two of our classmates in my yearbook: “Look, a tier 1 person talking to a tier 2 person, and they say these shots are candid!”), and everything, from the profound to the absurd, was questioned and discussed. I also remember admiring Amir—for his gift with language, for the intimacy of his friendships (were there best friends, other than Amir and Jon, so close that they wrote passages in each others journals?), for his clarity of vision, for his originality, and for his honesty.

During college, I remember looking forward to the refreshing insightfulness of Amir’s letters. I was forever in awe of Amir’s ability to simultaneously provoke laugher and thought. I also remember being struck by the breadth of Amir’s intellectual curiously: he somehow managed to straddle both the world of science and the world of the humanities; and he challenged me to do the same, always giving me grief for not applying my mind to some greater discipline, like math, physics, or computer science. Most of all, I remember trusting Amir, feeling like he was someone in whom I could confide.

In more recent years, other than a few lucky chance encounters, Amir and I had somehow, and to my great regret, fallen out of touch. Just recently, in early March, I came across Amir’s profile on Friendster. I remember feeling incredibly happy to have found him, even if only in cyberspace, and having immediately tried to add him as a friend. I then remember the tremendous happiness, weirdly out of proportion to the occasion, that I felt, when, within moments, Amir approved my request for friendship. I was hoping it would be a renewal.

For a period in 1997, Amir signed his emails with this quote from Alyosha’s “Speech by the Stone” in the Brothers’ Karamazov: “I want you to understand, then, that there is nothing nobler, stronger, healthier or more helpful in life than a good remembrance . . . You often hear people speak about upbringing and education, but I feel that a beautiful, holy memory from early childhood can be the most important single thing in our development. And if a person succeeds, in the course of time, in collecting many such memories, he will be saved for the rest of his life.”

And so Amir, I thank you. I thank you for saving me with these memories, with these memories of feeling. There are truly no substitutes.

Memories of Amir

This is an email sent to Shoshana from Rebecca Minkus-Lieberman, a close friend from Princeton.

Dearest Shoshana-

Since I heard about Amir right before this past Shabbat, I have not stopped thinking of you, your mother, and Uri. I so wish that I had known earlier, that I had been able to be there for the shiva, been able to offer whatever comfort that is possible at a time like this.

Although I did not know Amir very well, I do have certain memories of him from the time that I spent with your family. He always reminded me so much of you. He always seemed to speak so quickly, as if his mouth was trying to catch up with the thoughts and ideas running through his mind. And I recall his smile and the way that he lovingly called you Shoshi. I remember the time that I came home with you for Rosh Hashanah. I remember Amir speaking with your father in the kitchen – about exactly what I don’t recall – but I do remember his manner and tone: he was discussing something with intensity, arguing his point with passion, pressing your father to look at a different perspective – one he was convinced was correct – and doing so with fierce conviction and love. I guess that’s what I recall most about him – his fiery passion about things he believed in and his intellectual commitment to questioning assumptions and ideas. In that way, he reminded me so much of you. I know how close the two of you were and how much you shared together, the trips, the bike rides, the valued conversations, the intense love and the thoughts of your souls. I mourn with you, Shoshana, and I cannot adequately express our condolences to you and your family on this tragedy. I am thinking about you every day and wishing that I could be there just to hug you.

Hamakom yenachem otach be’toch sha’ar avlei tzion ve’yerushalayim.

Much love-
Becca

Amir

I haven’t spoken with Amir in a long time. It will be our tenth year reunion from high school this year. The last time I saw him was sophmore year in college. But he still makes me smile every time I think of him. Amir, I have never met anyone like you. There is only one Amir. I thank you for being you. You drew people in, wanting to hear more, feeling safe, feeling daring. I can even hear your voice and the funny way you chose to annunciate the words as they flew out of your mouth or carefully exhibited themselves. Do you remember you played the Shylock from Shakespeare- I don’t remember what for- but you were very convinicing. For me you will always be Amir- and that means so much.

I hope Hashem is taking good care of you.

Claire

Reflections of a Rebbe

I met Amir 17 years ago in Shul in Englewood. Neither one of us really wanted to be there – he was a fidgety 11 year old sitting next to his father, I was twice his age, but even more uneasy next to my future father in law. We didn’t exactly bond, but over the years our semiannual meetings continued, and we expected to see each other.

Then the venue changed; we were in Efrat. He the post high school student,anxious and expectant – his bright eyes windows to the questions and issues that burned inside. And I, the rookie rebbe, unsure of myself, hoping to answer some of them, hoping to learn from him and his peers more than they would gain from me. And we grew together and found the common ground of talmid and rebbe- the ground we would share for the decade that followed-when we would again meet and talk in Englewood and speak – of Brown, Salt Lake City,Stanford and Efrat.

The last time I saw him was last year at his father’s funeral in Tel Aviv. Surprisingly we had time to talk. I answered a shayla, we reflected on the past, spoke briefly of the future and shared a silent embrace.

A teacher rarely knows what he has taught a student. A talmid can never fathom what impact he has had on his rebbe.

I will miss you, Amir.

Funeral Blues – W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

From Jeremy Poupko

“The one thing that was hardest for me was to watch him struggle to function on his own. For him self reliance was essential and it was hard to see him lose that”

This is more or less the main core of what Amir said at the funeral of his father this past summer. As I write these lines and think back over the last twenty years I think to myself that this is really the esprit de corps of family Lopatin. You are all independent thinkers and doers. Yet, at the same time meurav im habriot; proud yet warm, loving and encouraging, never aloof. Amir certainly didn’t fall short in that.

My memories of Amir are mainly of his childhood. He was always very quiet, but I could tell from the look on his face that he was absorbing like a sponge. At a very young age he already gave an impression of being a baal sechel (one whose actions are dictated by intellect rather than emotion). His maturity level was adultlike. Even when he played a game he seemed to be analyzing it scientifically, his head tilted to the side and a thoughtful expression on his face. As a twelve-year-old, seven-year-old Amir seemed to me like a cute little professor, round glasses and all. It seems funny to me that he grew up to be an athlete as well. An ocean of tears would not sufficiently express how we feel. If the true gauge of quality of life is the impact one has on the world around oneself, than I think that Amir lived a life that many an old man can be jealous of.

This weeks parsha(portion of the bible read in synagogue on shabbat) parshat Shmini speaks of the untimely death of Nadav and Avihu, the two saintly elder sons of Aaron Hacohen. About them God says, “bekrovai ekadesh,” I will become holy from [the death of] those who are closest to me. This means that sometimes God takes the “good ones” in a shockingly tragic way in order to stir the rest of us. Bemoto tziva lanu lehitbonen bachaim. In his death he commanded us to contemplate the meaning of life. By doing so we transform his death from a “freak accident” into a kiddush Hashem, a sanctification of God’s name. The Chafetz Chaim, Rav Yisroel Meir Hacohen of Radin (1828-1933), is the most revered figure of Israel in the past hundred years. Even during his lifetime he was referred to by all Jews throughout the world as the “Saba Kaddisha,” holy grandfather. He was a spiritual giant, a man of sublime purity. His pure absolute faith in God and the truth and eternity of His Torah permeated his entire existence. Virtually every Jewish home in the world, no matter how moderately religious and no matter how small its library, contains one or more of his classic works of Jewish law or ethics. The first edition of his Artscroll biography (page 328) contains a dramatic account of the death of his beloved son Avraham at the age of twenty three. Here is an excerpt:

“Calmly and steadily he went straightway into his house and sat down to observe shiva, the seven days of mourning. Not a teardrop appeared on his face, not a groan could be heard from his mouth. ‘The world,’ he said, ‘has lost a Torah scholar of stature.’ When he was eighteen, he was already expounding Torah innovatively like one of the great luminaries! Then he added, ‘Hashem gave, and Hashem has taken away; blessed be the name of Hashem (Job 1:21) from now to eternity. Now I know that I am a Jew.’ Then he told the story related in Toldot Adam (chapter 16). At the time of the Inquisition in Spain in 1492, the vicious bloodthirsty men of the church slaughtered the two beloved precious children of a pious, devout Jewish mother before her eyes. The courageous woman lifted her eyes to heaven, and with an unflinching heart she whispered in prayer: ‘O Master of the world, it is true I always bore you love. Yet as long as I had my two dear, priceless children, my heart was divided in two. There was still a place there reserved and contained for my children. Now that they are no more, my whole heart is a dwelling-place for my blazing love for you…Now I can truly obey the commandment to love Hashem your God with all your heart and with all your soul’ (D’varim 6:5)….And the Chafetz Chaim passionately exclaimed, ‘O master of the world, the love I bore my son till now, I henceforth give over to you!'”

May the memory of Amir live with us forever.

+ More Posts