the short but happy life of erik humphrey gordon
(ripped from an email making the rounds)
ERIK HUMPHREY GORDON '95cl died July 25, 2000, in New York City, from complications of injuries sustained in a ballooning accident outside Brussels. A lifelong amateur ballooning enthusiast, he had participated in competitions throughout the world. In 1999 he won the prestigious "Let's Fly!" Award for excellence in ballooning from the International Federation of Balloonists. He leaves his life partner, Jeffrey, his parents, Michael and Sally, a sister, Amy, a brother, David, and a beloved pet monkey, Cher.
My obituary was printed thusly in the July-August 2001 issue of Harvard Magazine, in a somber typeface on a glossy page, just as I would have wanted. My time at Harvard had been neatly bookended by genteel shakedowns that had continued for years after I'd left, and faking my death had been the only way out.
Before classes even started freshmen year I was invited, along with a half-dozen of my most over-privileged classmates and our parents, to the elegant home of a Boylston Street Brahmin who pled poverty on behalf of the College. These parents had just paid the first installment of the $100,000 cost of a diploma-yes, everything was cheaper back then-but surely they could afford to give a little more. The endowment was, after all, only $4.7 billion at the time.
Unbeknownst to me, the solicitations had begun much earlier. A rich friend of my father had had a conversation with an undergraduate admissions officer earlier that year.
"I'm sure that every year, despite your best efforts, you must end up admitting at least a handful of students who aren't quite up to snuff, no?"
"Uh, yes, sir, I suppose we do."
"Well, then you might as well admit my daughter, because the fathers of those other students aren't going to give you nearly as much money as I will."
(The girl matriculated with me that fall.)
Solicitations directed at my parents continued throughout my four years but I, mercifully, was spared until shortly after my last check for tuition, room and board was in the mail. I began receiving telephone calls from classmates eager for me to contribute to our "Class Gift", a rather large lump sum that each class is expected to donate to the University upon graduation. Service non compris, I suppose. I tried to explain that it's the thought that counts, but the callers were undeterred: the endowment was, after all, still only a shade over $7 billion.
I moved out of the dorms and left no forwarding address, but they found me and the mail began to flow like Harvard alumni to garments emblazoned with big red "H"s. Might I spare a couple thousand to gild the Crimson lily? A return envelope has been enclosed for my convenience, it's postage-paid-my lucky day!-and I can even pay by credit card if I prefer.
I began to write "Please, no more mail!" on the solicitations before sending them back, to no avail. Then I moved overseas: not to escape the mail, of course, but the prospect did add to London's appeal. I had a month or two of quiet, but Harvard found me again and, I think to punish me for the added cost of airmail, began to solicit my grandmothers, who had no money but thought-as anyone with fading eyesight might-that the letters were invoices.
I should say that I did not like Harvard, not one bit, even while I was there, for reasons too numerous to mention. But even if I'd loved the school, many charities seem more deserving and less profligate. I prefer to give my money to needier causes that help the truly disadvantaged and know the value of a dollar (Alain Ducasse springs immediately to mind). And I'm not a hypocrite either: while I was quite lucky to have my parents pay for my education, were Harvard, which now boasts a $19 billion endowment-greater than the GDP of Ecuador-to trim the B-School's topiary budget, the University could give every student a free ride.
When Harvard's mail followed me back to New York, I asked the kind fellow who answered the phone at the alumni office to please take me off his list. He was agreeable, but explained that my name must be on so many Harvard mailing lists by now that he couldn't effectively stem the tide. Mild euphoria in late 1997, when Massachusetts amended its anti-stalking statutes to include harassment by mail and telephone, was shattered by yet another solicitation in early 1998. I grabbed the thickest, reddest marker I could find, scrawled "RECIPIENT DECEASED" across the front, and dropped it in the post to be returned to sender.
About a year later, I received an unusual letter from Harvard: it was too thin to contain a postage-paid reply envelope and it was addressed "To The Family of Erik H. Gordon". Deborah Smullyan, the obituaries editor of Harvard Magazine, was so very sorry to hear about my untimely passing. She knew that this must be a difficult time for my family, but hoped that they would take the time to forward some details of my life and death-or, better yet, a previously published obituary-so that a fitting tribute could be paid by the Harvard community.
Now, I've been telling people that not responding would have raised Ms. Smullyan's eyebrows and possibly landed me back on the mailing lists, and I think that's right: after all, what family could resist the opportunity to have their dearly departed forever affiliated with such an august institution. But the truth was that it was a rainy Saturday and I was bored, and barring all that a man-even a Harvard man-can resist only so much temptation.
I meant to be funny, but also to construct a paragraph that wouldn't worry anyone who read it and knew me. I don't claim to be a particularly tolerant person, but I have no qualms with those who choose to pursue homosexual or simian lifestyles, or, come to think of it, a combination of the two. But I did count on my friends' knowing that I am clinically acrophobic, that I am straight, and that the only primate I'd invite to share my home would have to be a bit leggy and be able to cook me dinner every now and then. If all else failed, I was certain that everyone would know that not even the fashionable crowd is into Cher anymore.
I was confident that the notice, however outrageous, would see print, and tried to convey to friends and family who thought the joke was too obvious exactly how strange most Harvard people are, and that my life and its tragic conclusion wouldn't seem the least bit outlandish in context. But when several issues of the magazine passed without incident, even I began to doubt. Alas, the "long lead-time" was, as Ms. Smullyan explained in a notice on the magazine's website, necessary to "permit submissions to be checked," for she "tries hard not only to list accomplishments, but to give some idea of what made a person tick, his passion and purpose in life." But I'm being too hard on Ms. Smullyan, for, as it turns out, many of my friends were taken in, too.
The deluge began with an e-mail the day the issue hit the stands and has continued by e-mail, phone and fax. People I've known-not close friends, of course, or anyone with whom I've been recently in touch-wanted to know more about my tragic end. Friends of friends and even friends of sisters of friends-some of whom knew me only by name-heard that I was dead and then refused to believe that I was alive. So many from so far heard the news that I called Harvard Magazine's offices, anonymously, to inquire as to its circulation: 220,000. The cheery woman who took my call explained that complimentary copies are sent bimonthly to all graduates of the University as well as faculty and staff-"who are still living," she added with a giggle. And then, God bless her, she asked me for a donation.
Of course, Harvard won in the end. That they would was never in doubt, what with the $19 billion they had at the ready to extract the one donation that had eluded them for so long. Experience and Harvard have taught me that the only people who manage to amass billions of dollars are those who either persevere in the face of obstinacy or sell books at a loss over the internet, so I should have known that for Harvard my death would not prove an insurmountable obstacle.
You see, I'd stopped receiving mail from Harvard, including the magazine in which my obituary appeared, copies of which I desperately wanted: for posterity, for framing, and for showing off to friends with a self-satisfied smirk on my face. So, shortly after the issue appeared, I sent my brother-now entering his senior year-to the magazine's office. They charged him $4.95 for each of ten copies, fifty dollars straight into Harvard's coffers for which I sent him a check-in my own envelope with my own stamp-this very afternoon.
Finally, some last words to the Harvard admissions office. If, one day, I have children and they decide to go to college, I will quite forcefully discourage them from attending Harvard. But if, like my brother, they choose to ignore my advice, please don't hold them accountable for my actions. Please remember instead how hard it must have been for them all those years, growing up without a father.
-- Erik Gordon
Note: Since this page's mention in the July/August 2003 issue of Harvard Magazine, I feel I should clarify: I am not Erik Gordon, the author of this piece. It showed up in my inbox last year, forwarded from who knows where, and I thought it deserved a permanent place online. I'm not even a Harvard grad -- I'm (gasp) Yale '97. Feel free to enjoy the rest of my site.
