The Five Stages of Grief

A eulogy for Dan Ha

First, denial. The first time I met you, I was 19, sitting alone in Stern Dining. AKPsi pledge had only just started, but we had already dropped eight people. As a result, the actives came up with a bonding activity to prevent any further drops. My Chi pledge class would meet at Stern, along with their bigs and pledge parents, and any other actives were welcome to join.

I was sitting alone because I was early. If you’re on time, you’re late, and if you’re late, you’re forgotten — I wasn’t going to risk a grievance over punctuality. I must’ve arrived at least a half hour before the event.

You were already there, laughing and hanging with some friends, and I hadn’t met you yet. Still, there must have been that pledge uncertainty on my face because you walked over to me and introduced yourself. I was flustered. I didn’t know your name, especially your last name, and I was certain that I’d be grievanced for this.

But you just waved it off, insisting “Just call me Dan.” You invited me to join you and friends, where you were practicing your catwalk for Charity Fashion Show. In my memory, you promised me a signature if I practiced with you.

Whether that is true or not, it feels true to me.

I was all legs and arms, hadn’t yet grown into the hips and curves I already had but didn’t know how to use. I felt awkward, short, and utterly graceless compared to your Blue Steel gaze and determined walk. I watched you straighten your spine and roll your shoulders back, tilt your chin down and squint with intensity. Then you prompted me to try.

I tried. It was terrible and pathetic, but I did it.

Over the years I’ve practiced and practiced, and now I, a city girl, have made your walk my own. I’ve learned to level my gaze, walk with purpose. I have straightened my spine and rolled my shoulders so that every inch of my five feet, four inches carries the intensity and focus you carried in your six feet, one inch.

Six feet, one inch.

That’s what your flyers said. When I heard the news you were missing, I didn’t know how it could happen. I was incredulous that you, with your brightness, could ever disappear. You were too kind, too loved, too smart and wonderful and brilliant to just go missing. You couldn’t be gone.

When I posted flyers for you, I ventured down every alley on Brannan, talked to every homeless person I met. I thought maybe you were away, just taking a break from the noise of San Francisco. Maybe you were sleeping somewhere quiet, a shelter, a hospital, took a trip.

I thought you would come back.

Second, anger. When I think about the conversations I had with you, they never had to be deep for me to feel understood. You were sensitive, and it showed. Your eyes had a softness to them, a crinkling of empathy and compassion that recognized what was left unsaid. You read in-between the lines and never judged.

After I posted flyers that day, I dreamt of you that night. You were laughing and smiling as I hit you, voice shrill and high. “OHMYGOD, DAN! Where’ve you been? UGH. Why would you do this? We were all so worried!”

I plopped down to sit next to you, still smacking you in that loving, just-checking-that-you’re-whole-and-alive way. I thought you’d start explaining what happened, but you said nothing. Puzzled, I looked at you, but your face was expectant. You were waiting for me to say something.

You could tell that I had a story bubbling behind my lips, and because you were safe, I could wait for your story. So I launched into mine, told you how that day, when I was flyering and worried and fretting, one of your coworkers hit on me.

When I walked into 21st Amendment, I was hunched over with a large backpack, a tote bag heavy with flyers, and pockets filled with tacks. The place was full and I was short, but I made a beeline for the hostess. As soon as I reached her, this guy wiggled his eyebrows at me and said, “Table for two?” An innocuous question, I know, but if you heard his delivery, saw how he immediately looked to the guys on either side of him for some kind of manly affirmation of pickup skill, you would understand my rage.

And you understood, Dan. In my dream, you understood. I didn’t have to tell you those details, or tell you that I’ve started wearing my stacking rings on my left hand so they look like a wedding band, or that I’ve been called a bitch for telling a man his approach towards me was inappropriate, or that I’ve been asked if I have a “second name from my homeland, like mainland China or Taiwan.”

I didn’t have to lay out all my experiences as a woman in Silicon Valley because you understood.

At first, his question and actions merely annoyed me. I was weighed down with bags, obviously walking with a purpose, and he made this comment for no other reason than to assert his masculinity. I whirled around, flashed the stack of flyers in my hand and said, “No. My friend has been missing for over a week and I want to leave some flyers here.”

To his credit, he looked chastised. “Dan, right? We actually work with him.” And just like that, Dan, my annoyance turned to anger. I’d been anxious all day, hoping to see you or some sign of you, and I was tired. I was emotionally drained from all the pitying looks at the places I left flyers, from hearing “We’re so sorry” and having my mind finish the phrase with “for your loss.” I was all these things, and here were your coworkers at some happy hour, hitting on a girl who didn’t want to be hit on.

Then in my dream, just like I know you would in real life, you hugged me and rubbed my back. This was a true story, even if the dream itself wasn’t real. You looked me in the eye and understood the fears and frustration, not just from searching for you but from searching for some semblance of respect from men who prize self-assurance over self-awareness.

I was angry, Dan. I was so angry. I was angry in that dream and I am angry now, because who else in the world will understand this the way you would? Who else would recognize what I felt and why I felt it? Who else, if not you?

The world is emptier and a little greyer without you, Dan. Those of us who knew you will have to pick up where you left off, carry on with your kindness and heart. We can’t be angry forever.

Third, bargaining. I was studying at Toyon with Blouie the night before pledge High Courts. You and Diana were in the lounge with a ukelele, composing silly songs on the spot and recording them on Facebook. Your lyrics were ridiculous.

You spoke at my High Courts with a weird voice and asked if I knew who you were. I couldn’t see your face and I didn’t recognize your voice, so I guessed incorrectly. Then you asked, “How can you not identify the brother who serenaded you last night?”

And in a flash, I knew. I couldn’t smile, not with Matt’s stoic face staring at me, but that little bit of silliness during the ceremony made me feel better. Bowen’s imposing height was a little less terrifying, my heart stopped racing, and then I finally crossed to join you on the other side of brotherhood.

Brotherhood. It may sound strange to those who don’t understand, but AKPsi is a coed business fraternity. The Stanford chapter’s “Work hard, play hard” motto reflects each member’s drive and intensity, and we all strive for excellence. Besides traditional banking and consulting, our alums have founded companies like StartX, Crowdbooster, Pixlee, and Summer Technologies. We’re well-represented across industries, and I’m proud to be an alum just like you, Dan.

Yet at the end of the day, what we all have is heart. We work hard and play hard, but we care hard too. When I rushed, Cam closed me by saying that these were the people he wanted at his wedding, that these were the people he called at 3 AM. It wasn’t what I expected to hear, but since then I’ve learned just how true it is.

After Salina told me what happened, I couldn’t keep it to myself. I tried, but the weight of the news pressed upon me. I called brother after brother, starting with Devon, whom you mentored. I saw Kat and Jon, told them individually. Spoke to Ceci, Kathy, Stephen, Cisco, Simon, Kyle, Amy — only a fraction of the brothers who will be attending your memorial today.

I didn’t know what else to do.

There is a gap of time when grief is just an open wound, when there are no words, only disbelief peppered with expletives.

“Shit.”

“Fuck.”

“Damnit.”

I also called Blouie in Chicago, woke him up in the middle of the night. I told him that part of me wanted this whole thing to be a different kind of terrible. Something violent and horrible and out of your control.

If this was out of your control, then it was out of mine too. No one who knew you or cared for you could be at fault. What would it matter that I hadn’t followed up on grabbing coffee or drinks? Busyness be damned, this whole ordeal was out of our hands. Our shared brotherhood, our friendship, couldn’t have prevented anything. I wouldn’t have an endless loop of “if only” repeating in my head.

If only I texted him.

If only I slowed down.

If only I—

If only.

Fourth, depression. There’s a story I rarely tell, partly because it’s a difficult one, but mostly because it concerns mortality.

The summer after I met you, I interned in New York City at Luke’s Lobster. I was too young to drink, but I was surrounded by people who were only interested in hanging out if it involved beer. It was a tricky age and a tricky summer.

For the first time, my best friend was dealing with her mental health issues. That, of course, meant that she was holed up at home, avoiding public places because of her panic attacks. I saw her infrequently, perhaps only a handful of times that summer, even though her apartment was an easy ten or so blocks from the restaurant.

I picked up her phone calls when it was convenient, called back but never stayed on the line for very long, visited only if I felt like it. I didn’t know how to deal with someone who was falling apart.

August rolled around, hot and sticky. On a bright Sunday morning, my cell phone vibrated on my dresser, a low, insistent buzz. It was a quarter to seven, too early for church, but it was her. I picked up.

Her rich, contralto voice was high and sweet and far away. She was standing on the Queensboro Bridge, telling me that everything would be okay. I don’t remember what I said or how I said it. 44 minutes later, I hung up, woke my mother, and we picked her up.

She stayed with me for a week, eating only what I cooked. The first thing she ate was soft-boiled eggs, peppered but unsalted. Afterwards, we crushed the eggshells under our fingertips in silence.

I’ve told this story in many ways, each time thinking that the telling will be easier. It isn’t. She was depressed, and I almost failed her. For 44 minutes, I held her life in my hands, and somehow I saved it.

It’s been over four years since then, but I sometimes feel like I’m still 19 years old. Being close to death and depression takes me back to that choking pressure, the empty numbness of ignoring how heavy my body feels. I’ve showered and found the wetness on my face to be from crying.

Devon and I were grieving together a couple of nights ago, exchanging words on message and text. I hadn’t cried yet. He told me about his “Unexpected cry-bike — When you think you are fine but then realize mid-bike home that you are biking to where you had your first meeting with Dan Ha. And then you cry but cannot stop biking so you cry-bike.”

Then Devon asked me, “What do you miss the most about him?”

I answered, “How easily he smiled. How quickly his lips turned up.”

And I lost it. Devon had cry-biked, and now I cry-ate. I stuffed radishes and salami in my mouth in-between sobs and gasps. I stopped hearing the fast-paced dialogue of Gilmore Girls on Netflix, stopped filling my wine glass and drank straight from the bottle.

I called my best friend that night. She was alarmed, having never heard me weep like that before. She calmed me down and sent me to bed, almost a complete role reversal from our situation several summers ago.

This thing with you, Dan, brings me back to that summer, makes me wonder if this is what would have happened. If it would have been her remains, face and body indistinguishable, found floating in the East River.

The circumstances are different, I know, but I can’t help but rail against how unfair it feels. You wouldn’t do what she had tried. She is steady now, but you were stronger. She’s alive and okay, and I’m grateful that she is, but you are not.

If she, in her melancholy, could be saved, then why not you, too? What is the point of kindness and love and friendship? Why schedule drinks if death is around the corner?

There’s a degree of meaninglessness, of fumbling indecision, to being in your twenties, but other things have been reliable and constant. Overpriced coffee, shared meals, embarrassing pictures on Instagram, even shots of Fireball. You can count on mistakes, tipsy nights, and morning brunches with your friends trying to piece together the night before. Your people — friends, bros, ladies, tribe — will be there for the next round of shenanigans.

But after this, Dan, I’m not so certain anymore. You’re gone, and I don’t know what that means.

Fifth, acceptance. A couple of my second cousins came to visit last summer, touring San Francisco with their parents and grandma. After dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf, we went back to their Airbnb loft in SoMa, and I left for the Caltrain. It was already dark, so my suburban aunt and uncle insisted both Sam and Justin walk me to the train. It was only an eight-minute walk, but I conceded. Some parts of SoMa are sketchy.

On Brannan and 4th, I saw a figure in the darkness wearing a bro tank with low armholes. The height and shoulders seemed familiar, so I called out.

“Dan?”

My cousins thought I was nuts, but I was right. It was you.

(Of course you’d be wearing a bro tank with low armholes.)

I think you were heading to the bank or gym, and my train was leaving in ten minutes, so our conversation was quick. I hadn’t seen you in years, at least not since my Stanford graduation, but we made tentative plans to grab coffee or drinks sometime. You smiled, and we hugged, and then we separated.

That was the last time I saw you.

If I knew then that we would never see each other again, would I have done anything differently? I’ve mulled over the answer for a few days, and I’ve realized this:

There is no point in wondering.

Stop the thinking, stop the what-ifs, don’t even bother.

Every story has a beginning, middle, and end, and yours, Dan, has ended. What is the point in wondering what could have been when things already are? We can’t change the past.

All we can do is move forward.

Few and brief as they were, I’m grateful to have shared these moments with you because they still meant something to me. You are as much a part of my story as I am in yours, and I’m telling it, sharing it, right now.

Dan, I am a better person for having known you.

Your story may have ended, but think of the legacy you’ve left behind. You’ve touched so many people in so many ways. You made us smile, and laugh, and feel loved. You mentored young people, made us feel safe, understood, and supported. You had a big heart, and you shared it with all of us.

Wherever you are now, I hope you know just how loved you are, too. I’m still uncertain about what happens next, but I think it’s okay.

We will be okay.

Tonight after your memorial, long after the attendees have singlehandedly extended Uber surge pricing and Lyft Prime Time, when I sit around a table with our friends and brothers, laughing and crying over our memories with you, maybe it’ll feel as if you’ve never left.

You’re still here in our hearts.

Rest in peace, Dan.