Sean P. Dixon, 1966–2016

March 24, 2016

Thirty-one years ago, I walked into Manchester Hall on the east side of Illinois State University for the first time, and took the elevator to the 9th floor, to the postage-stamp-sized room that would become my first home away from home. Over the next few days and weeks, I would come to meet my floormates, a collection of truly good guys from all over the state who ran the gamut from standout athletes to nerds, with a few bookworms, stoners, dorks and artsy-fartsy types thrown in for good measure.

One in particular stood out, though it seemed like he really didn’t try or even want to stand out. He sometimes wore a tye-dyed shirt, often listened to Tangerine Dream, and always laughed a hearty, higher-pitched laugh. He was a little reserved, and not embarrassed at all to admit he liked fantasy games like D&D. His curly, dirty blond hair was shaped into a quasi-mullet (kindered spirit!). He was funny, thoughtful and kind. And, he liked Rush.

His name was Sean Patrick Dixon. And we didn’t know it at the time, but he would end up being our friend and confidante for the next three decades.

*****

As with any friendship that began so long ago but suffered from the distance that life/marriage/parenthood/circumstance often causes, some of the memories have faded a bit and the details are a bit sketchy. But any memory of Sean is invariably rooted in the same attributes: honesty, thoughtfulness, inquisitiveness, kindness, graciousness. And joy.

In no particular order, here are a few remembrances:

The Vidette Years

Not long after I somehow started working at the student newspaper (back then, they would let clueless hacks like me write for them), I told Sean he should consider doing photography for the paper — hey, you can make a few bucks, feel cool because you have a press pass, and maybe even get into some campus rock concerts for free. It didn’t take long for Sean (who may or may not have had much formal training in 35mm photography) to become a staff photographer and one of the most-liked members of the staff.

In 1989, we somehow convinced the newspaper adviser to let us take the Vidette car (a mid-80s, bright red, four-door Chevy Cavalier, I think) to Memphis, under the guise of doing a “special section” for the paper. Sean, Paul Beaty, Tom Long and me loaded up with notebooks, cameras, a change of clothes or two, and some other supplies (ahem…) and drove the six hours to Memphis, without any real itinerary or even vague sketch of a plan for what exactly we’d be writing about/taking photos of.

Strolling one afternoon along downtown Memphis’ pedestrian mall, we spotted an interesting-looking character in a threadbare suit and wide-brimmed hat, strutting along, feeding the pigeons and talking to himself. It kinda seemed like other passersby would go out of their way to avoid him. Not Sean, though — ever curious, he went right up and started chatting with this guy. I can’t remember his name (Tom — do you remember?), but do recall him mentioning more than once, “the birds know me, but the people don’t know me.”

Not long afterward, we all found ourselves at a Beale Street bar, learning about how this guy was a longtime blues musician, listening to his colorful stories about growing up in the south, and sharing laugh after laugh. Thanks, Sean, for introducing us to the Bird Man.

*****

The Belmont Years

After college, Sean, Steve Pisto and Suzy Swett lived at 905 959 (or was it 929?) West Belmont in Chicago, a stone’s throw from some of the seminal haunts of our early 20s (Tut’s/Avalon, Metro, Gingerman, the Vic, etc.). It was the perfect post-college crash pad: the gathering place for pre-show drinks and post-show debauchery. We went to countless rock shows and dive bars. Sean worked at a camera store in the lobby of the Palmer House Hotel by day (I remember thinking how cool it was that he took the CTA train to work) and drank beer and played pool at night. And it was around this time (I think) that he began to ride his mid-80s Honda Magna, a motorbike we relentlessly made fun of even though it ran better than all of ours.

It was a simple, energetic and hopeful time, not exactly carefree but pretty darn close to it, and it was bittersweet when Sean told us all that he’d be leaving for two years to join the Peace Corps in the Dominican Republic. (Though the farewell party, it must be noted, was all sweet and no bitter.) Saying farewell for what seemed like an eternity back then wasn’t easy–Sean had always been an important part of everyone’s social constellation. Perhaps not coincidentally, a mediocre indie rock band of that era later wrote a song titled “Dominican Republic.” And though said band would often write song lyrics with no corollary to the song’s title, the opening line certainly sounded like a tribute of sorts to Sean’s free spirit and aspirations: “You got me thinking about/all the places I’ve never been.”

*****

Sorry about the T-Shirts, Something Brothers

As he did once or twice, Sean traveled with the aforementioned indie rock band to a show at the dearly departed Cicero’s in St. Louis. A small, smoky, loud basement bar staffed by some of the nicest people around, Cicero’s didn’t have a dressing room, so bands stored their gear/stuff in the supply room for the upstairs restaurant. This particular night’s show featured as the headliner the Something Brothers, indie rock heroes from Bloomington-Normal who had some of the coolest band-merch T-shirts around.

At the end of the night, after far too many drinks, we were loading out the back door when someone convinced Sean to sneak one of the SoBros T-shirts from the huge cardboard box the band left sitting in the supply room. After a bit of convincing, Sean went back in and clandestinely liberated one of the T-shirts. When he came back, one of us said, “hey, I want one, too.” Reluctantly, Sean came back with pilfered shirt #2. “Man, I want one, too,” someone else chimed in. Sean gave one of his patented sighs, then disappeared for a few minutes as the rest of us threw the remainder of the band gear in the van. As we finished loading, Sean emerges from the basement with, well, a huge cardboard box in his hands. “Here! Now stop bothering me!” I’m not sure we’ve ever laughed that hard before. Dear Something Brothers: I think we still owe you about $156 in T-shirt money.

*****

There are so many adjectives to describe Sean, it’s hard to pick just one. Though here’s one that stands out: resiliency.

• In the Dominican Republic, he lived in a big tent (man, I wish I could find that photo) with just basic electricity and water service. He taught himself how to speak Spanish, live simply, and helped countless residents of his village learn to make a better life for themselves.
• In San Fran, he basically taught himself HTML and programming basics (I can personally attest to the wall of coding books on a shelf in his SF bedroom), and was at the forefront at what was then the emerging sphere of ISPs.
• When his dad took a turn for the worse, Sean made the courageous decision to leave his life in Portland. As ever, he knew what was most important.
• In Macomb, well into his mid-career, Sean put his mind into pursuing a Master’s Degree, and began teaching at the University. You can learn more here. I particularly enjoyed this review from one of his students on Rate My Professor: Loved this class. He is a very down to earth guy. I enjoyed going to his class. No tests, one group project. He is also very cute

*****

Like probably many of you, I spent Wednesday night reading though all the long email conversations I’ve had with Sean over the last 10+ years. Even though miles (San Francisco, Portland, Macomb, Iowa City…his many homes) always separated us, and even though there would often be months-long lulls between connections, each time we’d pick back up right where we left off, like we just switched back over from call waiting.

Two excerpts from past emails showed Sean’s character. They made me smile and cry:

From late 2006, when Sean emailed a few Chicago friends to let us know he was moving back to be with his dad during Mr. Dixon’s illness. Sean wrote:

“It is times like these when the connection with family and friends is the most important. Living so far away for so long and not doing a very good job of staying in touch has left me feeling a bit guilty and detached. I am looking forward to rectifiyng that when I return. You are all important to me and I look forward to building that bond again.”

From summer of 2014, when I told Sean about my challenges in parenting three young boys and my worries that I wasn’t doing a good enough job. Sean’s response:

“Every parent fucks up. The trick, I think, is admitting it, being aware of it, being ok with it, and working to keeping the fuck-ups to a minimum and small.”

I will really miss getting emails from seanpdixon@yahoo.com

*****

Sean: I am so very sorry you couldn’t find the peace you needed. If anyone deserved it, it was you.

My heart is broken, man. All of ours are.