for my dead friend, bert.
texas.
my friend bert had a heart bigger than his beloved state. it’s a tragedy that’s the same heart that killed him—in the parking lot of a hospital that could have saved him. i vow to do better—for bert, and for the rest of us.
bert was my first introduction to “yes, honey!” energy. Exuberance, confidence, adventure, and “honey, make it a CELEBRATION.” he was miami gworl vibes, only make it texas. a native of mission, texas, bert graduated from UT austin and later settled in dallas. in between, he became a beloved reporter at WFAA—nationally recognized, in fact, for keeping cool while someone streaked across his live shot.
bert talked about this experience three years before his death, in 2008.
“I was humiliated,” he later told a tv critic. “I thought I’d totally blown it on live television. It was the worst feeling.”
his quote hit me in the gut. it was understandable: 2006 was a different time for the news business. streaking by an unsuspecting reporter today? just another monday.
i was also flabbergasted. this enigmatic, beautiful, confident, and radiant person that i admired felt humiliated sometimes? i learned two things that are still hard to grasp:
Everyone gets embarrassed.
It’s okay to talk about how you feel. It’s even better if those feelings aren’t perfect. We’re human.
if you knew bert, you’d appreciate his closing quote about the situation:
“People still ask me whether I got a good look at the guy. And I always say, 'Yes, and there was more than just dry brush that needed trimming that night.’”
bert died of heart failure on august 31, 2011. it shook my world in a way i still haven’t processed.
just weeks earlier, we were “yes, honeying!” our way through savannah. we were there for an early morning work meeting at the army base—our agency’s marquee client and bert’s marquee account. technically, he was my boss—a strange thing in the pre-pandemic era. this monday and tuesday in savannah, he became my friend.
“We’re walking every square and eating shrimp and grits at the Pink House,” he told me, less than 18 hours before our meeting.
bert had never been to savannah. so we did. pink house was closed, but we ended up at a soulful basement piano bar where bert—martini in hand—requested “piano man” with a straight face. (amusingly, they played it.) then: wet willy’s, the slushie bar on river street, but only if we promised bert we’d all reconvene the next morning at 8 a.m. to wander through the antique stores before the meeting.
it was quintessential bert, as i knew him. i’d rather remember him this way than the choked up call i got from another friend/boss soon thereafter.
“It’s not good.”
that’s all he needed to say. pre-zoom, we sat together in silence, tears echoing into the receiver.
as the story (that i remember) goes: bert suffered a heart attack, walked into a crowded waiting room, and walked back out. his condition worsened in the parking lot. he never woke up.
23. my first job. and my first dead boss? i didn’t prepare for that in college! so, i buried it. ran into the bathroom, composed myself, left the job a few months later, work-a-holic’d myself into burnout a decade later. he’s been there the entire time, i just haven’t wanted to listen. until now.
i see “glimpses” of bert everywhere (it’s texas…it’s always texas). to me, it’s his infectious spirit that’s lived on. i see it in our old client, now a ultra marathoner and a comms executive for the army. in my old colleagues as they grow their careers and families. in my own self—i hope. i see “texas,” and i think: “bert.” curiosity, storytelling, laughing, adventure, yes girl, and pure acceptance. recognizing my grief from bert’s passing has helped me start to reclaim my voice again. like his streaker situation, it feels like an exercise in dazzling humiliation and vulnerability. i am grateful.
bert would have been 55 this year. i’d like to think he’d tell us, “55 is the new 25,” but i can also see him saying that his 70s and 80s would be his “most flawless decade.”
may bert’s brilliant legacy continue to shine.
