A few weeks ago, a good friend of mine died. I didn’t get to know him long, but I had the privilege of knowing him pretty damn well. Matthew Power had been a colleague whom I got to know during my stint as a Knight-Wallace Fellow at the University of Michigan (2010-2011). It was a tight-knit clan that spent hours together crammed in buses and seminar halls and on airplanes. We traveled the globe together, visiting Argentina, Brazil and Turkey.
A lot has been written about Matt since he died March 10 while on assignment for Men’s Journal in Uganda, reportedly of heatstroke as he hiked the Nile for a story. I have nothing of literary value to add. The heartfelt stories I’ve read are far more poignant than I have the skill to craft. But because Matt was a source in my second book, All-American Murder, I felt his passing should be noted here. He had tried to report the Yeardley Love slaying for Rolling Stone, and, like me, had been met with a wall of reluctance that he had never before encountered. The Love case marked the first time he had to ditch a story, he told me. His voice helped me explain in my book the shroud of silence around the death.
Some of the most beautiful posts I highlight here (by Abe Streep) and here (by James Thomas, a fellow Fellow) and here (by Harry Siegel, another in our crew). There are many others. Matt had written for Harper’s Magazine, GQ, Slate, OnEarth and National Geographic Adventure, among others. He was a mentor to young writers — and, hell, to old writers, too. He made quite an impression in his 39 years.
I’ll share some photos I shot during our year together, as well as what I wrote on Facebook the day of his death. Matt once said that he was convinced after he met me that I had Tourette’s. So I guess this is appropriate:
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All day, I kept thinking, “Fuckin’ Matt Power.” Because when we first met, and he always had some amazing story to tell about some amazing place he’d been, I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous, feel a little as though he must be showing off — a fair assumption in a room full of journalists who I assumed wanted to one-up each other — and I thought, fuckin’ Matt Power.
Then I got to know him, and I realized he wasn’t showing off at all, he was simply sharing his experiences. It wasn’t braggadocio. It was just an awesome life. And he was nice, dammit. Really nice. So it was with admiration that when I’d hear him start to tell his fantastical stories, I began to think, fuckin’ Matt Power.
Then the fellowship ended and I’d get his emails and see his photos from all over the world — I mean, places I’d barely heard of — and with a proud smile, I’d think, fuckin’ Matt Power.
And today I learn he’s gone. He’s gone before he’s 40, leaving so many amazing stories left to tell, and there are so many people out there who will never have the chance to hear him talk about eating bugs and motorbiking through Dubai. I say this with all the love I have: Fuckin’ Matt Power.
-30-
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- In northern Michigan
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- Lounging in Argentina
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- Giddy for our next adventure
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- With Jess
