One of my first posts about grad school included the note that Julie Granum “is a fine poet.” I didn’t know Julie. I didn’t know that wearing tank tops in chilly weather was something that she’d do regularly, or that she’d bring energy and a smile with her wherever, whenever I saw her, even when she was twisting with back pain, or that she was the kind of pretty girl people wanted to talk to on the street, just because. I didn’t know anything about her. I just thought she was a fine poet.
Julie Granum is dead. She died in California, after visiting with family, this week, or maybe last. She was 26.
Eventually I did know Julie, some. I knew that she would play records loud, if she liked. I knew that she would be overly generous to a fellow grad student — clearly unstable — who proceeded to steal Julie’s cell phone and engage in some crazy high drama. I knew that she’d rather dance than drink at a bar, but when I saw her, usually we all just wanted to drink. She adopted a big, spazzy dog, which she loved without reservation, bringing it with her everyplace, moving apartments to give it a home.
Julie wanted to be loved so terribly. She did the silly college thing, making out with guys and girls alike, getting drunk and grabbing asses and generally having a good time that skimmed the line of risk and voyeurism and maybe even danger. But there was something else in it; she really wanted to give love so she could get some back.
I’m not sure if I ever met anyone who needed as much love as Julie Granum; I can be sure that I didn’t return the share she needed. I liked her. But I’m not sweet or demonstrative — I’m just a waspy chick who waves and smiles. She needed to embraced by men, men like cowboys, like princes, like heroes. She needed to feel enclosed and safe and beautiful, and she wore the need for adoration and comfort as naked and raw as I’ve ever seen. I’m sure she never got enough.
Julie took this semester off Pitt. Her dog was hit by a car and died in circumstances I don’t fully understand. I didn’t know she was going to California, and have no idea why she decided to never return. The details of her death are unclear.
I can’t count the lifetimes I’ve lived since I was 26, but the pile of them makes me want to reach back through time — just a few weeks! — and explain to Julie that all damage can be survived, every wound will heal, every ounce of despair might be dispelled by the silliest moment. A breath of garlic across the subway. The scent of pine in a park, the touch of a finger across skin, the pull of a leg, a sandy itch, the sound of water over rocks. The taste of clear water, clear vodka, across the tongue; the tang of fresh grapefruit one morning off a tree. The laughter of an enemy, the irritation of a mosquito bite, the idea that resurfaces, the ache of a back, the surprise of a flower or a cloud across the sky. Simple and close, or faraway. But the unexpectedness, the pleasure of surprise, a moment that couldn’t be predicted, even terror, even hate, even nerves or shock, even trepidation, recognition, grace. Like, loud. Like champagne.
Goodbye, Julie Granum. Your departure was a mistake. Goodbye.
As someone who’s been very close to Julie Granum since childhood, I came upon your blog as I googled her name, trying to find something of her to reflect on at this difficult time. Without much information to go on, I also initially wondered if the death could have been self-inflicted.
However, her family has confirmed that death was accidental, not a suicide. (a conclusion supported by details that I’m not going to get into here).
Since I know that many people who knew her will come upon your blog as they search for news, I’m sure the family would appreciate it if you could correct the recent entry so as not to misinform people.
That said, it is wonderful to be able to see something about Julie on the web that talks about her in the context of the writing that she cared so much about. She was a wonderful soul who had so much to give to the world.
thank you carrington for beating everyone to this writing…
while i do agree with some that is said in this piece i am curious as to how you came to some of the conclusions that you did as to your opinion about julie. i do not know your relationship to her but i do find it ashame that you would rush to judgement with such certainty and only be an acquaintance is something that should never be done in this circumstance.
i do agree that the word love and julie go together well but i do not think it was her that “needed (the) love.” i feel that she was the one that gave the love to so many people and touched so many of us. julie was the most kind hearted person i could ever imagine, a sister to me in the sense that her family and my family were so close in many ways and spent much time together. it is tough to sit here and reflect on her because she was such an amazing person, so many smiles and happy vibes, so much love to give. she will be missed greatly.
so thank you for correcting an earlier jump to conclusion . and thank you for writing a piece about such an amazing spirit. julie will always be in our hearts and minds. much love to her, her family, and all that knew her.
Yes, Julie sure did give a tremendous amount of love to the world. I don’t claim to “know” what any person needs definitively, but this entry, to me, is an inaccurate and narrow portrait of a complicated person. You write, “I’m not sure if I ever met anyone who needed as much love as Julie …” Well, allow me to introduce myself, and my friends, and most people I know, in fact. Julie didn’t need any more love than any human does. And–I write this to Julie’s mother in particular–I saw how much love she got.
I too came across this blog as I googled Julie’s name. I have known and loved her since she was three years old and I will miss her more than you can imagine. As a member of her parents’ generation – and a friend of theirs – this loss has haunted me probably in a different way that it has her peers. What I can confirm, unequivocally, is that she was and is greatly loved by friends and family alike. And I already miss her.
As we all mourn this great loss, a unifying truth is that we didn’t get enough of Julie in our lives. The sadness comes, stays for awhile and then a beautiful memory of Julie’s creeps up and I smile or laugh.
In reflection, one of the things I admire about Julie and the legacy she has left with me, is the way that she challenged me to be a better person. It was always subtle, but through asking questions, sometimes difficult questions, she gentled nudged me outward, outward in growth as an evolving person. In this way she gave love effortlessly and without hesitation. She did this in a way that was not always comfortable, but she did it in a way that showed that she cared and that she saw more in me than I may have been willing to notice on my own. In this way she will always be a part of my life and I am grateful to have known her and called her a friend.
My condolences to Julie’s family during this time of mourning.
I’m sure those remarks on her “needs” were meant in the best way, though perhaps they were not expressed in the most elegant manner. What IS true is that Julie seemed to touch everyone she met. I haven’t seen her since we last overlapped in Brooklyn four years ago, but I couldn’t be more upset now than if I had just seen her yesterday. She was a beautiful person…
I remember Julie as imperfect, and that’s how and why I loved her. She was a ball of thunder, a clap of energy, one of the funnest people and dancers I knew. And she was a listener, which I always admired.
Carolyn, your words are necessary. And I think it’s important that we all find our own outlets to make sense of this loss.
i stayed up late that night. lit candles and made myself a tequila pina colada. something i thought you might like. then i spilled it, something you’d probably do. so i made myself another, and i know you’d approve.
the sun was shining. it always seems to shine in california. perhaps that’s why we all head west. the sunsets last longer, when you’re heading west.
in the morning i made tea and went outside. decided we were doing yoga on the deck, with its blue peeling paint and pots without plants. became a mountain, then a valley, then the river flowing in between. breathed your soul through every pore. felt light. and yet, my stomach was queasy all day. still is. when not enough turns too much. anxious satiation.
i had to do errands, but i knew we would be underwater before the end of the day, so i left the house in my bikini (par for the course). you play dj, i said, feeling slightly mopey. i would have probably picked some melodramatic alt-rock. you picked outkast. i rolled down the windows and let the breeze blow through our hair.
then i cried.
cried all the way to the grocery store, where i bought a large watermelon and espresso soy ice cream, just for you. then i read some words, and wrote some words, and watered the plants. thought of memories and lives and lies. thought about physical injuries, their apt lessons, and the intention necessary to learn them.
i know you’re looking for something. the answer to the question. but find your breath, my friend. find the breath of the ocean that so soothes you; go find the crocodiles at midnight and the mountaintops at sunrise. open rather than question. this is a gift, truly;
embrace the expansion. don your sexiest bikini and jump in.
i bet you can surf a lot in metaspace.
The original post — presumptuous, false and unfair — is now syndicated on something called Pittsburgh Bloggers and is the first link that comes up when you type Julie’s name into Google. Ms. Kellog, please respect the peole who loved Julie — her family and her many, many friends. Please remove your entire post from publicly searchable areas. Please do it now.
Your post is so beautiful it makes us cry.
I am sorry for all of Julie’s friends, classmates, and acquaintances in their loss.
It’s a lovely remembrance, Pinky, and a lovely picture of where so many of us (even the WASP-y undemonstrative ones like me–and, you, too, I guess but am too WASP-y to presume) are/were at 26.
As someone who knew Julie during the trying times of adolescence, where egocentrism runs amok for most, I can only echo the sentiments of Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Carrington, that Julie was full of smiles, love, and thoughtfulness and gave far more than she ever took, and the words of Mr. Darman, to publically remove your blog. I spent last night remembering softball games, math classes, and undocumented hallway moments of Julie, and every memory was a testament to the unbridled spirit and love of life that Julie possessed. My thoughts and prayers go out to her family. May they find some comfort in knowing how Julie positively touched so many other lives.
I am only today discovering that we have lost Julie. And I am struck dumb. I remember her as a fierce woman. Strong. Bright. A fresh presence in all the rooms of poetry in which I was with her. Her manner was gentle, beautiful. I will miss her as a poet, as a joyful and precise energy; I will miss the unwritten poems. I hope that the present poems will find their way, with aid of her closest friends and family, into hungry hearts.
another obit for Julie has been published here: http://whiskeyandfox.blogspot.com
I can but echo the sentiments expressed thus far by those who have known Julie so well. Julie was a dear friend to so many, and all of us who have known her through the years are torn apart by her loss. She was one of the sweetest, kindest, most thoughtful people that I have ever had the privilege of knowing, to the point where words cannot truly reflect the measure of her character. While Julie and I lost touch over the years, her imprint on my life and those of our friends will last for decades to come.
While some may feel that your post was a “lovely rememberance,” I hope that you will be struck by the outpouring of emotion from her close friends, recognize that your post — which has shirked the borders of sensitivity and accuracy — is causing those who care for Julie to suffer further pain, and have enough respect to remove your post.
She was a real cool girl. We went to High School together at Sandy Spring and always chilled at her parents house when they were out of town. Its surreal to here about this through a friend that was browsing the web. I am always pride myself on not being detatched from old friends but to not know information like this lets me know I have to try harder. Just because everyone moves on doesnt mean they should be forgotten. I miss you Julie and am very sad that your wonderful life had to end this way.
I love you girl and will miss you
Jason Sulkin
Maybe today started out surreal or maybe I’m just remembering it that way now, but when I heard the news everything started feeling like a dream. Death is so alien, I just can’t get my head around it. I spent most of the first hour trying to find out if there might be another Julie Granum that died. Or maybe it was an elaborate April fools joke. Maybe those poetry folks are crazy like that.
I probably wouldn’t have seen her again more than a hand full of times, but something is gone and it is never coming back. I’m glad I knew her, I’m glad I fell in love with her. She was one of the nuttiest people I have ever met. I think that’s why we liked each other so much.
I’m a better person for having known her.
Yeah… I mean, there’s certainly a need for a better portrait of Julie’s life to pop up first on a “Julie Granum” Google search. I think a lot of us who knew Julie growing up heard about it and rushed to a computer – and were both saddened and confused by the information/speculation that was out there. But I do want to thank the author of the blog for offering thoughtful remarks about Julie and ultimately setting up a forum to remember and appreciate her, however imperfect/electronic it may be.
The problem lies in remembering Julie solely through the literary element of her life. It seems to imply that Julie was hopelessly pessimistic when nothing could be further from the truth. She could write angry feminist poetry with the best of them, but Julie was no cynic. She cared too much. She cared about her family and friends, she cared about people she didn’t know, she cared about everybody. This wasn’t because she needed love so much as it was that she sincerely believed in it. That if you’d just spend the time to reach out to others, you could find something to love in everyone, and Julie was always more willing than most to look.
Which is not to say my memories of Julie won’t feature a snapshot of her onstage at the local vegan coffee house, spitting introspective/sexual/anti-establishment fire to the masses. It’s just that’s not what I’ll think about most. I’ll think of Julie’s streak of 84 consecutive weekends gushing to the whole party ‘Aww, you guys/ [insert friend], I love you.’ And then she’d be kind enough to tell everybody why (with goofy, infectious laughter peppered in between). I’ll think of her devotion to her obese cats, doing yoga in a sports bar, and going to Hawaii to teach dolphins how to read. She was in some ways a total space cadet; in others, acutely analytical, bright, and insightful. She was one of those unique people (Manny Ramirez comes to mind) who could do or say something extraordinary for which the only plausible reaction from friends was a shrug, a quizzical look, and eventual acceptance – just Julie being Julie.
It’s weird how time and circumstance draw us further and further away from people we had spent every day with for years, those we never intended or wanted to let go, but slowly did. Yet there will always remain a connection to the people that have left their mark on your life, relived in the remembrance of the good times spent with those that matter to us. I may not have talked to Julie for years, but from time to time, I’d think, ‘huh, I wonder what Julie’s up to?’ Then I’d replay some episode in my mind, smile and move on. And that was about it, maybe 10 seconds once a month. In the end, it’s the daily collection of these sorts of memories that serve to reassure us that there are indeed benevolent forces at play in our universe. I always took solace in the knowledge that somewhere out there, Julie Granum was doing her thing, and the world was a better place for it. The best people touch us in a way that brightens our day even in their absence… her passing is devastating news and she will be missed by those fortunate enough to have known her.
I am deeply saddened by Julie’s passing. Carol Costa and I exchanged e-mails today, and we both remembered her with great fondness as a 12-14 year old. I can shut my eyes now and can easily see her wonderful smile and twinkling eyes- it always felt like she was getting one over on me as her teacher, and she knew that I knew, and it made her smile.
May she rest in peace. Many of us at Potomac wish to send our condolences to her family.
Brendan
A couple of years younger than me at Sandy Spring Friends School, Julie was always so warm and lively, always caring. In my senior year we became good friends. She writes in my yearbook of a concert we attended together, thanking for me for taking her. Yet I remember clearly how she was the one who set up the opportunity for us to meet the musicians backstage, my all-time favorite group the Indigo Girls. It is she who deserves the biggest thanks, as this was truely a culminating event in my high school years.
I imagine her now, such a bright, bright smile…joyous, laughing, and dancing. She also writes in my yearbook of how she valued our friendship, how she hopes I would not forget her when I went off to college. Finally, she writes of how she respects me as a person, namely my newly formed identity as a lesbian. Her words were powerful in a time when I had just begun to accept myself. Although we did not keep in touch over the years, I have never forgotten her gentle understanding and unwavering support.
Julie was a deeply good person, deeply so.
We have such a beautiful soul to remember.
I knew Julie long ago through her older sister – even kept an eye on her a couple times when her family was out of town – and remember her with great affection. A few months ago, I happened upon her while doing one of my random Google searches, and dropped her an email. What followed was a too brief email correspondence, sent into hiatus by me with my all-too-frequent reluctance to write when nothing major was happening, when I didn’t feel like I had anything worth saying. Tomorrow, I told myself. Maybe next week. Which became next month. And the next… and the next… and now… it is too late. There will be, there can be, no more letters. I am just relieved – if that is even the right word – to hear that her death was accidental and not self-inflicted. Hers was too beautiful a soul to be snuffed out by her own hand, but still too beautiful to be extinguished so early in life, by whatever means.
I will miss you, Julie, the closest thing to a little sister I ever had. And I’m sorry I never wrote you that email back. Just so you know, things are good… I am sad at your passing, but remember you with fondness and joy.
She was a beautiful young girl and I was so sad to hear of her passing. We were friends as young girls back in our early teen years. We were only close for a little while — but all the same she had a great impact on my outlook in my youth and I always remembered her fondly — as I do now. I love reading about the joys that she has brought to so many people, the posts are beautiful. She was such a genuine spirit and I will always remember her smile and bright eyes. Darman, Mitchell and Carrington — I’m so glad that you have represented her well here. You are good men and good friends to all. She was very well-loved.
Fondly,
Kate
A service for Julie will be held Saturday, May 17th at 2pm at the Sandy Spring Friends School Meeting House. The address is 16923 Norwood Rd. Sandy Spring, MD 20860 Phone: 301-774-7455. In keeping with the free spirit that Julie was, this will be a “comfortable” service with gentlemen dressed in khaki’s and a button down shirt, ties and blazers are not needed. Ladies can wear something comparable. This will also be a Quaker service with much of the time dedicated to hearing memories of Julie as shared by you, her friends. These thoughts and memories do not need to be grandiose or eloquent, but instead just a reflection of the memories you have of Julie. A reception will follow at the Performing Arts Center. Thank you.
Love,
James
I only just came across this today. I really wish I’d known about the service. This whole thing is so saddening. Her spirit was so bright. She shinned brighter than anyone I’ve ever known. I can’t really come to terms with that light being out. I’m so sorry, especially for her family (who I met briefly when she brought me home for thanksgiving a few years ago) and to the people closest to her. I’ve always assumed her and I would reconnect someday.
If anyone has more information on what actually happened I would be grateful. Everything seems so vague.
Jake
917-515-0982
I just found out about Julie Granum´s death through her Mother, Ellen, my half sister-in-law. I wrote her back asking what happened but I have yet to hear from her. Maybe she doesn´t want the world to know, and that is her right. Ellen took care of my mother, Lillian Soules, for the last ten years of her life, as I was down in Venezuela, living and working. But I would go up to Washington every year and we would all gather together for Thanksgiving dinner, and of course Julie would be there. On those occasions I felt rather intimidated in the presence of such a large, extended family, and with my mother in tow, this insecurity was made worse, since Mom frankly was not doing well mentally in those days. But I do remember that on one occasion Julie came up to me and said something like: “It´s great to see you, how are you doing?” In the moment I instinctively interpreted this to mean: “Relax, everything is going to be alright.” She was maybe thirteen at the time, and I was taken aback by this clear demonstration of love and empathy. This seems to echo all the sentiments written in here in this forum.
i am so very grateful to all of you dear , thoughtful friends who have written about Julie and Your deep, tender feelings about her. This has been – and will be for a long time to come – a terrible, terrible loss for her dad and me and her brother, james , sister, brooke and half brother, clay and sister, lyne. Her Aunt Julie, for whom she was named ( my sister) suffers so much also. I would love to know last names of some of you and emails so i can write back if you feel like identifying yourself and sharing. but if not, please know how very much we appreciate your great love for Julie and your recognition of her truly marvellous spirit! What a gift she was to us all. Ellen
Granum sprite66@gmail.com