I don’t show appreciation to a lot of people but I think it is time…. So here goes, Franklin, one of the best people I have ever met (which is deeply annoying), because I’ve met an awful lot of people, and hundreds of customers and I would prefer not to admit that one of my favourites is a man whose relentless optimism occasionally makes me question whether I have a problem or he does (it’s me).
But the truth is I’ve never had a friend quite like him, and, if I’m being fair, I haven’t always appreciated him nearly as much as I should have. I think because he just takes the sharp comments and doesn’t argue back, he stands still and understands my mood and for that I’m sorry.
However, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the people who make our lives better without necessarily realising they’re doing it. I have been thinking a lot how we always assume there will be another conversation, another opportunity to say thank you and perhaps that’s made me think more carefully about the people I’ve been lucky enough to know.
So this is about Franklin, and not because it’s his birthday or he is going anywhere, although I imagine he’ll be absolutely insufferable after reading an entire essay dedicated to his character. The truth is it’s simply because he’s a good person, and I think we should make more of an effort to tell good people that while they’re still around to hear it.
I should probably begin by explaining that I don’t actually remember meeting him (with videos he took I have more memory), but apparently, we met in Iraq.
He remembers me but I don’t remember him, that’s the thing about having 20+ people a week on a tour, it’s transitional. YOLO, wonderful foundation for a friendship, really. Imagine meeting someone, presumably making a perfectly respectable impression, only to discover later that you have absolutely no recollection of their existence. Most people might be slightly offended but Franklin thought it was funny, which tells you almost everything you need to know about the man.
Fortunately, Syria gave me a second opportunity to make a first impression and what an impression (best trip ever – not physically). We had one (multiple) of those nights that began with the entirely reasonable intention of having a drink and ended with us watching the sunrise over vodka lemoooonnnnns (iykyk). Having taken things considerably further than any responsible adult should, we then had to rush to the border. I nearly lost my job, which is an experience I would recommend because what’s dignity.
There is something quite special about watching a beautiful Syrian sunrise going 140km through Damascus with someone you adore while simultaneously realising you’ve made a catastrophic error in time management and holding on for dear life. I wouldn’t change it for anything.
Then there was Afghanistan, smoking together, talking about everything and nothing, finding little moments of normality in places where life rarely feels particularly normal. Somewhere between Iraq, Syria and Afghanistan, Franklin became one of those people whose company I never had to think about. I forgot he was a paying customer and treated him like my bestie.
He also listens to my music, which I consider a fairly substantial act of friendship because my playlists are not always designed for general enjoyment. In fact, they’re often a rather concerning combination of melancholy, heartbreak. My mum always says, “No wonder you’re always depressed,” but I feel music. And he listens, and sometimes that’s all I really want. Not someone to analyse my taste or ask why I’m listening to the same depressing song for the fourteenth time, just a “fuck, I know why this means something to you.” Maybe its I understand you more.
The funny thing is, none of these stories particularly explains why I admire him, i mean yeah… they’re good memories, certainly, but I’ve shared good memories with hundreds of people. What makes Franklin different is what happens outside the stories. Honestly, it’s how he treats people when there’s nothing exciting going on, how he listens when someone needs to talk, and how he always seems to find time for everyone. On my tours, I sometimes think he should be the guide because he doesn’t seem to operate on the assumption that friendship is something to be earned, you just give it, which I have become more skeptical of.
Franklin is also the sort of person who would be the first to sign up for some ridiculous dance class, while I would rather throw myself into oncoming traffic than endure the embarrassment. He wouldn’t care whether he was any good, he would be at the front, laughing, getting every step wrong and somehow making everyone else feel comfortable enough to join in. I, meanwhile, would be standing in the corner, deeply cringing. And as much as I say it annoys me, I love that about him. I wish I could be like that.
Also, he makes videos for people, little records of their experiences, the places they’ve visited, the people they’ve met and the things they’ve done and I don’t think that’s a small thing. The older I get, the more I realise how valuable it is because memories change and details fade. Even now the only thing I hold onto is the videos he made, that I was happy.
He gives people something they can return to and can see themselves younger, happier, perhaps braver than they remember being.
So Frank, you menace, who I can’t help but always be a bit crude with, here’s my truth…
You probably think you’re just making videos, but you’re doing something considerably more meaningful, you’re preserving little pieces of people’s lives, and I, out of anyone, know that am so fucking thankful.
Most of all I thank him for giving me the grace to work it out, its like our promise we’ll always be there for one another. He has reminded me how beautiful a completely platonic friendship between a man and a woman can be. As a woman who has spent much of her adult life working in predominantly male environments, I’ve become accustomed to the additional boundaries that sometimes come with closeness. Kindness can be mistaken for interest, friendship can come with expectations and find yourself wondering whether someone genuinely values your company or simply the possibility of something else.
There’s no question of what our friendship is supposed to become, I adore you, talk about serious things, and get sideway drunk.
I find that incredibly moving even his mum has no obligation to support my writing but always use to read my work. It’s such a small gesture on paper, yet there’s something extraordinarily touching about knowing someone chooses to make room for you.
And perhaps that’s where Franklin gets some of it from.
We can believe deeply in kindness and still occasionally fail to be kind. We can understand forgiveness intellectually and struggle terribly to offer it. We can give excellent advice and make absolutely disastrous decisions. We can write beautifully about the meaning of life and still have no fucking idea what we’re doing with our own.
And I think real friendship begins when someone knows all of that about you and doesn’t make you feel ashamed of it.
And perhaps that’s what grace really is, not pretending someone has no faults, not excusing every mistake, and certainly not agreeing with everything they say. It’s recognising that a person is larger than the least flattering thing you know about them.
I’m still working out what I don’t like about him, but the time will come so for now he will just be the person who makes the world better and brighter.
P.S. To Franklin’s mum, who will probably be the first person to read this, thank you for always supporting my writing, even when you and your son insist I sound absolutely nothing like myself. You’re probably right but I think you always support me.
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