Not an Obituary of My Brother Marty

Martin “Marty” Jefferson Clifton III died Friday, June 11th, following an accident early in the morning at a gas station in Fairfield, Ca.

Marty is my older brother and the oldest of four other siblings, and his untimely passing is still a shock to close and extended family, and his friends around the country.

This isn’t an obituary for my oldest brother, though, because Marty didn’t die, he lived.

You see, my brother lived his life. Though he was named after both his grandfather and father, he refused to live the lives they lived, and the life they planned for him to live.

Oh, he had many of the attributes of his namesakes: He was a minister like his grandfather, and he was gregarious and made friends easily like his father.

But Marty wasn’t them, and he was happy about that despite pressures from them and other family members to “Be like your grandfather” or “Be better than your father.”

Marty ignored familial, religious, and societal pressures to define him, his life, and his happiness.

Marty lived by the hour. Fifty-nine years of living hour to hour and Marty wasn’t tired at all. He could continue living despite body aches from years of living sofa to sofa, sleeping on streets, and behind garbage bins.