Dept. of passing and Remembering
Tuesday, 16 June 2026 08:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaffy_rIrv Leavitt, Sui Generis
Thirteen years ago last month, one of my closest colleagues and dear friend Nick Katz died. This past Saturday, on the 13th, Irv Leavitt, another of my colleagues and someone I should have been a closer friend to, died in hospice after more than two years fighting Multiple Sclerosis and cancer.
Like Nick, Irv was an excellent reporter and an even better writer. One of his friends talked about how much he liked Jimmy Breslin, and aspired to be that kind of writer. He succeeded, but he put his own imprimatur on everything he wrote. Breslin may have inspired him, but he never copied Breslin. He had his own style. This is where you can find some of his pieces, which he wrote after leaving Pioneer Press. They are worth reading, and I'm only sorry that I didn't tell him so more often.
Irv was brilliant, in that way people who think from A to Q to 9 to # are. Sometimes it made him impossible to follow in conversation, and thus often frustrating - even infuriating, because his brilliance came with a heaping helping of stubbornness. Over the years, though, I learned that I needed to take an active role in any of our discussions; ask him what he meant by this or that, then ask follow-up questions - just like a good reporter should. And like any good reporter, I had to listen. It made our discussions so much more wonderful.
That came in handy during our time as union officers at Pioneer Press dealing with the generally soulless people who bought PP; the Chicago Sun-Times and ultimately The Chicago Tribune, which has succeeded in turning what was once a proud network of suburban Chicago community newspapers into a set of zombie entities. When we were with the company, we were among many who fought the good fight against those bastards; he was more than occasionally on negotiating committees with me, and I am so glad he was. He was a union man, and his thoughts and ideas helped make us a stronger union.
He was pure Chicago. Along with being a reporter, he drove cab and even had his own cab company for a while. That allowed him to see the best and worst of Chicago and people in general. He liked all kinds of food; I remember him introducing me to a particular Indian restaurant, which was a joy to eat at. But he also liked hot dogs, and pizza too. He loved baseball, and although he was a Mets fan, I'm ready to forgive him; after all, he took Bob and I to a Cubs game with him and his gifted daughter several years ago.
That gifted daughter? He raised her by himself after his wife died when their little girl was nine. He was so proud of his daughter, her art and her determination to not blend in, to stand out and become an amazing person.
Irv was kindness itself behind all his mannerisms. He was kind to Bob and I during an unimaginably difficult time of our lives. He didn't have to be, but he was. And I think the reason he was a fine reporter and an excellent writer was that kindness. He often sounded like he didn't believe in people, but the truth was that he did. Always. I learned from one of his closer friends that he walked in a Black Lives Matter march despite being in great pain at the time. Her memory of him says so much about how good he was, and how much he believed in humanity, or at least humanity's potential.
He was sui generis.
I last saw him in February, when a bunch of us old reporters got together in his rehab room to watch the draft of one of our number's documentary efforts. His voice was so weak that we had to stop talking and lean in to hear him. I was glad to be there; many months previously, I'd spoken to him over the phone and asked if he wanted a visit - at that time he was in the hospital, at the beginning of a nonstop unmerry-go-round of hospital ICUs, rehab places and assisted living institutions. He told me no. I didn't push it and I didn't call him again, and I regret that.
Over the years since Nick died, another friend who truly was sui generis, I have missed him and hoped that I might see him again, if there's an afterlife that hews at least a bit to Western ideas thereabout, rather than fuzzy ideas of personality-free nirvana. Now I have a second colleague that I hope to see again.
Goodbye Irv. I miss you, and I hate that there's an Irv-sized hole in the world now.
Thirteen years ago last month, one of my closest colleagues and dear friend Nick Katz died. This past Saturday, on the 13th, Irv Leavitt, another of my colleagues and someone I should have been a closer friend to, died in hospice after more than two years fighting Multiple Sclerosis and cancer.
Like Nick, Irv was an excellent reporter and an even better writer. One of his friends talked about how much he liked Jimmy Breslin, and aspired to be that kind of writer. He succeeded, but he put his own imprimatur on everything he wrote. Breslin may have inspired him, but he never copied Breslin. He had his own style. This is where you can find some of his pieces, which he wrote after leaving Pioneer Press. They are worth reading, and I'm only sorry that I didn't tell him so more often.
Irv was brilliant, in that way people who think from A to Q to 9 to # are. Sometimes it made him impossible to follow in conversation, and thus often frustrating - even infuriating, because his brilliance came with a heaping helping of stubbornness. Over the years, though, I learned that I needed to take an active role in any of our discussions; ask him what he meant by this or that, then ask follow-up questions - just like a good reporter should. And like any good reporter, I had to listen. It made our discussions so much more wonderful.
That came in handy during our time as union officers at Pioneer Press dealing with the generally soulless people who bought PP; the Chicago Sun-Times and ultimately The Chicago Tribune, which has succeeded in turning what was once a proud network of suburban Chicago community newspapers into a set of zombie entities. When we were with the company, we were among many who fought the good fight against those bastards; he was more than occasionally on negotiating committees with me, and I am so glad he was. He was a union man, and his thoughts and ideas helped make us a stronger union.
He was pure Chicago. Along with being a reporter, he drove cab and even had his own cab company for a while. That allowed him to see the best and worst of Chicago and people in general. He liked all kinds of food; I remember him introducing me to a particular Indian restaurant, which was a joy to eat at. But he also liked hot dogs, and pizza too. He loved baseball, and although he was a Mets fan, I'm ready to forgive him; after all, he took Bob and I to a Cubs game with him and his gifted daughter several years ago.
That gifted daughter? He raised her by himself after his wife died when their little girl was nine. He was so proud of his daughter, her art and her determination to not blend in, to stand out and become an amazing person.
Irv was kindness itself behind all his mannerisms. He was kind to Bob and I during an unimaginably difficult time of our lives. He didn't have to be, but he was. And I think the reason he was a fine reporter and an excellent writer was that kindness. He often sounded like he didn't believe in people, but the truth was that he did. Always. I learned from one of his closer friends that he walked in a Black Lives Matter march despite being in great pain at the time. Her memory of him says so much about how good he was, and how much he believed in humanity, or at least humanity's potential.
He was sui generis.
I last saw him in February, when a bunch of us old reporters got together in his rehab room to watch the draft of one of our number's documentary efforts. His voice was so weak that we had to stop talking and lean in to hear him. I was glad to be there; many months previously, I'd spoken to him over the phone and asked if he wanted a visit - at that time he was in the hospital, at the beginning of a nonstop unmerry-go-round of hospital ICUs, rehab places and assisted living institutions. He told me no. I didn't push it and I didn't call him again, and I regret that.
Over the years since Nick died, another friend who truly was sui generis, I have missed him and hoped that I might see him again, if there's an afterlife that hews at least a bit to Western ideas thereabout, rather than fuzzy ideas of personality-free nirvana. Now I have a second colleague that I hope to see again.
Goodbye Irv. I miss you, and I hate that there's an Irv-sized hole in the world now.
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Date: Thursday, 18 June 2026 03:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: Thursday, 18 June 2026 03:43 am (UTC)