Deauwand Myers, born July 26, 1979, died March 2, 2025

There is a fellowship composed of former sensitive, misunderstood children who grow up taking refuge in the library. Many of us become writers, teachers, intellectuals, or, at the very least, English majors. An astonishingly large number of us choose to live abroad, drinking from foreign wells to quench our deep thirst for knowledge.

My friend Deauwand Myers was one of this fellowship, which is perhaps how we found each other. We knew a lot of the same people. Our worlds intersected often — Black, educators, writers, runners. We were both lovers of jazz, good food, better clothes and the eternal power of a well-written word. We'd coincide at unrelated gatherings and be surprised to see each other there. We became friends in the same way that rivers often run together towards the sea. We'd go to restaurants, jazz clubs and each other's birthday parties. We'd talk about politics, race, class, gender and the unending yet welcome puzzle that Korea, with its rapidly shifting cultural norms, often posed for us as Black Americans. I liked Deauwand's wit and poise and relished the opportunity to spar with an intellectual equal. He probably just thought I was kind of annoying, at least at first.

Deauwand was more extroverted than I was, more acerbic, more willing to say what was and what was not, even in difficult situations. I wanted to be nice, even if it hurt. He wanted to be politely truthful, and so had a way of saying exactly what he meant in a way that people lauded as wit. There were times when I wondered how close our friendship truly was, but there was something that connected us, thousands of miles away from our respective homes and possessed of a similar cultural lens. I never knew exactly what it was.

Then COVID came, and with it, hard times. My friend fell on harder times than most, spurred by complications caused by long COVID and the dispassionate demands of readjusting to American life after a lifetime away. He began to message me, when he could, from public libraries in California. It was one of the only places that was safe for him. It was then that I knew that what connected us wasn't our race, our class, our professions or even our interests. It was the library fellowship, our mutual belief in the unshakeable power of the recorded word, and our understanding that perhaps that would be all that was left of either of us, in the end. Deauwand sent me countless messages, chatting about all things culture — gender roles in a new science fiction series, the trials and tribulations of famously disgraced writers, the time he saw a K-pop band on the street in LA and was shocked at how thin they were. He sent me poems and manuscripts to keep for later. When I asked him how he was, he'd deflect until he was in the mood to talk about it.

When he was in the mood, things would sometimes take a bitter turn. Deauwand felt betrayed by life, by circumstances and sometimes by loved ones. He wished he'd never left Asia, and wanted to return. He was grateful for how staunchly the Black women in his life stood by him, no matter how bad things got. He spoke often of his close friend Terra, who preceded him in death, never failing to mention how beautiful she was, and how unfair life had been to her, as it was to him. He talked a lot about his health, and how he knew that he was dying.

I did my best to reassure him. I gathered funds and favors across our communities. I told him repeatedly that he would not die, that things would get better, that I and all his other friends would stand by him and support him as best as we could and for as long as he needed us to until things got better. I told him that one day we'd sit together in a restaurant and argue about Toni Morrison and Alice Walker like old times and that he owed me a hell of a dinner when we did.

I didn't know that I was lying. I believe he did. When I tried to rally him, the string of messages would pause, and when they started again he'd reminisce, waxing poetic about birthdays past, the times we saw a movie, heard a singer or argued about the quality of a book. Until then, I hadn't known how much our hangouts had meant to him.

I got used to it, in a way. I never stopped believing that my witty, intelligent, triumphantly alive friend would one day stand up, shake himself off, leave the library and climb back up and beyond his former heights. We had a routine — he'd message me, tell me about his day, where he'd gone, what jobs he'd applied to, what he thought about this show or that writer. I'd banter back. It was starting to feel like the old days again. He stopped talking about dying, and I stopped telling him he wouldn't.

And then he did. Six days after we'd had a light conversation about the side effects of his new heart medication, I heard. The medical examiner's report was clear. My friend had gone, early on a Sunday morning in a South Pasadena church. Heart failure. I believe it was both physical and emotional. I know that is something he would say and write, were he still here to do so.

Deauwand taught me many things by example. One of them was the power of making a hard truth easier. Say what you mean, and then say it again, but nicely, formally. Do it crisply enough, and it takes all of the sting out of the first time, making it less painful and more professional.

And so: Deauwand Kelvin Myers, longtime columnist at The Korea Times, died of heart failure in the early hours of March 2 after a lengthy battle with long COVID and its complications. He was born on July 26, 1979.

In addition to contributing to the Times for over a decade, he was a pedagogical curriculum adviser and professor of English literature at Shingu University, a Williams and Lodwick C. Hartley Scholar at Furman University and a Graduate Teaching Fellow at the University of Vermont, where he received a master's degree with honors in English literature and literary critical theory.

He was also an intellectual, a writer of several as-yet-unpublished novels, a witty storyteller, an aesthete, a proud Southerner, a multilinguist, an exceedingly sharp dresser and the consummate party host. He was a great cook whose friends and family often commented on his gourmet tastes, an avid artist who created fashion sketches, and a music lover who loved performing classic jazz arrangements by Sarah Vaughn and Natalie Cole. He loved the writers Sylvia Plath and Toni Morrison, quoting both often in conversation. His Korea Times columns were often political, sometimes generating controversy and discussion in the expat community, but always in a thoughtful manner.

He was a beloved son, a treasured friend, and a dedicated professional. He is remembered by his mother, Dr. Marion Myers; his sister Alice Meyers; a niece and nephew; his students and a multitude of friends from all walks of life, across the globe.

He will be missed by us all.

Melissa A Watkins is a former Global Studies lecturer at Namseoul University in Cheonan. She is now administrative staff at Harvard University and a writer.