Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade

I find myself in a similar situation as I mull over Aileen Quinn’s passing. I knew her through several very pleasant interactions, but her presence was felt in all corners of campus. She was quirky, wore denim so tastefully, was passionate about Amnesty International, and had this really lovely way of holding, not shaking hands. “It’s a thing I do,” she would say when we bumped into each other on Washington Street.

My fondest memory of Aileen was interviewing her for a sociology paper last semester. The topic was information and communication technologies, and I knew a paper focusing on dating applications would elicit volunteers for interviews. “I’m looking for six to eight brave souls to be interviewed for my sociology project… topic: DATING + TECH. All interviewees will be anonymous!” I wrote in the Stevens Class of 2018 Facebook group. Aileen messaged me right away. “Me, in response to your question about dating and tech!”

We set up a time to meet at her apartment in early October. I walked over early and ended up following her as she walked home on Park Ave. She wore a long, pale purple dress, equipped with her denim jacket and white sneakers. I was too far away to ask her to wait up—my shouts would have annoyed the Hoboken mothers walking their children and carrying their dogs (a more-than-common occurrence in this city).

I reached 613 Park Ave., and Aileen welcomed me into her abode. It was an apartment suited for her—quiet, elegantly lit, and furnished with a large futon couch and small record player. Despite only knowing each other through brief interactions via mutual friends, she answered all of my questions without any hesitation. I vividly remember her humor shining through. She explained how she had gone to an all-girls high school in New York and grew to view men as “mystical creatures” whom she “resorted to stalking the shit out of” since they were just so cryptic. We talked about all the dating technologies out there, from Tinder and The League to Bumble and Coffee and Bagels. It was fun; she rambled on about her experiences using dating technologies more so for fun and curiosity while I frantically scribbled in my journal, trying to capture her every word. She was so easy to talk to—I found myself sharing my own insecurities about my non-existent relationship history, a topic reserved only for my close friends and biological sisters. Her message for me was that any and all maladies of the heart could be cured with humor. I imagine that most of Aileen’s interactions were like this—genuine, heartfelt, and, if nothing else, comical.

Her lighthearted character could not be masked, even in death. Aileen’s dear friend Marybeth “Scooter” Irwin wore a scrunchy in her hair during the memorial service this past Tuesday—a testament to Aileen’s desire to challenge norms, whether it be by wearing an unconventional outfit or by advocating for the rights of the oppressed. President Farvardin delivered emotional remarks, recalling her one absence from his Pinnacle Scholars lecture series due to a TEDx talk on war and peace. Of course, it was a TEDx talk on war and peace. That was Aileen.

I have written these words for Aileen, for myself, and for all those who knew her name. As this column comes to an end, I am reminded yet again that there may not be words within our current language to describe all of who she was and how deeply she is missed. At the memorial, Scooter delivered a beautiful reading of Mary Elizabeth Frye’s “Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep,” which comes close to expressing the beauty and grace of Aileen Quinn. For those who could not hear it, I have chosen to include it here so that Aileen’s memory will continue to live on in Stevens’ history.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.