My junior year of high school was the first time in my life that I was met face to face with the debilitating side effects of depression. Consequently, I was met with a severe lack of motivation. I began failing the majority of my classes.

Anomalous to my academic history, I had to tell my teachers about it. I remember the day I told Lowe. We were sitting at a twin pair of desks in S105, I was wearing pajamas and Lowe, unsurprisingly, sported a flannel and light wash jeans. As I told him about my struggles with depression and explained to him why it was I was missing class and deadlines, he looked me in the eyes and he listened. He nodded and affirmed the entirety of my experience. I don’t remember what he said in response, I wish I did. but what I do remember is that he cried as he hugged me. We cried together. It’s not often that a teacher, or any person for that matter, stands alongside you in your struggle. This memory did not resurface until the night I was informed of Lowe’s passing. If Lowe loved someone, he loved them fiercely. I think he might have shown his love in unconventional ways, but in the midst of the unconventality, there were moments of untainted, pure love. If Lowe did not love someone, he was not afraid to tell The Evanstonian Staff all about it. I am a 19-year-old girl; I have been surrounded by a surplus of immature triviality. And yet, to this day, Lowe is still the biggest gossip I have ever met.

I loved Lowe. I love Lowe — his off-kilter humor, candy jar, uninspiring inspirational posters, blunt emails, chaotic power points, current event competitions and all. I wish I had told him this, I am sure everyone who knew Lowe wished they had told him this.

The last time I saw Lowe in person was at the IHSA Regionals competition my senior year. I saw him sitting in the judges room as I was walking through the hallway. When he realized I saw him he smirked. He didn’t tell anyone he was going to be there because he wanted to surprise his old staff.     After the competition when we all reunited outside, Lowe was ecstatic. He looked euphoric. I have never seen Lowe more effortlessly happy. It comforts me to remember him this way.

Sometimes I think that Lowe deserved more than the hand he was dealt. He poured his heart and soul into The Evanstonian and since his passing, it has continually comforted me to know that his legacy lives on through the paper. He gave The Evanstonian a name, he gave his students their drive.

So, cheers to Lowe.

To 100 years of elite, smug, and immature journalism.

To The Evanstonian.

To his legacy.