Stephen J. Scherr

[This is the eulogy I read in Seattle at Dad’s burial, and then again at the gatherings in our home.]

Thank you all so much for being here today to honor and remember my father, Stephen Joseph Scherr. He was born in 1940 in Washington DC and grew up in Baltimore. After two years of college and military service, in 1965 he moved to San Francisco, joining his sister Judith and his parents who had moved there a few years before. He married my mother Jean in 1969. They wore paisley pantsuits in a little cottage on Telegraph Hill and I have the pictures to prove it. He was not a hippie, he was a “hippie sympathizer,” in his words (a joke I only got recently). I was born in 1971, and soon after that my parents moved to the Richmond District of San Francisco, where I grew up, and where my father lived until he moved in with us two months ago.

My father graduated from San Francisco Law School in 1972 and spent decades in solo practice as a criminal defense attorney. Most of his clients were ordinary people in difficult circumstances. He also represented politicians, police officers, homeless people, millionaires, priests, and college professors (including one of his own law school professors). His clients included an abused teenager who was taught to abuse younger children, a madam who was sentenced to serve time in a nunnery, a nun who beat her mother to death with a crucifix in an attempted exorcism, and the man who shot the mayor of San Francisco and the first openly gay supervisor (for which the defense is widely misunderstood, so please ask me about it). My grandmother was terribly distressed by my father’s clients, and did not see how he could stomach defending them. But my father believed that for the American judicial system to work, everyone needs the best representation they can receive. He loved representing the underdog, being the underdog, helping to keep the system honest. He had a lifelong commitment against the death penalty, and was glad to be able to say that none of his clients ever was sentenced to death.

Everyone who knew my father knew him to be reliable. This might make him sound boring, and to be honest he was extremely predictable: he wore the same clothes for decades, ate the same foods, wore the same style glasses, drove the same car. More importantly, though, he was reliable in the sense that he kept commitments he made to other people. He generously invited people to rely on him, and then used his knowledge and resources to do what he said he would do. Whether showing up at the agreed time and place, supporting me through college, mentoring a junior colleague, or defending the accused, everyone knew that he would be there and live up to his word. He was solid.

As a father he was witty, kind, and secure in our relationship. He respected me intellectually and admired my decision-making, teaching me to first do my research and then trust my instincts. He saw the best in me, and helped me recognize that even in difficult situations there is much to be grateful for. I see this positive outlook in our children, and hope it will be his legacy to them, along with a strong sense of justice, and a commitment to helping individual people who need it.

Now we are in another difficult situation, and as painful as it is, again there is much to be grateful for. My father lived long enough to have close relationships with Jordan and Aaron. During his illness we were able to bring him to live with us and take the best possible care of him. As a family we have given each other every kind of love and support and emotional safety that a family can give; and we are surrounded by a caring community that holds us up while we are bewildered, tired, and sad. I will miss my dad more than I can say. But I am thankful that his life story ends with dignity and family love.