Laila Boulos Morcos

Laila Boulos Morcos was born in Cairo, Egypt, on the fourteenth of July 1955. She is the daughter of Theresa and Boulos [Paul] Kozi, and is the younger sister to Ketty and Samia, and older sister to the baby brother of the family, Yousef, who preceded her in death in 2012. Laila is survived by me, Pierre Marcos, her only and very loving son, and her two sisters, Ketty and Samia.

To compose the most honorable eulogy/obituary that I can muster on behalf of my mother, I must begin within myself, my mother’s son. A word that has often been used to describe me is “passionate.” For those of you who knew my mother well, “passionate” is what she was about everything in her life.

Firstly, she had a passion for her family. She loved her sisters and her parents so much. She would speak with Ketty and Samia every single day, and she loved their husbands, her brothers-in-law. My earliest and fondest memories consist of all of us together in Van Nuys and Saugus, CA—enjoying barbecues, holidays, and birthday parties. Weekend trips to the beach: Ventura, Marina Del Rey, and Redondo was what she lived for. She loved me, she loved her one and only son. Moreso however, she loved her grandchildren. She loved Sven and Mila more than life itself. She loved them so much. They were her pride and joy. The smile on my mother’s face in the hospital rooms when Sven and Mila came into this world is something I will never forget.

She was passionate about her career. My mother excelled in the hospitality and restaurant industry—managing Ruby’s Diner in Woodland Hills for close to ten years, and then Maggiano’s Little Italy, also in Woodland Hills, for close to twenty years. She was loved by everyone who ever worked with her—other managers, servers, bartenders, and she loved them in return. And the customers used to rave about her. It’s because my mother was so warm and welcoming with people. She gave freely of this ever-flowing font of goodness within her. She elevated anyone who ever crossed her path. Despite her own wounds or pains that she may have been harboring, she made the best of her existence and dedicated it to, very simply, being kind to others—being a breath of fresh air to anyone who crossed her path. Everyone raved about her smile! It reminds me of the smile that F. Scott Fitzgerald describes of Jay Gatsby: [she] “had one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced, or seemed to face, the whole external world for an instant and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself.” My mother had the quality and ability to make you feel like you were the very best version of yourself already, in that very moment of your encounter with her. My last few memories of us driving around in my truck, she looked at me and said: “You seem troubled, Pierre. Remember, life is beautiful—everything will be okay.” She was like an angel—never mean nor cruel to anybody. The very last memory I have of my mother is the gracious and adorable smile she gave in her hospital room, telling me she loved me in response to my telling her that I loved her. This smile is etched in my memory.

My mother was passionate about food. All kinds of food. Particularly Chinese food, El Pollo Loco, Greek and Mediterranean food, and of course, molokhaya. She made amazing molokhaya—best way I can describe it is like an Egyptian/Lebanese comfort food; you can Google it. My mother expressed her affection towards others through cooking for them. She would invite people over and just make her special meals. When she knew she was going to be seeing Sven and Mila, she sliced up their favorite fruits, made their favorite meals, and would even purchase their favorite snacks from Costco to keep at her house. When I was in high school, my mother would prepare meal after meal for me throughout the week, knowing I was grinding away at being a scholar athlete, balancing my studies and whatever sport I was playing. She also expressed her love for me by attending every single football game I ever played in. She gave me strength by being there. She still does. She roots for me the way she always has—even when I was messing up in my life, she rooted for me to fix things, to learn from my mistakes, and live out my amends in pursuit of becoming the better version of myself.

My mother was passionate about God. She formed my faith background by living her life the way she did. She was honest, sincere, genuine, bold, and yet very stubborn. When she dug her heels in on an issue, there was no way of changing her mind. She was deeply rooted in her convictions. I learned more about my relationship with God and the Saints from watching her live and pray than I did from any Bible study or Theology class. She would spend ample amounts of time in her remaining years, each day, reading from her Bible and praying her Rosary—just like I remember her mother, my Teta, doing when I was just a boy. She LOVED Jesus, His Father, and especially, His Mother. She loved the Virgin Mary. She would pray to St. Mary every day and proclaim to me in Arabic more times than I can remember: “Il Adra ma-ay-ya.” Translation: “The Holy Virgin Mary is with me.” It was through Mary’s “yes” to God that my mother approached her relationship with Him. I know that my mother now knows the deepest and truest love by being alongside our Savior and His Immaculate Mother.

My mother raised an educator, a molder of young minds and hearts. She raised a Dean of Students at a classical liberal arts academy—the number one charter school in the entire state of AZ—this is not a coincidence. As an educator, I have a lot of sayings I say to my students, a lot of ideals. My students have come to call them “Marcos-isms.” I think my favorite one, the one that hits them the hardest is this: “the true measurement of a person’s strength is not in your muscles, but in how wonderful you can make people feel about themselves.” My mother is the strongest person I have ever met—not because she fought and beat Cancer for over six years, but because she mastered the art of making others feel wonderful, just so joyful, about their own existence.

I will close with this, in true classical-liberal-arts fashion. In Ancient Greece, when a person died, the people asked only one question: “Did they have passion?” Socrates himself states in his dialogue of the Phaedo: “If people had lived a good life & were remembered by the living they could enjoy the sunny pleasures of Elysium.” My mother lived a darn good life—she lived it her way, on her terms, and she lived it with such inspirational passion to the point where I, for the rest of my life, will honor my mother’s legacy and what she stood for by living my life with that same measure of passion, by fathering and loving my children—with passion, by leading my students to truth, beauty, and goodness—with passion, and by making people feel wonderful about themselves—with passion. I love you, Mama. I miss you. And I cannot wait to hug you again when I meet you up there.