When I think of Elizabeth Robles Diaz, the first thing that comes to mind is pink. It wasn’t just her favourite colour—it was her atmosphere, her signature, her way of shaping the world around her. Her bedspread, her clothes, her diary, even the little trinkets she carried in her purse—all of them radiated that soft, vibrant hue. Pink wasn’t just decoration; it was identity. It was joy. It was Elizabeth.
Elizabeth and I grew up together in East L.A., a place that shaped us both with its grit, its warmth, and its sense of community. We were Dodger fans from the start, cheering from the bleachers or from living rooms filled with family, food, and laughter. Baseball was more than a sport—it was a language we shared, a rhythm of seasons that gave us something to look forward to, something to celebrate.
Our friendship stretched across decades, through childhood games, teenage dreams, and adult realities. We were the kind of friends who could sit in silence and still feel connected, who could laugh until our stomachs hurt, and who could argue and forgive in the same breath. Elizabeth had a way of making everyone feel seen, and I was lucky enough to be one of the people she carried with her through life.
The Teacher Who Shaped Lives
Elizabeth wasn’t just my friend—she was a teacher, a guide, and a mentor to countless children at Wolf Canyon near San Diego. Sixth grade is a pivotal year, perched between childhood and adolescence, and Elizabeth knew how to meet her students exactly where they were. She had patience, humour, and a gift for encouragement.
Her classroom was more than a place to learn math or history—it was a sanctuary. She believed in her students, even when they didn’t believe in themselves. She celebrated their victories, no matter how small, and reminded them that mistakes were stepping stones, not failures. For Elizabeth, teaching wasn’t a job; it was a calling. And she answered it with grace.
The turnout at her funeral said everything. Four hundred and fifty people gathered to honour her life. Former students, colleagues, friends, and family—all united in grief and gratitude. It was overwhelming, but also comforting, to see how far her influence had reached. Elizabeth’s legacy wasn’t confined to pink diaries or Dodgers games—it lived in the hearts of hundreds.
The Breakfast Club
The last movie we saw together was The Breakfast Club. It’s a film about identity, stereotypes, and the unexpected bonds that form when people let their guards down. Watching it with Elizabeth felt fitting. She was someone who believed in looking past labels, who saw the humanity in everyone.
There’s an irony, too, in how life unfolded. Years later, I worked on a movie with Molly Ringwald, the star of The Breakfast Club. That coincidence felt almost like a wink from the universe, a reminder of Elizabeth’s presence in my life even after she was gone. And then, of course, Molly starred in Pretty in Pink. Could there be a more uncanny connection? Elizabeth’s world was pink, Molly’s film was pink, and somehow those threads tied together in ways that felt both surreal and deeply meaningful.
September 6th, 2024
Elizabeth passed away on September 6th, 2024. Dates have a way of becoming etched into memory, not just as markers of time but as emotional landmarks. That day is one I’ll never forget. The disbelief was overwhelming. How could someone so vibrant, so full of life, be gone?
Grief is strange. It doesn’t move in straight lines. It loops, it circles, and it sneaks up when you least expect it. Sometimes it’s heavy, sometimes it’s quiet. For me, it often comes in the form of memories—pink notebooks, Dodgers games, laughter in East L.A., and the last movie we watched together.
But grief also carries gratitude. I’m grateful for the years we shared, for the lessons she taught me, and for the way she showed me what it means to live authentically. Elizabeth’s absence is painful, but her presence remains in the stories, the rituals, and the connections that continue to unfold.
Carrying Her Legacy
I’ve thought a lot about how to honour Elizabeth. One idea is to create a ritual that blends her love of pink with our shared Dodgers fandom. Imagine wearing a pink Dodgers cap to a game each year around September 6th, cheering for the team while remembering her spirit. Or planting pink flowers in East L.A., letting them bloom as a living tribute.
Another idea is to carry forward her teaching legacy. Perhaps a scholarship in her name or a classroom supply drive where everything is pink. Something that reminds students of her joy, her encouragement, and her belief in them.
And then there’s storytelling. Writing about her, sharing her story, keeping her memory alive in words. That’s what this blog is—a way of weaving together the threads of her life and our friendship, so that others can see the beauty she brought into the world.
The Irony of Connection
Life has a way of connecting dots we don’t expect. Elizabeth’s love of pink, The Breakfast Club, Molly Ringwald, Pretty in Pink, our East L.A. roots, and our Dodgers fandom—all of these pieces form a mosaic. It’s ironic, yes, but it’s also profound. It’s as if Elizabeth’s spirit continues to echo in the coincidences, reminding me that she’s still here in some way.
Those connections don’t erase the pain of loss, but they soften it. They give me something to hold onto, something to smile about. They remind me that friendship doesn’t end with death—it transforms, it lingers, and it finds new ways to show up.
Conclusion: A World Forever Pink
Elizabeth Robles Diaz was more than a friend. She was a teacher, a mentor, a Dodgers fan, a lover of pink, a child of East L.A., and a soul who touched hundreds of lives. Her world was vibrant, her spirit was generous, and her legacy is enduring.
For me, she will always be the girl with the pink diary, the woman who shaped young minds, and the friend who laughed with me through life’s ups and downs. She will always be connected to The Breakfast Club, to Molly Ringwald, to Pretty in Pink, to the Dodgers, and to East L.A. She will always be Elizabeth.
And though she passed on September 6th, 2024, her presence remains. In pink flowers, in baseball games, in memories, in stories. In the lives of her students, in the hearts of her friends, and in the coincidences that remind us she’s still near.
Elizabeth’s world was pink. And because of her, mine is too.
Author
Robert Abeytia