Is it weird I can't remember the date? I remember the song on the radio “When Doves Cry” by Prince. I don’t remember the month or day of the week, but I remember every detail of the day, the week after and the funeral. It plays in slow motion sometimes, even all these decades later.
The
Big Chill was a movie we had all seen. Eighties movies weren't all about teen
angst. In fact, we, as a group, preferred to see a variety of films, a few of us
were inspiring film makers and were in search of a voice, our own unique style.
Now television shows in contrast: what we watched, were mostly kitschy, typical,
goofy shows that were popular at that time: Robo Tech, Knight Rider,
the A-Team and above all else, Miami Vice. We even filmed a few episodes of our
own show, Laguna Vice, theme song, local tourist sites in the opening credits
and all. We lived and breathed that show for a few years. Looking back on episodes
now, it may seem very dated, but the music, the music was very current and
meaningful in the 1980’s.
Laguna
Canyon was a death trap many called it. No streetlights, a rural twenty-minute,
winding road that connected the 5 Freeway and Main Street in the hometown of my adolescence. About halfway through from the bustle of the freeway, you could turn
on El Toro road and travel inland, but the initial expanse was dark and
virtually abandoned, except an occasional car speeding by in the twilight. It
was a great place to play pi-diddle (one headlight shout out) but not a great
place to run out of gas or run off the road, for if you did, it could be hours
before someone found you. We didn’t have cell phones; we took our chances. Some
of us crashed but lived to tell the tale. That was not the cause for a funeral,
for our group at least.
Our
funeral was by choice. Not of ours, but of his. No matter how much we felt like
a community, things still shook us at our core. It doesn’t matter how much you
love, trust, connect- some of us got lost. The weeks that followed we were
interviewed by many, questioned by therapists, pitied by many who never gave us
the time of day. I remember every glance, every concern, every silent
accusation. “How well did you know him? Was he acting weird recently, not
himself?” Repeated answers, “very well and no, he was acting normal, perfectly
normal.” Looking back purposefully now, I feel the same way. I think when you
make the choice, you really make it, you either want to be convinced against
it, or you don’t. He didn’t. Thus, we saw him every day, laughing and smiling
as always- interacting normally. We never suspected a thing.
Suicide
has always been a taboo topic. Some feel if we talk about it, it might inspire people
to do it. Recently this has begun to change, at least a little. By talking
about depression, we bring it from a place of shame, to a place of hope. But in
the 1980’s, it was a topic never discussed unless in the aftermath of one. The
conversations did not feel comforting, they felt accusatory, these distant
adults were concerned we would have a chain of them and thus they kept us under
lock and key. But we were not unhappy teenagers. He wasn’t an unhappy teenager,
at least not around us. We were kept in the dark because being such a big
group, one of us would have noticed, one of us would have said something, and
he decided to take his life.
The
floor of the car was covered in broken cassette cases, Tiger Bar wrappers and
Diet Coke cans. They crunched under my feet as I turned to climb out from the
passenger seat. I didn’t have a car- I was 17 and decided why should I get a
license when everyone else in my group had a car and could drive. This day we
were supposed to pick him up, we honked for ten minutes, but he never came out,
no one did, so we left. She made a three-point turn in her Honda Civic and we
headed down the hill a little faster than normal, the bottom felt like it
jumped up and bit us in the ass, as we hit the speed bump in a frenzy. Her soda
tipped and splashed all over the dash, floor and my lap. I was wearing pink shorts
but had to change into a pair of her jean shorts, soda dripping down my legs as
I attempted to change while the car was still moving.
The
sky was cloudy, I remember because we were all in shorts and the forecast was
sunny and warm. It turned out to be anything but. Rain creeped in from the
ocean and drenched us, as we ran from the car to campus. I remember laughing
because Sam’s hair turned curly and frizzy. She looked ridiculous and she got
angry because the weatherman got the forecast wrong. Back then it wasn’t that
accurate, it was wrong more than right, but we decided to trust his instincts, so
no umbrella in the car, we decided to just take our chances in the beginning
storm. My hands were still sticky as we ran to first period, just at the bell.
I giggled as I licked the Diet Coke from my fingers.
We
went our separate ways, making our way to our first period classes, shouting “Later
loves” to one another. Her’s AP Lit, mine Biology. Mr. Reich gave me a glare as
I skidded, wet sneakers, into my seat, right in the front, as he sat us
alphabetically. I turned to see if he was there, I was going to give him a
glare of “where were you?” but his seat was empty. Nothing seemed out of the
ordinary, conversations started, as Mr. Reich shifted from attendance to
handing back our quiz. The dreaded Circulatory Quiz. As he got to my desk, Mr.
Reich asked “So where is your friend, Miss Jahant, he is never absent?” This
was the moment, the moment I remember feeling dread for the first time that
day. Then I looked at the clock and it seemed like it wasn’t ticking at all- each
hand frozen in place, as the door swung open and our principal walked in
briskly. The rain fell heavier now, and the skies were grey, nothing like a
warm and sunny forecast.
My
principal looked at me, then down at the floor. I remember thinking to myself,
he doesn’t even know me, why is he looking at me? I didn’t do anything, for
once, I hadn’t done anything that would have gotten me looked at twice. He
walked up to Mr. Reich, who pointed at me and said, what seemed too loud for
the occasion, “Take your things Miss Jahant, go with Mr. Owens please.” The
conversations silenced and all eyes were on me. This was the second time I felt
dread, I was wracking my brain all the way to the door, it slammed behind me. “What’s
going on? Why am I in trouble?” He sighed “You are not in trouble, just follow
me please.” The eventual answer to all my questions, was so unexpected, I still
look back and remember not crying for what seemed hours because it literally
felt like I was in an episode of Miami Vice.
All
my friends were in one room, the choir room. Crying loudly. Sam was there-
frizzy hair and all- she had given up on trying to contain it, it was sticking
straight up in spots. She looked at me and mouthed, he’s dead. I looked around
the room, counting all my friends, he’s here, there he is, and then- it dawned
on me, all my dread compiled- I dropped to the floor. I still wasn’t crying; I
was in shock. “Did he crash?” I said. My band director helped me get up and
walk over to a chair, he knelt beside me, no sweetheart, “He killed himself.” I
laughed out loud. “No, he didn’t, he wouldn’t- he was happy.” Everyone fell
silent, nodding in unison. “You don’t need to be unhappy to choose to take your
life,” a stranger said.
We
all turned to see someone in the doorway, they looked very official. Later, we
found out they were a district grief counselor. There were a lot of conversations
over the next week and then a funeral. Purple and green balloons, hundreds of
them, each with a message attached, let go at sunset over the beach. I remember
waiting until the last balloon was gone. A few messages had come loose and were
strewn across the sand. I gathered them up and handed them to his little
brother. I remember this vividly, his ten-year old face, with the same look of
disbelief, yet an undertone of understanding.
This
event rocked our world, created a fissure that never completely healed. But it
also made us stronger, we paid more attention to each other, were more aware of
how one another was feeling.
He was our friend. A suicide makes you doubt.
Makes you ask questions, you otherwise wouldn’t. It makes you say things you
would otherwise leave unsaid. We listened a lot to Peter Gabriel those next few
weeks- San Jacinto, Biko, Don’t Give Up and Red Rain are still my go tos for a
quiet remembrance. It took a while before Prince was our go to- but eventually
he was. Then our musical selection changed, and Paul Simon, Phil Collins and
other more contemporary artists made there way onto our mix CD’s. But our
music, the music of Prince, U2 and Oingo Boingo remained our cadence.
There
was no social media to share our feelings on, we only had one another. People
who never knew our names, after that day, knew our names. Our group somehow
changed from a quiet, off-beat, basically ignored cohort to almost popular.
This we rebelled against, in every way imaginable. It made us isolate ourselves
even more. Unlike today, we could do that. We didn’t have Instagram accounts or
Facebook streams. We graduated a year later, while a few of us ventured off to
campuses across the country- most stayed close by- at least for a while. Then
my departure took me to another country- I was England bound and the University
of East Anglia was the farthest from a community of friends I have ever had, in
fact it was a lonely year indeed.
Post Editorial
I
have written a few posts on depression. This is a topic very close to my heart.
The more we talk about it- change it from shame to hope, the more we can
address the roots of it, which are extensive. Some are easy to spot, while some
are not. To this day we do not know why our friend killed himself.
Let’s
talk about our feelings and share them so others feeling the same way, feel
like they are connected and are never alone.
