I have been struggling for several days now, trying to find something to say about the two biggest news items of the week: the murder of Michael Brown and the death (by apparent suicide) of Robin Williams.
So much has been said, is still being said, in every form of media and in personal conversations. I wondered what I could possibly contribute to that. I felt helpless to say anything that would make a difference, and didn't want to be just one more voice saying, "Doesn't this suck?" It felt egocentric to think that I needed to jump into the conversation, when so many people I admire have already written eloquently on one or both subjects.
But staying silent on these topics feels like cowardice, which I like even less than ego, so here's my two cents' worth.
First, about suicide. I get angry when I hear it described, as I have many times this week, as "a selfish choice." I want to challenge that language. I know it's common, and I know and respect some of those who've said it. I understand that they did not intend any harm. The fact remains, however, that labeling victims of suicide "selfish" or calling their deaths a "choice" is (at the minimum) a misunderstanding of suicide.
In terms of its supposed selfishness, it's common for victims of suicide to think that their loved ones will be better off without them. And suicide often doesn't feel like a choice...it feels like the only option left, the only way to stop hurting. It is unreasonable of us to judge victims of suicide through the lens of someone not struggling with that kind of pain (and often, with addiction, depression, or other mental illness...all of which are illnesses, just as much as cancer or heart disease or diabetes). The way we often talk about suicide stigmatizes it, which helps no one. I'm not an expert on this topic, but here's an article from people who are, explaining the complexities of the terminology used about suicide: Suicide and Language
If this issue of language feels like an academic point, especially when we are talking about someone who is no longer living, whose feelings we can't hurt if we're careless with our words, then please think about how you'd feel if you lost a loved one to suicide and then read comments online which describe suicide as selfish. The last thing someone grieving a loss needs is the added pain of hearing their loved one diminished in this way.
Now, about Michael Brown's murder. I know there are those who would argue with the use of the word "murder" in this context, and honestly, I can't even begin to have a rational discussion about that right now. Like many of us, I am too horrified by not only his death but the actions of police in response to the rising up of a community to protest his murder. (Yes, I'm going to keep saying murder. That's what it was.)
Even if we put aside the details of that murder (which we shouldn't), the police actions in the days since then are beyond all reason in a society that claims to be as free as we claim to be. It almost seems impossible that these stories and pictures are coming out of middle America rather than some other (less free) country where people don't have the rights we think we do.
Of course, the rights we think we have depend largely upon our social location: our race, gender, socioeconomic status, religion, etc. It's just that those of us who are priviliged tend not to listen to those who are not, and so we don't realize that freedom doesn't mean the same thing to every American. Nor does safety, or respect, or equality. So many of the words we cherish, words we believe represent our country, actually represent the experiences of a limited segment of our people.
Our people. Shouldn't we all see each other as "our people"? If you're not outraged about Michael Brown or Trayvon Martin or any of the far-too-large number of other people whose deaths have entirely too much to do with how they look and nothing at all to do with who they really are, then clearly you do not think of them as "your people."
Yep, you guessed it, now I'm mad again. I hope I live long enough to see a day when all human beings see all other human beings as "our people." In weeks like this one, that hope feels pretty naive, but I'm going to keep on hoping it, because I'm afraid otherwise I'll just be mad all the time.
Maybe you're mad too. Or maybe you're sad, heartbroken even. But here's the real question: what are you going to do about it? (What am I going to do about it?)
The connection I now see between Robin's apparent suicide and Michael's murder is this: how will we respond? Not just on Facebook or Twitter or a blog or in an editorial or a sermon, but in our lives.
Will we educate ourselves about suicide and suicide prevention? Will we really pay attention to the people in our lives who may be struggling with addiction, mental illness, and/or suicidal thoughts, and do our best to get them the help they need, while still acknowledging that sometimes our best efforts (even if we are the professionals called upon to help them) will not be enough? Will we stop reducing both the beauty and the pain of an entire human life to a label about how that life ended?
Will we have honest conversations about race in our society, and stop pretending that racism is a thing of the past? Will we do the same about other forms of oppression? Will we listen to the people in our own communities whose freedoms are not equal to our own, not in lived experience and maybe not even on paper? Will we start acting like we are ONE people, not a nation made up of special interest groups who only care about people who look like us, love like us, worship like us, vote like us?
Where does our commitment to these issues lead us, if it's more than a show of sentiment? Will we do more than change our Facebook profile and cover photos? Will we do more than leave flowers or a message in remembrance of Robin Williams at the Mork and Mindy house or the Mrs. Doubtfire house, more than attend a rally or a vigil in honor of Michael Brown or in support of those still facing danger in Ferguson? These gestures of solidarity, of love even, are important, but they are not enough.
Will we, personally, take action to make a difference in even one life, today?
And will we do it again tomorrow, and next week, and next month, and for as many years as it takes for things to change? Or will we be too busy getting on with our own lives, or think there's nothing we can do to make a difference? Will we each leave the work to someone else, failing to see that then it will never get done?
These are the questions that haunt me.
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