A gripping escape

I finished Kathryn Stockett's debut novel The Help at 4:30 this morning, refusing to spend another night not knowing how the plot would conclude. I will say that I loved quite a few things about it:

• Getting to glimpse 1960s Mississippi from the perspective of three women (two black maids, one white woman) Every few chapters, the narration switches between the women. While the chapter that changes from one woman to the next is named after the woman speaking, the label was really just a gesture because Stockett did an excellent job of distinguishing the three voices.
• Seeing life in those times (shockingly recent) from an under-reported perspective: the non-white view. To quote one of the main characters in the book: "Everyone knows how we white people feel, the glorified Mammy figure who dedicates her whole life to a white family. Margaret Mitchell covered that. But no one ever asked Mammy how she felt about it." 
• Digging into the complex relationships and social conditioning resulting from the absurd idea of segregation.
• Gaining Stockett's insights to human nature, relationships and life that are surfaced periodically in the thoughts and words of one of the three women. She manages to include them without making the narrative feel contrived -- something few authors who wax philosophical do well, in my view.

My critical opinion of the book is shaped by the following three factors:

• Experience: Given that Stockett drew on aspects of her own life as the foundation of this book, she is able to create a much more compelling situation and cast of characters than someone like myself who never lived in the Deep South during that period or who never even had a maid at home. That being said, the novel was still written by a white author putting herself creatively in two black women's shoes. I have to wonder how someone who had been in that situation would assess the characters and the reality conjured by the book. 
• Doubt: Stockett does an excellent job of incorporating real-life figures such as Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, Jr. and real-life events such as the Birmingham church bombing, Kennedy's assassination, and the march on D.C. as a means of situating the reader within a familiar context. She also uses some of the characteristic violence of organizations like the KKK to reinforce the high-stakes gamble the characters brave in embarking on their communal project. That being said, I was (relieved but) skeptical when I finished the book that we the readers hadn't seen more of that behavior shatter our characters' worlds.
• Oomph: Finally, I felt the book had progressed at such a steady clip, unfolding with such gripping conflict and suspense, that the ending, while logical, underwhelmed me. I had glimpsed Stockett's genius laid bare on the pages leading up to it, I wondered if she couldn't have left the reader with a more dynamic finish.

Overall, though, I found myself fading from my own world's parameters and inhabiting Miss Skeeter's, Aibileen's and Minny's realities with an increasing eagerness as I worked through the book's 464 pages. Having walked with the women through their struggles and triumphs, I closed the book's cover with a renewed faith in humanity's capacity for nobility and absurdity, and a profound love for three women I had had the honor of getting to know in the previous pages.

Attack Aftermath

I put on our class' t-shirt tonight (the one from high school with both our names on it) not knowing what his fate is -- a clammy, shaky, sinking feeling. At once numb and achy. Totally nauseous.

That death or severe injury is even a possibility for him right now has drained me of every drop of energy that overflowed my cup this morning. The spring in my step has uncoiled with the anxious dread of not knowing.

The silence.

The waiting.

Time does funny things to a person waiting for this type of news. It stretches itself to seem interminable but promises none of the speed that brought one to this stalemate.

I know what you must be thinking: "He's in a war zone; what did you expect?" But it's funny how that works, too, because while you try and prepare for these types of scares as you send them off with a hug, a mental dress rehearsal can't compare with the real thing. It's totally different when the whispered imaginings of "If ..." are replaced with nightmarish details of actual events. Bloodstain outside the T.G.I. Friday's on the boardwalk where many soldiers socialize. Details distilled in the military's slowness to release information and paired with a personal tendency to let my mind wander the "what-if" trail amount to a dance with insanity.

Try sleeping when you don't know whether your friend is in pain, conscious, dead or alive; whether he's alone in a military hospital or just reliving the horror in his bunk as his body and mind wrestle about the need for sleep.

I apologized to him - mentally - as I ate today; that my body seemingly kept ticking forward when for him the world had been interrupted so violently. The fact that my appetite was still there felt like a betrayal from my own body. I was full of dread, worry, fleeting bouts of hatred toward the Taliban, then the subsequent repentant prayers to God. Weren't all these enough to keep my body going?

In the fluctuation between panic and numbness, I got to thinking about war. Nothing in my mind was linear and these thoughts aren't either, so I won't try to string them together in a forced structure. I pondered:

• the wasted potential, the promise of brilliance bled out on battlefields where the gifted individual is hidden behind generic labels like "troop," "soldier," etc. 
• the unquantifiable senselessness of it all; the ugliest layers of Life and humanity exposed; the messes we get ourselves into for unchecked passions, lack of wisdom, and an abundance of pride. 
• the hatred I feel for the terrorists restrained only by my desire not to resemble them in any way; not to become like them by the same fatal flaw; instead, to tap into the potential nobility of a human soul and recognize the power to choose what we allow ourselves to become. 
• frustration for the moments when people reassure me there were "only injuries" reported. I know they're trying to comfort, but it sounds callused and naive to say that. "Only injured" could be a life-altering brain injury, limb or sensory loss. And, without any further information from the military, we have no way of gauging how many are "only" critically wounded, which could translate into the worst-case scenario. 

When we fight wars, we invite Satan -- in all his ugliness and horror -- to reveal his face on Earth in utter clarity. The depths to which humanity and angels alike can fall; the brutality and viciousness unleashed against each other, destroying the very fabric of our existences; reminding us -- as they are lifted from our hands -- what the most precious things in life actually are: family, friendship, love, health and faith.

"And remember, the truth that once was spoken: To love another person is to see the face of God" is a favorite line of mine from the musical "Les Miserables." It reminds me, now, why it is so crucial not to hate and allow evil another stronghold on Earth; but instead, to sacrifice our aching hearts, shattered dreams, and wounded pride on the altar of service to God and fight brutality with beauty, fear with faith.

That being said, abstract principles are little comfort to me as the silence consumes me tonight. All philosophical thought seems absurd when the concrete dangles before me.

Overwhelmed by feelings of powerlessness and exhaustion, I climb into bed.

***

Update 5/25: I heard from my friend this morning and he is safe.

Tragedy as a teacher

Dear Brooke: We gathered to mourn your absence and celebrate your life today. There were hundreds of people there -- a very full Trinity Church -- witnessing to your warmth and your generous, loving spirit. We cried for the anguish you endured as you bravely fought your illness; we laughed at your joyous approach to living (inspiring 3 weathered climbers to dance to techno music at 4 a.m. on an isolated road in Yosemite Park); we shared your teacher's awe at your brilliance as he marveled at the lessons you learned on the very first try and your capacity to master everything you studied; we smiled at your curiosity and your efforts to problem-solve Apurva's snoring when you shared a room with him on a school trip; we took note of your loyalty and your lasting example to us to live fully in the moment; and, we resolved to go forward carrying you in our hearts -- each day, each moment -- to ensure that your exceptional presence will not get stamped out by an enemy as desperate as the devil.

Today was a journey for us all. We came to the church bereaved, bewildered and yearning for your presence. What we found were countless people touched so deeply by your life that they gathered from all corners of the globe to celebrate you, even in death. I was left to wonder how many would do the same for me. Your life is a challenge to bring greater awareness to each moment and to disconnect from the frenzy I so often invite into each day. I go to bed tonight resolving to awake with the determination to delight in the present, even in trials or discomfort, rather than eagerly await for its departure; to let it teach me something, as you did by admiring the rock surfaces while trying to find your way on a craggy cliff in hand-stiffening cold. We came carrying glimpses of the person we knew, and left with a fuller vision of the richness that dazzled us all. We journeyed from the despair of your suffering to the hope of your legacy.

Forgive me, Brooke, for the frustration I expressed toward you in my last post. I know it wasn't you, but the illness, that pushed you to your final decision. Forgive me for the rawness. I still struggle to comprehend it all but I've resigned myself, as your father said today, to let myself be humbled by that which I don't understand. What I know is this: You were exceptional. You gave much of yourself to others. You were an enthusiast of life and its hidden treasures, possessing a vision and level of awareness that few have. And you were so loved.

You will not be forgotten.

Sitting with the questions

Brooke, I woke up with an empty hollow today, filled only by the questions of why you did it. I swing between anger and compassion for you, between frustration and bewilderment.

I can't imagine the exhaustion and isolation you faced as you lived each day not knowing when your high would swing to the lowest of  lows, and vice versa. Your illness had already cost you a relationship with someone with whom you shared 7 years of your life, and I imagine peering into the future was daunting for you. If getting through each day was work, the possibility of a stable, lifelong relationship perhaps seemed out of reach. I imagine that felt like insult added to injury.

The fact that this illness exists breaks my heart. It seems like a cross too big to bear. I know it can't be because I take God at his word that He doesn't send us anything that we can't conquer while relying on Him. But I still am saddened by the heavy toll it takes and the complete disruption of life that occurs. I look at every illness or hurtful event as instruments in our distilling process, yet what strikes me about bipolar disorder and extreme depression is how high the stakes are set and how many we hear of losing the battle. It makes me yearn to find those who are living with the disease under control, versus living under control of the disease.

Why did you do it? I know you must have been in a terrible spot to consider it and carry it out, but I think of going forward from this point and each moment of beauty that you'll miss; each milestone with a friend or on your own journey that won't be crossed; each memory your parents and friends won't get with you now. It breaks my heart. I struggle to better understand and to keep your humanity in focus so as not to judge you or lose sight of the person I appreciated, but what a tragic end to a life filled with promise.

I'm left to swallow the words I intended to share with you; to burn down the fences of pride that kept me from reaching out to you; to wonder forever how the heck it got to this point and if there was anything I might have been able to do to make your short life happier, and perhaps a bit longer.

A door shut forever

I lost a friend tonight. Tragically, he gave up on life. He had so much going for him -- a winning smile and a kind heart, lingual skills, a Harvard degree, friends and family who loved him. We studied abroad together 9 years ago. He was the first face I laid eyes on in the Philadelphia airport as our group gathered before boarding our flight to France to become School Year Abroad's Class of 2000-2001. I instantly developed a crush on him. There was something so soulful about his brown eyes, his tousled brown hair, the dimples in his smile and his shy spirit. As a high school junior, I doubted that this dashing post-graduate student would be interested in me. I didn't think I could take the rejection, so I returned the smile he readily gave me and inspected my shoes while I felt his gaze on me.

Brooke seemed to be able to do everything effortlessly. He spoke flawless French, having spent the early years of his life there while his father was headmaster of the school. He was a great soccer player, an avid biker, he had a leading role in the school play we performed while we were there, and he was incredibly smart. I remember seeing him walk into school in the mornings with rosy cheeks and windswept hair, slightly matted at the hairline from his bike ride to the campus. That year we had record amounts of rain but I still remember seeing his arm draped over a muddy soccer ball and his excited grin as he headed outside unfazed by the soggy landscape.

We were divided into four groups based on language. Brooke was in the first group. I was not. But even though I was at a distance from him in the classroom, it was evident that he was an academic force. His thoughtful intellect left an impression on his teachers, and he walked the hallways often lost in thought, seemingly turning over something he had learned that day or perhaps, something that he was still working out to his satisfaction.

He began dating a sweet and sincere girl, gentle by nature, who seemed to bring out the best in him. They were clearly very happy together and seemed to complement each other well. They stayed a couple for seven years, before they went their separate ways amicably. I have always wondered what might have happened had I not inspected my shoes that day in the Philadelphia airport. How my life would be different now. It is my Sliding Doors moment.

He randomly popped into my head this past weekend. I can't say why. I humored myself with the thought of making up for lost time and getting to know the guy I chose to watch from a distance nine years ago. I thought of befriending him on Facebook, but the silly schoolgirl in me again shied away from connecting with him. I told myself that with all that he had going for him, he must have plenty of friends; that even after all these years, we were still in different leagues (best language group vs. not; high school graduate vs. junior; Ivy League vs. not). I let meaningless labels prevent me from reaching out to somebody who made an impact on me, who could have been a new friend, and who needed a friend more than I could have ever imagined when I arrogantly presumed he didn't.

And now I'm left with the sadness of a life cut short way too soon; of great potential vanishing to the grave; of a hole that can never be filled and a family whose pain can never be completely healed.

This news comes on the heels of a recent discovery for me that another great guy with whom I went to high school killed himself last December. I found out via Facebook last week and it got me thinking about the horrible tragedy of mental illness. Both of these guys were such good people and there was something so special about them. Their kindness and giftedness are embedded in my memories of them. They had family and friends who loved them, were proud of them, and tried to reach them in the crippling moments of despair. And yet, tonight, I turn out the lights on a world that is poorer for their absence.

No one is replaceable. Their spot can never be filled.
The damage can never be undone.

Don't let another moment pass before you contact that person who's crossed your mind recently, or the one you sit beside daily. Time cannot be taken for granted. It just might be your last chance.