Death — Staff Paper

(My comments on grieving, depression, and suicide are based on my own experiences and observations. They are in no way clinical facts nor a suggestion on how to treat others.)

As a musician, I think it's safe to assume that I have attended more weddings and funerals than most people my age. Most of them have been some sort of Christian church service and most of them have had some of the music performed by me. However, the most unique funeral experience to date was neither- it was when my paternal grandma passed away in Korea. It has been over a decade but many parts of that trip are still quite vivid in my mind.

My parents and maternal family have a strong Protestant background, but my father's side of the family has deep roots in Confucian and Buddhist traditions. Between the religious differences and the culture shock, the whole week ended up being a surreal experience for me. I remember the 3 day wake, watching the body being cleaned and dressed, and the numerous bowing ceremonies but the climax of the funeral events for me was when we went to the cremation hall. I had never been to such a place before and I hope I never have a need to go again. The hall itself was a series of little booths where a family (and however many friends that could fit) would squeeze in and through a small window you could see that, indeed, that was the body/coffin that contained your loved one. Then they would cover the window for a few minutes while the actual burning process happened (I don't mean to be crass but what else would you call it?). Finally, they opened the window back up so you could watch the ashes being scooped into your to go container. The entire time there was this... odor? aroma? I don't know how to explain it but I will never forget it.

As horrifying as this was to 16 year old me, I was honestly in a fit of laughter during most of this procedure. The cubby to our right was occupied by a church group who were set on singing hymns at the top of their lungs the entire time their loved one was burning. In contrast, the booth to our left was overflowing with Buddhist monks who were chanting and ringing bells. Each group kept increasing in volume until the sound was so loud I forgot why I was there and was solely focused on trying not to laugh at the ridiculous competitive performances of grieving being displayed.

I remember comprehending in that moment how the whole debacle we were witnessing was in no way for the people on fire in the next room but rather for us people left behind. It was my first realization of how a death can impact the living and that it is up to us to choose how we let it impact us.

Even though I was sad about the passing of my grandma, her advanced stage diagnosis of pancreatic cancer had given us (surprisingly) a year to get used to the idea of her leaving us. Sure, it was heartbreaking to lose this incredibly strong matriarch but she had used her year to get her affairs in order and communicate her final thoughts. Although the loss was difficult, this processing period had definitely softened the blow.

Then this last week, I felt the exact opposite of ready to receive the news of passing of 2 well known people. I've never been one to feel attached to celebrities. I rarely get drawn into ridiculous tabloid stories as I'm checking out at the grocery store. In fact, I usually feel more connection to a certain video demanding that we stop bothering Britney Spears... you know the video I'm talking about...

But somehow, the passing of Kate Spade really hit a pocket of joy I had in my heart. I know she hasn't been a direct part of the brand for several years but her vision, her idea that a woman can wear color, express herself through fun accessories, and yet be a sophisticated individual who should be taken seriously- all without completely emptying out one's bank account was something that truly connected with me. So many people talked about the loss of her light, her joy, her individual sense of style and whimsy... and how she represented that for so many of us. She had provoked a desire for positivity in me which was always more prevalent when her name was written on something that I was carrying on my arm.

A few days later, the world was moved, yet again, by the loss of Anthony Bourdain. This man, who always talked about how he wasn't a journalist, taught us all about humanity through the lens of food, without even meaning to. He loved food, but even more than that, he respected the food- and the traditions they came from. As a foodie myself, his shows were a way that I could connect to places, cultures, and people that I could only dream of visiting. He reminded me to be more curious, more inquisitive, and more humble with every person I encountered.

I was still in bed when I saw the new about Bourdain, and I simply threw the covers over my head and cried. In a matter of days, I had cried over 2 people I had never met because they had somehow inspired me to be a better human being.

If I had to associate a word with suicide, my first reaction is frustration. Frustration that a human being felt so hopeless. Frustration that the same human felt so worthless. Frustration that the world and the community around us is such a negative place. Frustration that people attempt to take their own lives so frequently that we aren't outraged every time it happens. And mostly, frustration that I can't do anything about it... or can I?

I started this post by talking about my most unique incident with death. But if you were to ask me which death has meant the most to me, I would be quick to tell you about my friend Danny. This weekend will mark 2 years since Danny felt so much darkness in his life that he decided he couldn't go on. I would like to share a bit of our friendship and how his life, and his death, have impacted me. (some of my friends may have heard variations on a few of these sentiments when he passed. I'm sorry for the repetition but I feel the need to fill out the complete story.)

Danny and me after a youth orchestra concert in 2007

Danny's death hit me hard.

I met Danny almost fifteen years ago in our youth orchestra. The thing about youth orchestra is that those people become your family. If you've never been in an orchestra, it's comparable to a sport team or church where you're all working toward the same goal, usually over the course of several years, and you're all going through the same life changes at similar times. You learn, you grow, there's drama, and there's a whole lot of love. Between you and me, I had the biggest crush on this guy. I thought he was the bees' knees and he was. He was kind and respectful, he worked hard as a musician, and he always brought light to those around him. What wasn't there to love?

Well, I also remember his demons. I remember he would read a lot- he was raised in a religious household like myself and he would frequently be reading books at break pertaining to religious takes on different things, homosexuality being one of them. I admired the easy way he would start up conversations with those around us in regard to those topics. This may not seem like a big deal, but for a 16 year old, rather reserved boy, talking to other prone-to-judge teens, I think it's safe to say this was huge. He was always thoughtful yet confident in expressing his opinions and welcomed us to be the same. I remember us talking about his depression. I didn't get it then, not for lack of trying. I didn't even get that I, myself, was struggling with depression. I thought it was just weakness and, in some ways, I think I felt the same of him. I don't believe I ever judged him- but I simply didn't get it. And I remember when he first told me he was bi. It didn't seem like a big deal in the moment. I recall that my reaction was calm and without surprise. My teenage brain was only curious about what that would mean for my crush. But I also remember the gravity which he gave to that statement.

We tried to stay in touch when he graduated and went to school but when I graduated the following year and also left the state, we fell out of touch except for periodic conversations on facebook or through texts. I watched from afar as he succeeded in his academic endeavors, as his circle of friends grew, and as he became more confident in sharing his true self with the world. I admired that through it all, he never lost his kind heart and his generous spirit. I saw as he started to get back into music and I was delighted when he announced his return to the Portland area to teach. I knew he would be the perfect teacher. The month before his death is a time I reflect on frequently, mostly with guilt. He and I finally set a date to meet and catch up on the past 8 years. We ended up postponing that date 3 times. I don't remember who cancelled on whom, and which time, but as I am the one who is still here to feel guilty, I do.

I won't ever forget where I was when I asked a friend to borrow their computer so I could message him on facebook as I started venting to her that I was getting annoyed that we kept missing our meetings. I got online and went suddenly silent reading the words of grief and love from family and friends. He had passed just a few days prior.

I have spent a fair amount of time visiting his little spot at the cemetery. I think I lived out all my stages of grief there. I spent the first visit playing violin and having the chat that we were supposed to have months prior. Then, I spent a visit yelling at him. I was angry that he never gave me a chance to reconnect with him. I was angry that I didn't make more of an effort on my part. I have spent some visits talking to a higher power, any power that would turn back the clock. And I've even spent a visit or two just sitting there staring at his name, unable to emote, just being with him, trying to feel his light one more time.

The qualities that Danny reminds me of are actually a combination of what Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain represent. Almost 5 years ago, Danny messaged me and asked, "how did you get good?" I remember I laughed. He was frank and to the point. It was humbling for me to be on the receiving end of that question. Initially it put a smile on my face but he followed that up with genuine questions that made me question many different parts of my musical journey. We discussed people we looked up to and why. The thing about talking to Danny was that he didn't shy away from the heavy stuff, yet he still managed to keep things positive.

In his final days, Danny witnessed the deadliest incident of violence against the queer community in U.S. history. After the Pulse Nightclub shootings, he expressed his heartbreak with the (inaccurate) acknowledgement that his eventual fate would probably end up being something similar. I will never be able to comprehend a world where a 27 year old with so many aspirations and a heart of gold can lose the will to live. And yet I see all too clearly the hate, judgement, and fear that causes this darkness all around me, every day. I have felt it myself. The thing is, I finally get it. And, now that I've worked through much of my grief, I can focus on the fact that I can, in fact, do something about the negativity in this world that daily influences people, including myself.

So tomorrow, I want to talk about me, my personal battle with my own darkness and what I have learned from Danny's story. But today, today is my day to remember a friend, someone who provoked my journey to improve my own mental health. Someone who inspires me daily to love harder, connect stronger, listen more carefully, and live better.

Danny took me to my first Itzhak Perlman concert. We went backstage and shook his hand and Itzhak signed Danny's program, "For Danny, practice slowly. Itzhak Perlman" After the memorial, Danny's dad gifted me this program for my music room/studio. It hangs at eye level above the spot where I put my case so I see it every time I take out and put away my violin. It is my constant reminder to me to not only practice slowly but live life slowly and in the moment. I also have a picture of this meeting with Perlman. When he saw the picture, Danny said, "He's huge in person!! I think that's how we think of whales: sure, they're big. but you don't realize HOW big until you get up close. But I'm not meaning to compare Perlman to a whale - it just seems like I am, but I'm not, trust me."

“If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever.”- Winnie the Pooh, or A. A. Milne