Tonight I'm going to talk on a topic that most people tend to avoid: death. I don't normally like to discuss things on here that are uncomfortable and/or depressing, but I just feel the need to write about it because it has been weighing on my heart as of late.
A couple weeks ago, I found out that my high school band director had died. I would say he passed away, but he didn't - he took his own life. As far as uncomfortable topics go, I think suicide probably tops the list. I watched a documentary about a month ago on the suicide "jumpers" of 9/11 who leapt out of the burning towers in desperation and resignation; the video was inspired by an article in
Esquire that was based on the controversial photograph of the Falling Man that circulated widely after 9/11. Interestingly enough, the deaths of the jumpers were not documented as suicides or even jumps but as accidental deaths. I remember watching the live media coverage on that day and seeing some of the jumpers leap to their fates (before the media was instructed not to show them anymore). Those images haunt my memory more than anything else I saw that day - more than the limbless people, more than the blood, more than the fire, and more than the final collapse of the tallest towers in the world. I remember how I felt - it was a bizarre mixture of horror, sorrow, and paralyzing helplessness. It's hard enough to comprehend suicide abstractly, but being forced to face it directly - that's something else entirely.
I don't have a lot of experience with death. Besides the occasional family member who passes on with old age and the occasional classmate whose life is taken prematurely, I've really never lost anyone very close to me... I realize now how fortunate I am, though I know it will not stay that way forever. And I wouldn't go so far as to say I was "close" to my band director, but his death has shaken me up more than any other death I've known. He wasn't young, but he certainly wasn't that old. He was approaching middle-age, which to me is still too young. I remember his goofy grin, his annoying chuckle, his terrible posture, and his dorky obsession with marching band. And to be honest, he wasn't that great of a teacher. He explained things one way, and if you didn't get it, he would just repeat the same thing. What he was good at was being our friend, and I appreciated that more than anything he could have taught me in the classroom.
Band was my oasis amidst all the heinous stereotypes of people present at any all-American high school. My high school was so typical it could have set the standard (and probably did, it was so old). But no matter how much people annoyed me or school stressed me out, I could always come hang out in the band room with Mr. Jones, and he would just let me be there without questioning where I should be or why I kept showing up. Well, sometimes he did ask me, "Shouldn't you be somewhere right now?" but I just ignored him because we both knew he wasn't going to do anything about it. His shy, pleasant demeanor always brightened my day, and our conversations (however brief or irrelevant) were full of jokes and laughter. I respected him, but I never took him too seriously, even when he would throw the occasional temper tantrum. I felt like he and I understood each other.
Mr. Jones was also very encouraging, in his own way. He and I both knew what I was capable of, so neither of us really felt the need to discuss it openly. But I could just tell in the way he talked to me and critiqued me that he saw a lot of potential in me, and I always felt very humbled by that. I used to imagine sometimes what my life would have been like if I had pursued an education in music, and how proud he would be of me. I could just hear him now in his monotone voice with his signature dry humor saying, "So I heard you threw away your career." It wouldn't offend me, though; I would just laugh and expect nothing less. But to be honest, Mr. Jones did grant me a lot of opportunities and honors that I wouldn't have received any other way, and I am indebted to him for that. Not to brag, but I really do think I might have been one of his favorite students, and I was very proud of that fact. He was my favorite teacher, even though he didn't teach me much about music.
After Mr. Jones died, for some reason I decided I had to confirm it by checking his Facebook profile. I'm not sure what I was looking for - there is no life status or anything to acknowledge that the owner of a profile has ceased to exist. But what I did find on his wall was an ongoing memorial to him through condolences and old photos. Though it was inspiring to see all of the posts, I found that viewing the Facebook profile of someone who has died felt very strange and almost voyeuristic. It's a growing and inevitable part of our internet culture that doesn't seem to have a solution yet; we're still in that awkward phase of trying to figure out what to do with someone's online identity when their real identity has passed on. I remember scrolling down below all the memorial posts to find the last post left on his wall before he died. It was a sweet message from his wife, and it broke me all the way down. She had no idea then what was soon to happen; it was posted a mere two days before his death. Collin was with me when I made this discovery, and he was visibly concerned about my sanity as I rocked back and forth, sobbing uncontrollably and repeating the same phrase over and over: "But he had a family..."
Mr. Jones taught hundreds of students over the years, and I know they all carry fond memories of him similar to the ones that I have. I know this because of how they have honored his memory: they held a tribute concert for him, they set up a Facebook group in his memory that now has over 1,000 members, they designated a charity for donations to be made in his honor, they created a video commemorating him, they sent enough memories to take up an entire half-page in the obituary section of the newspaper, they attended his memorial service, and for an entire day, many of his students replaced their profile pictures with the Franklin High School "Power F" logo in his honor. How could a man so obviously loved feel so alone? How could he not see the impact he had on the world?
I just can't comprehend why someone who changed so many lives would ever want to take his own. I realize that is the nature of suicide - it is incomprehensible and unpredictable. But it still blew me away, and I'm not sure if I have even recovered yet from the shock that old Mr. Simpson (our previous band director who taught Jones in high school and retired my freshman year) actually outlived Mr. Jones. It just isn't right. But I do know this: Mr. Jones may not have seen what an impact he made, but the rest of us do. His legacy will always live on in the hallowed halls of Franklin High School, where so many of his students made lasting memories. I can still hear that dry voice amplified through that annoying megaphone in the band hall (unnecessarily), out on the practice field, and in the football stands. I can still see that goofy grin he got when we sang to him in the stands, and hear that silly chuckle when he tried to make a joke. I really do miss him, and I wish now that I had kept him updated on my life; I think he would have liked that, though he would never want to admit it. Just like I would never want to admit that those were some of the best years of my life.
I apologize for the interruption from wedding stuff, and I hope this post wasn't too much of a downer. It just felt like something I needed to do.
A
