Michiko's America

“I won’t make any resolutions for the New Year!” my daughter declared, “because having a resolution could be defeating, discouraging and depressing!”  “How dramatic!” I thought, but I did have to admit that she had a point.  Come to think of it, I can’t recall a single resolution that I’ve successfully kept throughout a year.

“Maybe you want to avoid setting goals in terms of achievements,” I said to her, “Instead you can pick an attitude or a direction in life.  For example, be kind or be curious or try something new.”  And I thought that this would also be a good advice for myself.

Each fall, the image of a boy steps into my mind, and lingers on. The last time I saw him, he had a dark green face.  I know his face wasn’t green to anybody else’s eyes, but it looked brownish green to me.  He seemed to carry himself with an intense sadness.  I was walking with my son in the parking lot of a nearby pool to meet up with my daughter who was coming back from elementary school.  I wanted to talk with the boy, but then thought he might want to be left alone.  He didn’t want to deal with two little kids anyway.  It didn’t occur to me then, that he now went to middle school, and wasn’t supposed to be there.

A week later, I received an early morning call, and learned that he had died. I called the middle school and they confirmed it.  He had committed suicide.

I deeply regretted that I didn’t talk with him that afternoon.  But I wasn’t sure what I was regretful about.  I knew that even if I did spend a few minutes with him, it probably wouldn’t have changed his mind, and what he chose to do a week later would have probably happened anyway. I wasn’t asking the right questions.  But what was the right question?  I couldn’t come up with any insights about what I was thinking or feeling, and couldn’t explain it to others, so I kept it to myself.

He kept showing up in my mind each year, when a new school year started.  I knew I couldn’t have saved him, then why did this stir such emotion in me?  A few years passed, and I received a call telling me that his older brother had a snowboarding accident.  He chose a path that was marked “Take at your own risk” and fell off a cliff.  It was a miracle that he was found and rescued.  He suffered a concussion and would have to go through multiple oral surgeries over the next two years, but he was otherwise undeterred.

Then, his mother decided to take him to a ski resort against the doctor’s advice.  She said that she wouldn’t get a refund for the hotel if she cancelled it.  Just looking at the snow would heal him and herself.  He wanted to overcome the fear of snowboarding.  She kept changing her arguments to justify her decision.  I thought she was suffering a bout of temporary insanity.  I understood that she wanted to have a good time with her now only son, and she wanted to say “yes” to anything he wanted.  But not now.  Please.  All I wanted was for them to wait until he got his doctor’s clean bill of health.

I couldn’t think of any way else.  I had to share my brief encounter with her late son.  I hoped that would remind her how fragile life could be.  I hoped her older son would be careful this time.

I was immensely relieved when they came back safely.  I lost a couple friends over this.  But if I hadn’t done what I did, and his wellness had been compromised, then I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.

Early last September, I talked with my friend in Idaho via Skype.  She volunteers to assist immigrants who want to apply for citizenship.  She told me that without citizenship, they don’t have enough legal protections.  She also said that it’s hard to deal with the system, as most immigrants don’t have enough documentation to prove who they are.  “But,” she suddenly raised her voice and thrusted her hand forward so that I could only see her right palm, “the thing that they really want is to know that someone cares.  Certainly, help is nice, but they absolutely want to know that someone actually cares about them.  So, even when I can’t help them, they say they feel better, as they know I care about them.”

As the fall progressed towards winter, I slowly came to realize that that was where I had failed in the parking lot.  That I didn’t show that I cared about him.

So, my resolution for the year is that I will acknowledge the existence of another soul when I can.  I will show that I care about people, when I can.  We share a fleeting moment and place on earth.  That alone should be a good reason to reach out.  And this comes down to one act: saying hello to my fellow human beings.  And this will be my resolution for the rest of my life.

This fall will commemorate the tenth anniversary of the boy’s passing.

Casey, thank you for the lesson that you have given me.