It is impossible to write about something so life-altering and terrible without the words using to describe it seeming so trite and ineffective and small. I do not envy speech writers who are commissioned to pen speeches in the aftermath of tragedies; every phrase must be so carefully chosen, so unquestionably sincere, both poetic and stripped of pretentiousness. How does one achieve such an ability to empathize when they cannot possibly know the details, the horrors, the never-ending stream of thoughts racing through the minds of those survivors at the epicenter, the waking nightmares that keep sleep at bay like a fire relegating hungry animals to the darkness of the jungle. How do these writers not sound...fake?
Perhaps it is because I have had brushes with tragedy myself - we all have, in one way or another. No one gets out of this life without a large collection of scars to show for all the heartbreak we are required to endure as payment for being human. But just as anyone who has lived through hell will tell you: there is nothing you can say - nothing will sound comforting or real or helpful at all - unless you are going through hell with them. Even if you have gone through the exact same thing, it doesn't matter; your words will sound hollow to the afflicted, empty and useless. You cannot possibly know the depth of their misery (or so they believe at the time), so anything you say will be taken with a "aw, you tried" smile, a hug, and probably some inappropriate joke to diffuse the awkwardness.
[Small aside: One of my favorite lines from Dave Eggers "A Heartbreak Work of Staggering Genius" is, when the narrator tells other characters that his parents have died, they inevitably say, "Oh, I'm so sorry," to which he responds, "It's okay, it's not your fault," and then narrows his eyes at them suspiciously and says, "or is it?" Humor is a great coping mechanism.]
But, in the face of tragedy, we have to say something, right? We, as outsiders - who cannot possibly understand the ways in which such an event has torn everyone around it to shreds - can't just stand there dumbly, at a total loss. We always feel the need to comfort, to lend a piece of our unbroken hearts, to (God-forbid) relate in some way. (For the record, if a person divulges to you that they have recently gone through something awful, never try to empathize by telling them of your own personal tragedy. We know, we know, you are trying to help, but it comes across as classless one-up-man-ship, and the suffering person will probably hate you or strike you with something, or possibly both.) Unfortunately, it is in these dire circumstances, when those around us have lost everything, that I see people at their best, that the core of humanity shines brightest. We do not know what to say or what to do and we are so...powerless...to help you in any way. But we feel your pain - even if it's just an echo or a glimmer, just 1000th of the hurt you must feel - and we are connected to you through this experience.
I have been broken before too. I know you don't think the hurting will end. But it will get better, someday. I promise it will.
* * * * * * * *
Our friends in Colorado have endured their fair share of tragedy lately. I cannot possibly know what those who have lost their homes in the wildfires or what the friends and families of the victims of Aurora are going through, so I will follow my own advice and not even attempt to comment. (Whatever I would attempt to say would just sound so...unworthy). If you pray, please pray for them. If you think, keep them in your thoughts. If you have money, donate. If you have a heart, send love their way. We, as people, are separated by such trivial things like race and class and geography and religion, but are connected by something much more powerful; our ability to love and to hurt, to fully embrace the joy and pain that is uniquely human.
We are not so different. We do not know you, but we love you. We were put here to help, to share in this pain. You do not have to do it by yourself. We know you are strong; you have nothing to prove to us. We hurt for you, Colorado.
It will get better.
image by my cousin, Mark Rantal
No comments:
Post a Comment