A friend of mine, Jeff Burd (http://burdly.blogspot.com/), is working on an essay that discusses, amongst other things, people jumping off bridges. Our writing group is helping Jeff workshop the piece, which I feel is one of the best he has ever written. Jeff's interest in this subject came to him when he was driving to Peoria to watch a basketball game. He saw the bridge in the distance, and decided to go a couple miles out of his way to get a closer look. The McCluggage Bridge carries highways US-24 and US-150 over the Illinois River between Peoria, IL on the west side and Tazewell County, IL on the east. It is, as Jeff writes in his essay, "a dual cantilevered structure built in 1948 and named for former Peoria mayor David H. McCluggage, stretches 4,725 feet from bank to bank, sixty feet above the Illinois River." I've seen a picture of the bridge, and it is quite impressive.
When Jeff first mentioned to me that he was working on a piece about bridges and suicide, I have to admit that I've not since looked at bridges without thinking the same thoughts. Jeff does a good job at pointing to a couple of movies in which characters consider jumping off a bridge: Saturday Night Fever, and It's a Wonderful Life. Jeff looks at the science behind jumping off a bridge, and uses physics to describe the speed at which a person would fall, and how quickly hitting the water would take. Throughout the essay, Jeff also discusses the methods people choose when attempting suicide.
The essay helped me remember something and someone. When I was in college, I was a Resident Assistant in my dorm. It was an all male dorm, a place where crazy things could happen at any moment. The fire alarm would go off at the wee hours of the night...multiple times. Guys would play Frisbee in the hallways, shoot off fireworks from their windows, host progressive parties, play practical jokes on each other. Things of that nature. During the semester, one of my residents asked to speak with me. This guy, and I'm embarrassed to admit that I do not remember his name, was grappling with his sexuality. It was obvious to everyone, including himself, that he was gay. But he felt alone. He felt like he couldn't express himself, couldn't be accepted by others--namely, his family--and felt like he wanted to end his life. He didn't actually take any drastic steps. In fact, he did the right thing. He sought out a friendly person. He looked for someone who might not judge him; who might just shut up and let him talk. They taught us about those things during RA orientation. So I did just that. I answered questions when asked. I mirrored his actions; sitting when he sat, standing when he stood, crossing my arms when he did. We talked for a couple of hours. He kept saying he felt silly. I kept saying he shouldn't. In the end, he lived to see another day. He lived to see his entire first year of college finish. I'm not saying I saved his life. But I like to think I contributed to making him see that his demons did not control his life.
I have no idea what happened to this kid. I think about him every now and then. I remember the heart to heart we had with one another. Jeff's essay helped me remember him again. I wonder what happened to him. I like to think he's living a happy life, no matter what his sexual orientation. I like to think the demons didn't take control.
No comments:
Post a Comment