There is a silence that binds us all to each other like an invisible veil. Ever since I found out my downstairs neighbor was found completely decomposed in his apartment nearly three weeks after his death, I’ve been thinking a lot about the way we humans connect, or disconnect from each other. You may ask: “didn’t you smell his remains downstairs?” The answer is: no. I was away for nearly three weeks visiting my family in Europe. John (that was his name which I only learned after his death) was only 35 years old when he died. 35 and no one missed him for nearly three weeks. How does this happen? In fact no one missed him at all, except the person in the leasing office who finally called the police to enter into his apartment after the eviction notice placed on his front door two weeks earlier for non-payment was still there. I remember the notice during the days preceding my trip. I couldn’t miss it, given I had to walk up the stairs to my apartment and could see it with the glare of the Palm Springs eternal sun. How does a 35 year old man surrounded by so many people living within close proximity of his apartment die without anyone missing him? The answer: it happens effortlessly. We all live along side each other wrapped in a veil of silence.
I am plagued by guilt since the discovery of John’s death. I prided myself in the fact that (I thought) I knew everyone who lived in the courtyard at the heart of our apartment complex. I would boast to myself and sometimes to others: “I love all of the people in my complex. Everyone is so friendly. We all say "hi" and look out for everyone. Everyone, except for John. The thing is I used to say the formulaic “hi” to John on a regular basis. That is before he stopped going outside. I remember an early memory after I’d just moved into my apartment sitting in my bed with the window open and listening to him talk to someone on the phone about his life. He had just returned from the hospital after some health problem and he was complaining that he was living with very little money every month. I remember the conversation because I felt moved by his vulnerability. The truth is: I could relate. I had just moved to this apartment, to this town. I felt very vulnerable and for a moment, as I lay in bed enjoying the warm Southern California spring breeze blowing into my new home, John and I connected without ever speaking.
These thoughts have been circling around my mind for two weeks now since John’s death. I like to say his name because I never did when he was alive. John was the invisible man suffering alone in his apartment. There are millions of Johns in the world. We walk by them every day and avert our eyes. Or maybe we even venture into a formulaic ‘Hello” when in reality we all just long for so much more.
Tonight I watched the sun set over the mountains overlooking my apartment and I felt a deep sense of gratitude for my life. I felt joy for the breath in my lungs, for the beauty in front of my eyes, for the love all around me. Gratitude turned into motivation and I walked to my first workout in a long time. On my way, I passed a brand new neighbor sitting on his porch enjoying the warm dusk of Palm Springs. He was a young guy, all bandaged up after a nearly fatal motorcycle accident. I’d never met the guy and said the formulaic “Hello” and kept on walking. Then suddenly I remembered John and I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to him. We’d never met but I’d heard about his accident from my sweet 81 year old courtyard neighbor Miss E. who keeps track of everyone’s lives.
“Hey,” I said.
“I just wanted to tell you: I’m really glad you’re still here.”
His bright blue eyes lit up and his face warmed into the brightest smile. Both of his arms were in a cast and he seemed to have difficultly moving his legs.
“Is your girlfriend alright,” I asked about the girl who was with him on the motorcycle when a drunk driver took a sharp turn and hit their bike.
“Yes, she’s coming out of the hospital tomorrow.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” And I went off to workout.
I no longer want to be held by the silence between us. It’s not just the silence between strangers that plagues me. But the silence between us all. This morning I thought about the countless people who have changed my life with their generosity and their love spanning the four decades of my life. I thought about the innumerable words I have not spoken to these people to express my gratitude. Do they know who they are? Have I told them how grateful I am for their presence on this earth? For the way they have shaped me?
Or a grander scale, do we each know what we all mean to each other? In my case, I am pretty sure the answer is no. After I post this, I am writing a letter to an 81 year old woman who changed my life when I came to the US at the age of 13. A woman who became a catalyst of change in my academic life and who propelled me towards the path I am on today. I want to thank her. I want to tell her just how much she shaped me. The 13 year-old girl who did not speak a word of English when she met her could not find the words (or the awareness) to express her gratitude. But the woman I am today can and will.
I suggest we all take a moment and tell each other just how much we mean to each other. Let’s lift the veil of silence enveloping us all. I know I will. Don’t be surprised if you get a love letter from me in the near future. I have many love letters to write. Dozens and dozens of letters expressing the myriad forms of love I feel for countless people on this planet. People without whose love, support, generosity, and relentless loyalty I would not be alive today. I am breaking the silence starting now.
