the length of waves

I stopped watching the news the day Francis died. John, my very first love and ex as of about a half year prior, called me at work. It wasn’t strange that I would hear from him; we vowed to be friends forever and also I was psychotic back then, so we talked frequently when I’d overreact about any posting on his Myspace by any girl I found prettier than me (spoiler alert: I thought they all were). We also talked about other things. We dated from when I was fifteen until I was twenty, so he was number one witness to a lot of my growing up, as I was to his. We just kind of understood each other better than anyone, even though we couldn’t be understood together anymore.

Work told me I had a call and I assumed it was my mom. A call I could take in between customers; a quick hello, how are you, I’ll see you later. But instead it was John. His voice quiet, but clear.

“Francis was in an accident.”

“Is he okay?”

“No.”

My legs collapsed. In the way you pretend you’re in an elevator, my body disappeared behind the counter in one swift motion.

I stand up. I speak to the customer standing. Waiting.

“I’m sorry. I have to leave. My friend has just passed away.”

The fashion trend I can’t remember sits on the cash-wrap, strewn in front of a customer who cannot absorb what I have said fast enough to offer any condolence. I gather my belongings, go home, cry. Process; at least try to.

Francis was John’s cousin, but also one of his very best friends. Because of this, he became one of mine. He’d come with us everywhere and he’d always make us late. He laughed with Vince in the backseat of the first car I ever owned while I cried parallel parking in Los Angeles for my first time. He’d convince us to drive over an hour to Sonic to eat fast food that I still do not even think is good nor understand why we did that in the first place. He was also the first friend I ever really fought with. And the fight we had? Days before his passing; the last time I ever spoke to him. This is the reason I tell you all how valuable you are to me more than most of your other friends probably do. More times than feel necessary. I just cannot revisit that feeling ever again.

That night the accident was on the news… for about one minute. One minute where people eating dinner had enough time to say “how sad” and then carry on with their evening. Do you know how short a minute is? Do you ever think about how long a loss affects a person? A group of people? Hundreds and thousands of people who were at some point touched by a person who was killed, standing innocently on the side of a road, by a person who made a terrible decision? It is impossible. And if you tried for every single minute of sad news, you would drive yourself crazy. It would overwhelm you. Consume you. And that is why I stopped watching the news.

I really felt it was best for me. An empath to the core, I knew it would be perpetually damaging for me to absorb so much injustice on a daily basis. I used to volunteer with multiple organizations to bring awareness to a plethora of issues I found important; I gave that all up. It was too much. I broke things down too far and too deeply and it all felt like drowning. I began to simply sympathize, but not involve myself any more intensely.

It’s taken me over a decade to realize the bubble I created for myself; the one where I acknowledge how unjust/ terrible/ devastating things are, but never really process them. At least not to the depth they deserve. Don’t put myself in anyone’s shoes. Don’t obsess over how a story in a minute will actually change a person forever. Just exist on the surface; it’s safe there. It took watching a film embarrassingly recently to remind me. I sat in the back row, air blowing full force, the screen filling with texts to moms from their children at Pulse nightclub. I started thinking about how easy it is to end a life, how a certain demographic is targeted with no focus on anything other than a deemed master status, cruel capabilities, moms and their inherent desire for their children’s forever existence. My mom. How great she is. How lucky I am. I flooded her phone with texts and bawled openly in a dark room while the film flickered to something else. I thought about love. How beautiful it is we are capable of such a feeling. How complicated it can be on its own even without the involvement of a third party. Why a third party would ever exist in something between two people anyway. How crazy it is that people feel the need to regulate it. Where feelings come from. How a feeling exists. Why people would ever want to prevent love from happening in any form.

And now here I am again.

Every feed is flooded with another tragedy. A person’s (insane) opinion that creates what is viewed as the opinion of over three hundred million. And now I think about it. I am thinking about it on a night where I am sitting, alone in my apartment, upset because a person (unrelated to any of this) has essentially made me feel worthless. I think about my younger brother, who used to be my sister, and what it must feel like for millions of people to make you feel that way on a daily basis. Without an understanding of you, meeting you, even knowing your name. I think about how silly it is to call him trans because he is so clearly my brother that I text him to ask him if it’s even okay that I include that part in my story.

I am so mad. And so confused. Because in my land of golden rules and love yourself-s and grow up who you want to be-s, none of this ever existed. I can’t comprehend why it does. I think about other big sisters of little brothers who face things like feeling unhuman. Lesser than. Incapable, when truly they have fought harder and endured more emotional turmoil than most of us could ever handle. When he or they or anyone has spent more time paying attention to what they really feel than any of us. For the people that have actually followed their heart – in my opinion – the bravest thing you could ever do.

I am taking more time, again, because there is infinity to spend. And it is heart wrenching. But maybe we all need to dwell. To remind ourselves that one person is a life, connected to other lives, connected to other lives, that eventually connect to every person in existence. And if we have spent so much time obsessing over six degrees of Kevin Bacon, why don’t we obsess over the fact that, whether we like it or not, there really isn’t much separation from the person living a life “radically” different from ours. The person who also breathes air, who feels, who lives at the very same time, in this very moment. Lest we forget, we are all human; skin and bones and blood and brains that sometimes feel like drowning. But each life deserves more than a title, an assumption, and certainly more than a minute. Let’s spend some more time, it’s irreplaceable and worthy; as Francis, as my brother, as you.