Why Joy?

Last Wednesday, August 28, 2024, was an important anniversary for me. It was the 16-year mark since I lost my father. I was 24 when he passed and it was my first time to directly experience the death of anyone in my life. It took me many years before I could talk openly about his death. Behind some misguided demands for secrecy, wracked by guilt and shame, I carried a damning hole in my heart.

Life can be infinite suffering or infinite joy. I want to choose joy. The lessons I learned from that loss made joy my driving imperative in life. I have seen a life without joy. I know a man who conquered hurdles his whole life yet never filled his own heart. I saw the condition it put him in.

An important part of those lessons includes being able to share deeply and honestly while in pain. When I had my cycling accident last year, I used the many lessons I learned from those difficult initial moments of grieving my Dad. As I lay on the asphalt waiting for an ambulance, I used breathing techniques I learned in meditation. During my lonely moments, I asked for help. When I felt FOMO, I created my plans.

In Tokyo, I delivered the below true-life story at a Moth-styled event on the tenth anniversary of my Dad’s death. I share it here to help identify the importance of sharing and broadening our perspective.

TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide.

Both Sides of the Lake, 2018.

Many of you recall 2008 as the year that Lehman Brothers went bankrupt, the American housing market crashed and President Obama was elected. For me, 2008 was filled with different milestones.

In May 2008, I graduated from the University of Maryland, School of Law. I was one of the youngest graduates in my class. In late July, I took the Maryland bar exam. At the beginning of August, I was headed from my hometown Atlanta, Georgia to Geneva, Switzerland. It was the beginning of exciting things for me. I worked with my law school contacts to land an internship at the World Health Organization. It was unpaid, but I am very ambitious. I was certain I could coax a job offer by the end of the three-month internship. 

 As my Dad drove me to the Hartsfield-Jackson airport, I was ready to begin my career and follow my dreams. Atlanta was a great place to grow up. But I had always wanted to live abroad, in an international city, surrounded by diverse people and doing meaningful work. As we drove through the heart of Atlanta along Interstate 75/85, I recall telling my Dad to also start doing some positive things for himself. I wondered about his recent Debbie-downer disposition. I was missing the depth of his condition. My father, who was once a doctor in Tanzania, was pleased that I would be working in a WHO group that writes health policy guidance for developing African countries. For me, this was the beginning of my beginning.  By the time I boarded my flight, I had already left the American South. 

 Geneva has such beautiful charm.The old buildings, red brick, and ivy, have immense power over me. In the streets, I heard many multi-lingual conversations. My stars seemed to be lining up. I first arrived at my CouchSurfing host’s house with a massive roller bag and bright eyes. My host was a lifelong resident of Geneva. His travels far outstripped mine; he was a nexus of connections and insight. He exuded positive energy. 

    Summer is a lovely time to be in Geneva. It is sunny and gorgeous. The city surrounds lake Geneva. Many visitors from the Middle East come to luxuriate in snazzy cafes and enjoy civil liberties. In mid-August, there is the Fêtes de Genève, a festival celebrating Geneva’s international-ness. Street vendors and food stalls from all over the world gathered along the banks of the lake. The festival culminates in a huge fireworks show. My Couch Surfing host grew up in the city and knew the best place to see the show up close and personal. I love fireworks. I have always loved fireworks. They make me feel like a child. Even now, at Japanese Matsuris, I can’t help but look for the best vantage point to get right under them.

For the Fêtes de Genève, my CS host directed us out onto a finger of the lake that juts into the center where a fountain normally operates. Along this rocky finger, we would be exactly underneath the middle of the lake, and underneath the fireworks. As the sunset along the lake, it set on me that this was a special place time and place in my life. I stood at the doorway of my dreams. Many other CouchSurfers joined this hangout. With drinks, snacks, and laughs, we watched fireworks explode overhead. The sounds reverberated within my body. I felt electric; alive. It was an extraordinary night, and I felt a little bit like a social butterfly. 

 The next few weeks were a whirlwind of new people, intellectual seminars, and city explorations. I had started looking for a room to rent for the duration of my internship. It was Thursday, August 28, 2008, my Dad sent me an email that morning. In the same afternoon, I found and put down a deposit for a room in a house for the remainder of my time in Geneva. I was getting situated in the city. Early that evening, I went to catch up on happy hour with some fellow intern friends on a public pier exactly opposite the end of the lake from where I had seen the fireworks two weeks before. Many people were hanging out, and several dialogues going on. A few brown bagged drinks were had. I floated the idea of going salsa dancing.

As I went to message a local friend, I noticed that I had seven missed calls from my sister. That was odd. She did not have my cellphone number in Geneva. I managed to call back, internationally from that same spot. It was my first time calling home since I had arrived. 

The voice on the other side was flat, dry, matter of fact. My sister said that Dad had died. Huh? I demanded that she put my mother on the phone. My Mom told me to say a prayer. And then she told me to sit down. She repeated, your Dad is no longer in this world.

I was confused. He had just sent me an email that morning…. He had just sent an email in the morning. He said he was going away. He asked that I take care of my mother and sister. I had responded to his email from the WHO office, asking where he was going… 

 That night, I was wrecked and confused. A friend walked me back to the flat I was subletting. He opened for me the only beer left in the fridge. We sat outside in the courtyard. I don’t know what we talked about. But, he hung out with me while I tried to arrange a flight back to Atlanta. In the morning, he made sure I got to the airport. There I burst into tears at the ticket counter when they could not initially find my reservation. By the time I boarded a flight, I felt catatonic. It was a long, lonely journey across the Atlantic. In less than a month, I was already headed back to the place I tried so hard to leave.

 When I arrived in Atlanta, my older cousin and her husband picked me up at the airport. It was pitch dark at night; they were supposed to take me to my parent’s home. They were taking some unknown route. I knew my roads and I ached for something that made sense. I was still so confused. I asked where we were going, I did not have much else to say. My stomach felt like I was on an extended zero-gravity ride. I gave in to the confusion and slumped sideways in the back of their car. 

    At my parent’s home, I arrived at a house full of strangers wearing all white, and chanting in a foreign language. It felt surreal. The living room and kitchen were spilling over with people in billowing white garb. There was nowhere to sit. People were standing, pressed along walls, and in doorways, on the stairs. As I adjusted and looked closer, I realized they were not strangers at all. They were our friends and family. Still, they all just looked strange gathered around, reciting prayers out loud.

My eyes searched for my father. I suppose all those people seemed strange because they were not him. I was looking for Dad at home, where he was supposed to be. I did not sleep that time. The funeral the next day was open casket. As the oldest child of my father, it was my special privilege to get to sit at the very front. I saw his body, which did not move with the inhalation and exhalation of life. In my nostrils, I smelled the pungent stench of death.

I did not need any more confirmation. It became clear then; that my Dad took his own life. This man who loved eating strange food, who taught me how to grow roses, and who took me all over the world, was not here anymore. He loved to eat and was adventurous about it. Fish eyes, corn nuts, strange barbecues, and exotic fruits like durian and rambutan were some of his favorites. He was impulsive and funny.  And he would not be around any longer.

 The following months were a blur.  I helped my family go through my Dad’s belongings. Piles of clothes, papers, stamps. I sorted through my father’s mail. I cried a lot. I did not return to my internship in Geneva. Sometimes, I could not even get out of bed. 

I was also very mad. I wanted someone to be responsible. I was angry at everyone around who had not treated him kindly in my absence. Most of all, I was angriest at myself. I scolded him on my drive to the airport; the last time I saw him alive, my last words were criticism. 

I stayed conflicted by my anger, and my Dad’s directive to take care of Mom and my Sister. I was also heartbroken. I could not accept that Dad, the man who taught me HOW to live was no longer alive. And yes, there was some element of selfishness. When we mourn, often we are sad for our loss. We suffer their absence, and all the while we must continue living. 

For a decade, I have searched for answers, explanations, and meaning. That was its own agony. My attention was focused backward, on the tragic, on the heavy depression-laden choices. There was a deep demand to carry the burden of this mystery that follows suicide. The WHY?

On this, the tenth anniversary of my Dad’s death. I started to reflect on the roller-coaster ride of grief. Usually, I looked backward from a paradigm of begrudging his actions. And somehow, in my new and chaotic life in Tokyo, it occurred to me that perhaps to try, finally, a different angle.

So much of my difficulties were in a vain effort to find meaning. Instead, I thought to notice where I was. Here I am, in Japan. Eating strange food, going on adventures, seeking out nature, and finding ways to laugh. Without wanting to, or realizing it, I found that I did not NEED a reason or explanation for my father’s actions.

After this, I decided not to mourn more, but instead to celebrate. Here I am living fully with my Joie de Vivre. In my heart, a resolution came from all the confusion. I released the command to find logic and reasoning in the incomprehensible inner world of someone else. Instead, I resolved to live. This freed me from the burden of searching for an answer. It just is how it is. From then, I began to look forward to the future, and for joy, from both sides of the lake.