Taking Arms Against a Sea of Troubles
Howard Zinn died. J.D. Salinger died. The former was 87. The latter was 91. They were old men - long-lived men of distinguished accomplishments - and whenever such people die, I have to admit I grow a bit wondrous at the reaction of people (Now that online social networks allow for instant mass reaction from a variety of people, many of whom I know through or because of academic or social interests that might lead them to care about the works of a Salinger or a Zinn). There seem to be so many reactions of sadness, but I don’t feel sad no matter how much I love A People’s History of the United States or Franny & Zooey. They were old men. Eighty-seven is a good long time to live. Ninety-one even longer. I would be happy to last that long, or maybe not… Depending on what the quality of life is like for me then… It depends.
It is not that I am not scared of death. Sometimes in bed at night the knowledge of my end grips me and my heart races and rather than slip away into the comfort of sleep, where I might die and not know, not care - I am too awake as if what I wanted was awareness of that last moment of life lest it come in that moment called by the contemplation of mortality. This would happen to me when I was a kid - especially during the 80s when Reagan was president, the doomsday clock closer to midnight and the fear of nuclear annihilation a palpable thing. “Russian has a giant laser in orbit pointed at New York City,” my friend Eric once told me. I spent many sleepless night contemplating that laser. My mom would walk me to the kitchen and give me a tablespoon of agua de ahazar to calm my nerves.
But at the same time, that fear is something of the moment - something about the future I cannot control - so most times I accept my mortality just fine. And in those moments I try to remind myself of the inevitability that should breed acceptance not fear. Zinn and Salinger were old men and old men die. Young men die, too - and that’s sadder - thousands in Iraq and Afghanistan like my nephew who otherwise would have had a lot of life to live - those are sad. But when old men die, old people die… I find it hard to be sad. And I find the sadness of others bewildering - this person was not your family or your friend - they didn’t know you and you don’t really know them. What are you sad for? And if they are your family, you had them for so long… They had to go sometime.
My guess is that people are really sad for themselves. They are either sad for the sense that this person would not produce more of the things we love them for (though in Salinger’s case, then we should have been sad since 1965), or sad for the reminder of their own mortality - “I, too, shall die” some voice in their mind is saying.
When mi abuela died I was sad, but not for her - she was 88 - she was an old woman - Old women die - I was sad for my nephew who was just a few days older than 23 when an IED killed him and his cohort in a distant country for no good reason that I can think of and would not get a chance to be 28, let alone 88 - and I was sad for my mom and my uncle, because I imagine that a loss of a parent shakes your ability to ignore your mortality more than anything else. (I imagine that the death of your child might make you more ready to die).
And speaking of ready to die, part of what comforts me about death - about my own death - is that I feel no aversion to suicide. I think killing yourself is just fine if your life is not worth living anymore - I am not saying in every case - some people are mentally sick or confused and should be persuaded against it - but when I am old and tired - I might figure out a way when I just don’t want to do it anymore, and that should be my right - that should be between me and my family.
And therein lies what I was thinking about last night when I lay in bed trying to drift off and mortality gripped me again: Once upon a time when I laid down to sleep I would daydream into night-dreaming, and often I would think about the future - the possibilities of the future - but I feel like those possibilities are mostly gone - at least in that broad sense we have in youth - that silly idea that anything is possible - less and less is possible, except death - only death is more possible. I am less concerned about the future, so I find no joy in daydreaming about it. This is not because I do not have plans for the future, but because the future bores me as if it has already been done, I have dreamed of it so much. I prefer the present moment when there are still minute mysteries to be revealed - hourly unknowns that curl themselves out of the routine of being. I live in the present. In the future, I am not only already dead, but die here and now as well.
It is not that I am not scared of death. Sometimes in bed at night the knowledge of my end grips me and my heart races and rather than slip away into the comfort of sleep, where I might die and not know, not care - I am too awake as if what I wanted was awareness of that last moment of life lest it come in that moment called by the contemplation of mortality. This would happen to me when I was a kid - especially during the 80s when Reagan was president, the doomsday clock closer to midnight and the fear of nuclear annihilation a palpable thing. “Russian has a giant laser in orbit pointed at New York City,” my friend Eric once told me. I spent many sleepless night contemplating that laser. My mom would walk me to the kitchen and give me a tablespoon of agua de ahazar to calm my nerves.
But at the same time, that fear is something of the moment - something about the future I cannot control - so most times I accept my mortality just fine. And in those moments I try to remind myself of the inevitability that should breed acceptance not fear. Zinn and Salinger were old men and old men die. Young men die, too - and that’s sadder - thousands in Iraq and Afghanistan like my nephew who otherwise would have had a lot of life to live - those are sad. But when old men die, old people die… I find it hard to be sad. And I find the sadness of others bewildering - this person was not your family or your friend - they didn’t know you and you don’t really know them. What are you sad for? And if they are your family, you had them for so long… They had to go sometime.
My guess is that people are really sad for themselves. They are either sad for the sense that this person would not produce more of the things we love them for (though in Salinger’s case, then we should have been sad since 1965), or sad for the reminder of their own mortality - “I, too, shall die” some voice in their mind is saying.
When mi abuela died I was sad, but not for her - she was 88 - she was an old woman - Old women die - I was sad for my nephew who was just a few days older than 23 when an IED killed him and his cohort in a distant country for no good reason that I can think of and would not get a chance to be 28, let alone 88 - and I was sad for my mom and my uncle, because I imagine that a loss of a parent shakes your ability to ignore your mortality more than anything else. (I imagine that the death of your child might make you more ready to die).
And speaking of ready to die, part of what comforts me about death - about my own death - is that I feel no aversion to suicide. I think killing yourself is just fine if your life is not worth living anymore - I am not saying in every case - some people are mentally sick or confused and should be persuaded against it - but when I am old and tired - I might figure out a way when I just don’t want to do it anymore, and that should be my right - that should be between me and my family.
And therein lies what I was thinking about last night when I lay in bed trying to drift off and mortality gripped me again: Once upon a time when I laid down to sleep I would daydream into night-dreaming, and often I would think about the future - the possibilities of the future - but I feel like those possibilities are mostly gone - at least in that broad sense we have in youth - that silly idea that anything is possible - less and less is possible, except death - only death is more possible. I am less concerned about the future, so I find no joy in daydreaming about it. This is not because I do not have plans for the future, but because the future bores me as if it has already been done, I have dreamed of it so much. I prefer the present moment when there are still minute mysteries to be revealed - hourly unknowns that curl themselves out of the routine of being. I live in the present. In the future, I am not only already dead, but die here and now as well.