One of the hallmarks of “digital natives” is their capacity to live their lives transparently, online. For me, this generation gap is thrown into stark relief when my mom visits. She is constantly astounded by how much people reveal online. “But why on earth would anyone post this much information about themselves,“ she asks when I log on to Facebook to catch her up on my friends’ lives. (I’m scared to even tell her about Twitter). “Because it’s such a great way to keep current,” I counter. “To reconnect and stay connected, no matter what the distance between you.”
I had my epiphanous Facebook moment when I “friended” Janey - an old, college roommate from South Africa. In an instant, I had caught up on the last 20 years of her life. She had married her high school sweetheart. She had three beautiful grown sons – Sam, Aran and Dan - of whom she was immensely proud judging from the number of pictures she had posted of them. She had developed a passion for bellydancing. She still loved words and, like many frustrated writers, Facebook had given her an outlet to publish her musings.
So, I was totally shocked when I logged on late one night to see this Facebook post from her.
I'm very sorry if you're hearing this for the first time like this. Our beloved Aran committed suicide yesterday afternoon. He is safe with the angels now.
Facebook, March 2, 2009
How could anyone announce this devastating event on Facebook?
As the days passed, I followed the outpouring of grief from the family’s friends on Facebook. The condolences. The support. The wonderful memories of Aran. His friends set up a R.I.P. page – a living memorial of Aran’s short but outstanding life.
And slowly, I began to understand the value in mourning publicly. In sharing with the world what must undoubtedly be a mother’s worst moment. A community bonded. A grief shared became a grief easier to bear. A mother became aware of the true value her son had in the lives of others.
Janey’s Facebook entries dwindled as she mourned the loss of her son but she posted this heartbreaking poem a few weeks after Aran’s funeral.
MAYBE
You’ve heard it so many times:
Say NO to drugs
You can even buy one of those joke T-shirts
Say MAYBE to drugs
But maybe one night as part of a celebration
even a farewell party
a joyous send-off
because you’ve been given a full bursary
to study at an American university
Maybe
you will use some cocaine
Maybe you’re better looking than most
Maybe you have a beautiful mind
Maybe you’re a natural athlete
Maybe you’re lovely to watch
on the dance floor
on a skateboard
just sitting in a chair reading the umpteenth book
or writing another poem
Maybe you have the most beautiful surfing style I’ve ever seen
and believe me, I’ve seen many.
Then maybe
afterwards
the coke will drop you so low
into a darker place than you have ever known
even though you have fought depression and won.
Then certainly
you will lose your power of rational thought
you will not make a choice
because making a choice
requires the ability to think rationally
and now you have none.
So maybe
on a Sunday afternoon
with your Dad
(who loves you as much as all his children but more than his own life)
less than a metre away through the bedroom wall
with your Mom
(who has a vocabulary, yes, even bigger than your own but still cannot find the words to say how much she loves you)
looking at photos of friends’ children on Facebook
with your air ticket and passport beside her on her desk
Then maybe
on a Sunday afternoon
when the sun is shining outside
and the waves are not too bad for Muizenberg, actually….
You will hang yourself.
Then maybe
your little brother
whose name you chose before he was even born
who you taught to surf
who you said (before he was born) you would teach to laugh
will walk into your bedroom thinking to wake you from your afternoon nap
and find you.
Then definitely
he will have a picture in his head
for the rest of his life
that he doesn’t want anyone else to see
except that he knows his parents have that picture too.
You’ve heard it so many times:
Say NO to drugs.
You can even buy one of those joke T-shirts
Say MAYBE to drugs
But when you know your friend is playing with drugs
don’t say maybe
I should tell someone.
When your friend thinks tik* will make her model-thin
don’t say maybe
I should sms her mother.
When your friend wants to borrow money and you think it’s for cocaine
don’t say maybe
I could ask my mom to speak to his dad.
Maybe I could
email his brother
drop a note in their letterbox
make an anonymous call from the phone on the corner.
So when you are offered drugs
(it will happen, there is no maybe)
as a gift
as a dare
as something to share
as part of an erotic experience
don’t say maybe.
You’ve heard it so many times:
Say NO to drugs.
I’m not asking you to remember those words.
You know them already.
There is just one word I am asking you to hold in your head:
Aran
Aran Moore
1/10/1989 - 1/03/2009
Facebook, March 21, 2008
(* tik is a South African drug)
Even though I never met him, I still visit Aran’s R.I.P. page every so often. It gives me comfort to see that the memory of him is still so very much alive.
And Janey, in being brave enough to tell the world what happened, has given me something priceless: a rare teaching moment with my own digital native. My daughter and I have talked about this heartbreaking event. It has helped us broach difficult topics like depression and suicide. It’s provided an opportunity to revisit our ongoing discussion about drugs and the devastation they can wreak on individuals and families. And, it’s strengthened our own mother-daughter relationship.
So, Janey, thank you for living your life transparently.
I had my epiphanous Facebook moment when I “friended” Janey - an old, college roommate from South Africa. In an instant, I had caught up on the last 20 years of her life. She had married her high school sweetheart. She had three beautiful grown sons – Sam, Aran and Dan - of whom she was immensely proud judging from the number of pictures she had posted of them. She had developed a passion for bellydancing. She still loved words and, like many frustrated writers, Facebook had given her an outlet to publish her musings.
So, I was totally shocked when I logged on late one night to see this Facebook post from her.
I'm very sorry if you're hearing this for the first time like this. Our beloved Aran committed suicide yesterday afternoon. He is safe with the angels now.
Facebook, March 2, 2009
How could anyone announce this devastating event on Facebook?
As the days passed, I followed the outpouring of grief from the family’s friends on Facebook. The condolences. The support. The wonderful memories of Aran. His friends set up a R.I.P. page – a living memorial of Aran’s short but outstanding life.
And slowly, I began to understand the value in mourning publicly. In sharing with the world what must undoubtedly be a mother’s worst moment. A community bonded. A grief shared became a grief easier to bear. A mother became aware of the true value her son had in the lives of others.
Janey’s Facebook entries dwindled as she mourned the loss of her son but she posted this heartbreaking poem a few weeks after Aran’s funeral.
MAYBE
You’ve heard it so many times:
Say NO to drugs
You can even buy one of those joke T-shirts
Say MAYBE to drugs
But maybe one night as part of a celebration
even a farewell party
a joyous send-off
because you’ve been given a full bursary
to study at an American university
Maybe
you will use some cocaine
Maybe you’re better looking than most
Maybe you have a beautiful mind
Maybe you’re a natural athlete
Maybe you’re lovely to watch
on the dance floor
on a skateboard
just sitting in a chair reading the umpteenth book
or writing another poem
Maybe you have the most beautiful surfing style I’ve ever seen
and believe me, I’ve seen many.
Then maybe
afterwards
the coke will drop you so low
into a darker place than you have ever known
even though you have fought depression and won.
Then certainly
you will lose your power of rational thought
you will not make a choice
because making a choice
requires the ability to think rationally
and now you have none.
So maybe
on a Sunday afternoon
with your Dad
(who loves you as much as all his children but more than his own life)
less than a metre away through the bedroom wall
with your Mom
(who has a vocabulary, yes, even bigger than your own but still cannot find the words to say how much she loves you)
looking at photos of friends’ children on Facebook
with your air ticket and passport beside her on her desk
Then maybe
on a Sunday afternoon
when the sun is shining outside
and the waves are not too bad for Muizenberg, actually….
You will hang yourself.
Then maybe
your little brother
whose name you chose before he was even born
who you taught to surf
who you said (before he was born) you would teach to laugh
will walk into your bedroom thinking to wake you from your afternoon nap
and find you.
Then definitely
he will have a picture in his head
for the rest of his life
that he doesn’t want anyone else to see
except that he knows his parents have that picture too.
You’ve heard it so many times:
Say NO to drugs.
You can even buy one of those joke T-shirts
Say MAYBE to drugs
But when you know your friend is playing with drugs
don’t say maybe
I should tell someone.
When your friend thinks tik* will make her model-thin
don’t say maybe
I should sms her mother.
When your friend wants to borrow money and you think it’s for cocaine
don’t say maybe
I could ask my mom to speak to his dad.
Maybe I could
email his brother
drop a note in their letterbox
make an anonymous call from the phone on the corner.
So when you are offered drugs
(it will happen, there is no maybe)
as a gift
as a dare
as something to share
as part of an erotic experience
don’t say maybe.
You’ve heard it so many times:
Say NO to drugs.
I’m not asking you to remember those words.
You know them already.
There is just one word I am asking you to hold in your head:
Aran
Aran Moore
1/10/1989 - 1/03/2009
Facebook, March 21, 2008
(* tik is a South African drug)
Even though I never met him, I still visit Aran’s R.I.P. page every so often. It gives me comfort to see that the memory of him is still so very much alive.
And Janey, in being brave enough to tell the world what happened, has given me something priceless: a rare teaching moment with my own digital native. My daughter and I have talked about this heartbreaking event. It has helped us broach difficult topics like depression and suicide. It’s provided an opportunity to revisit our ongoing discussion about drugs and the devastation they can wreak on individuals and families. And, it’s strengthened our own mother-daughter relationship.
So, Janey, thank you for living your life transparently.
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