Fragility

I usually do not post on serious subjects, but today was one of the those days that will sit in your memory for quite some time. I sincerely hope that 'blogging' about it will not trivialize the matter; I consider this blog a forum to stay in touch with my family and close friends, so I think posting about this is appropriate, because I really want to share it with you.

Today started out ordinarily enough; I slept in, relishing the lack of scheduled responsibilities. I met up with my good friends for cappuccinos and cannolis (an amazing combo, especially when you're dining in Little Italy of the Bronx). Over the pastries, two of my oldest friends, Mark and Bill, told me about how there were police detectives in their hallway on the first floor of O'Hare Hall this morning.
"It was really intense; they even checked for our i.d.s to make sure we lived there," Bill said.
"Maybe someone is hiding an alien in their room or something," I suggested, completely immature, buzzed on caffeine.

When I got back to my dorm at about 4:00 this afternoon I checked my email (which most of you know I hardly ever do). I had received a mass email from the university, informing me that a student had died this morning in O'Hare Hall. Suddenly Mark and Bill's story about the police made sense.

I felt sickened and paralyzed, staring at my computer screen. Fordham has an undergraduate body of 6,000 students, but only 4,000 attend my campus of Rose Hill in the Bronx, and a decent percentage of those are commuter students, not residents. This individual was directly in my community.

Information started to leak in from the grapevine; the student was a junior boy, the circumstances surrounding his death were unknown, he had a mother and father and brother, and I did not know him. It did not matter. He was in my little community, he was one of us. I felt physically ill, and before I knew it hot tears were running down my cheeks.

The email mentioned that a prayer service was going to be held at 7:00 in the basement of the church. I decided I was going to go; not only would it make me feel better to be with other members of the community, but I felt it was important to honor one of our own. I asked my roommates if they wanted to come with; their responses were incredulous: "Why would we go? We didn't know him."

I went to choir rehearsal at 5:00; we have to prepare for the Baccalaureate mass on Friday and commencement on Saturday. Needless to say that I sucked. I screwed up songs that I had known for years. It was like I had forgotten how to read music. Some of my fellow choirsters looked equally distracted; the tone of the entire rehearsal was subdued.

I asked my friend Quan to come to the service with me. Before I continue with my story, let me tell you a little about Quan. He is a short Asian guy from Louisiana and one of my good friends. He's always been in choir, and we've recently started hanging out again. He was abroad last spring, and I was in London in the fall, so we went for a year without seeing each other. Earlier today I had run into him when I was going to get cappuccinos with Bill and Mark, and I asked him if he wanted to come with, to which he agreed. It was the first time we've hung out in earnest in months. Quan, who's also a scholastic Jesuit but is in my grade, also today took me to the Jesuit community hall off-campus where he lives, and showed me around, which was very cool. He's been a scholastic Jesuit, which is a Jesuit who's still in the training process, for four years. Overall, he's an intelligent, sensitive, nice guy.

So this evening, after choir ended, Quan went back to his residence hall to drop off his music, then met me at the basement of the church for the service. There weren't alot of people there; after all most people have gone home for the summer. The family of this boy weren't there either, but this did not surprise me.

Father Currie asked for capable readers to deliver readings, and I volunteered, along with one other student and two professors. I figured that I would be able to maintain my composure, and besides, I wanted to help. I read a selection from 2 Romans.

Overall, it was sobering, sad gathering. Father Currie asked for people to share memories of the boy, but nobody spoke. The silence was perhaps the most difficult part of all. I was grateful to be surrounded by other members of the community, but it would have been nice if more were there.

After it was over, Quan walked me back to my dorm.
"This is for you," he said, and he gave me a little wooden crucifix. "I could see in choir how upset this has made you."
"I'm sensitive," I replied, a little embarrassed. I thought I had successfully concealed my emotions at rehearsal. But still I was touched by the gift. "Thank you, Quan."
"You're a good person," Quan answered. "Hold unto God." He gave me a hug and left.

With graduation approaching, this is already a week of bittersweet transition, but this death of a member of my community reminds me forcibly of the fragility of life. Mundane worries about paychecks, grades and boys are not important; the fact that I'm alive and able to relish a delicious cappuccino on a May afternoon is a gift. I also think that it was interesting that Quan came back into my life on a day like this; he was there for me right when I needed someone to lean on. I'm not a deeply religious person, but I can not ignore the spiritual significance of that.

It's almost 9:00 pm now, and I am still rattled and upset by the day's events. Mostly I think of my fellow student, and of his family. I hope he's okay now, and I can't imagine what his family is going through.

Earlier today I planned on baking cookies for a friend's birthday, and I am still going to do that. I think it's important to cherish small celebrations, and some chocolate sounds delicious.

I apologize if this post was preachy; I just decided to be honest. xoxoxo