Oct. 05, 2010 - Issue #781: Fall Style

Queermonton

Neither suicide nor false hope

When I lived in London, England I spent a lot of time in the tube stations getting high off the winds that would suck through as trains passed, the smell of newspapers, history and people. I would look down at the tracks from the safety of the "mind the gap" line trying to see and unsee all the rats scurrying across the lines. Not seeing rats made them more dangerous in my head while seeing them—their damp bodies, their slimy long tails—made them more real and so less scary, and helped me understand rats would not find their way into my bag without me knowing, or that if one was nibbling at my feet, even if I dozed off, I would feel them and wake up.

Often while staring down at the tracks I would think about all the stories I heard of people taking their own lives by jumping in front of the trains. I would think about the conductors who would be powerless to react in time, the high pitched sequel of the sudden stop, the ghost-faced bystanders witnessing the end of someone's life while on their way to work. I remember thinking how tumultuous it must have been for bystanders who turned away, possibly also feeling hopeless but who would not/could not kill themselves. And of course I would think about the people who jumped, wishing them love and wanting something different for them.

I started to get obsessed and would bring up the subject of train suicides with everyone, everywhere: crowded pubs, hot water flats, sitting in Soho park. I was collecting an oral history because nowhere else could I find any information. One day a lady in a lunch room got mad when I brought it up, saying the reason authorities don't publicize train jumps was because they don't want to give anyone any ideas. She called me selfish for talking about the jumping. She was not wrong. We ate our lunches in silence after that; I soon quit the job.

For much of my time in London I was broke, largely alone and physically unwell. Everything felt damp and stale. I struggled to find purpose. I never thought about killing myself but enjoyed thinking about suicide. Talking about death gave me insight into how people actually value life, being able to say suicide without it being a call for help allowed me to consider different ways to think about it, and sense how it impacted others. Later I realized I had grown as person, found out about myself along the way. In the same way seeing the rats made me less afraid, taking about suicide gave me something to live for.

Last week at least nine queer youth took their own lives and the worst we can do is act like this too shall pass. We need to own the pain that caused the deaths and talk about the sense of loss we may feel. Let the nine lives remind us the status quo fails us all—even the bullies. One of the most violent aspects of the current gay rights movement is the selling of the lie that gays can be just like everyone else, that we can be normal. How has this actually made life harder for queer kids who want something different, better, more, who have lost the freedom of outsider status as gay enters the mainstream (and with it pressure to be normal and happy)? As queers we have to make space for lives to be lived wonderfully imperfect, and ensure people can be a variety of themselves in what ever way that manifests. Fuck resiliency. I want a world which allows the weakest to thrive and the freakiest as much latitude as they need.

No one is normal. Things will not get better until things change. As queers we know this and hopefully find strength in seeing the rats, gain hope in the knowledge that since we all travel with pain we need to devise more just and sensitive tracks. We need to help queer kids prepare for being different in an often unforgiving society, meanwhile keep working to change our unforgiving society. V

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