Footless Urbanite Pigeons and French Onion Soup at 8 am
And, just like that, I’m in a new country. I flew straight through the New Year. I boarded the plane at 10:30 pm at Ezieza International Airport on December 30th, 2019 and landed in Auckland at 5:00 am January 1st, 2020.
Jet lagged and heartbroken, I cried twice at the sight of pigeons with little stubbies instead of feet. (Their shit is literally so acidic, when they stand in it for too long it erodes away their bird toes. What a bummer.)
The New Year here is slow. Most Kiwi’s get a ton of time off. Everything is closed, including all the good cafes and coffee shops. I ended up in Mt. Eden at eight o’clock in the morning desperate for a good cappuccino.
When I got off the bus, a sign beckoned my soul.
“FRENCH ONION SOUP.”
I walked in. Lamented my story and hurt to the barista and asked if it would be too much for me to order the soup that early in the morning. She smiled and obliged. I fuckin’ love French Onion soup.
What’s good, New Zealand?
Now, before I get into the nitty-gritty of my plan for this beautiful country, I’ll tie up some loose ends from Argentina.
Leaving Buenos Aires was, arguably, the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
For those of you that don’t know, I fell in love in that godforsaken city. You remember Den from the previous post?
Not only did she prove to be an expert negotiator for desperate men trying to rob us, she’s also an incredible cook, a translator for important conversations concerning human rights, a great kayaking partner, a beautiful person to spend Christmas with, and an even better partner in crime. (We took a day and went to Tigre. We collected mosquito bites, and reveled at the sight of fireflies). We’re both from Boca now.
In hindsight, I don’t know how I mustered up the courage to get on the plane.
Odio los aeropuertos.
I went into the country with a single goal – to understand the way the law and politics affect the mental healthcare system and its service users. I left with a handful of conversations with folx who have previously attempted suicide, incredible friends, one soulmate, a love for the Argentine accent, and more questions than answers.
Indeed, I believe that, that is the truest sign of productive research. But, maybe I’m only saying that because I believe that philosophy rarely gives us satisfying answers and conclusions; I’d rather just ask more questions. And, if I’m being honest, I’d hate to have my questions answered. Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the whimsy? I don’t want to know anything for certain, ever.
Here are a few of the questions I left with:
Can legal rights, i.e., those that are given to us by the law, ever do justice and fully safeguard what we colloquially understand to be basic human rights?
Can the rhetoric and language we have do justice to the desire to die? And, in that same vein, can rhetoric and language ever do justice to mental and emotional anguish and suffering?
Are there different categories of suicide? If so, how many? Are they different ontologically? (I ask this question because I recently finished reading an incredible book titled The Sealed Box of Suicide written by Colin and Simon Tatz. They argue that there are thirty-six different kinds of suicide. I remain skeptical, however, that the list is this exhaustive.)
Would we be better off understanding suicide prevention within a framework of harm reduction? Or, in other words, what are the benefits of prioritizing alleviation over prevention?
I know that in the previous blog post, I told you all that I was digesting the conversations I had with those who had previously attempted suicide. And, although my intentions were in the right place, I think that I was misguided in trying to understand their choice of methodology. This quote from Sealed Box summarizes this perfectly:
“We have serious questions to ask [ourselves] about whether concentration on means is a result of not understanding the motive.”
However, it is a curious, and albeit, a bit voyeuristic, to hear why people do choose the methodology they do. Out of all of the people I interviewed, none of them had a long term plan. They all attempted to kill themselves with what was most readily available and within a relatively short amount of time.
Indeed, these interviews corroborate what I learned in the Netherlands when speaking with the men at ProRail (this is also argued in Tatz’s book):
…we never actually know who is going to kill themselves. We can pretend and lie to ourselves that there are signs of suicidality… e.g., the ever classic understanding that those who are suicidal will begin giving away prized possessions, drastically change their appearance, withdraw from family and friends, etc. But, at the end of the day the only way we can actually know if someone is suicidal, is if they suicided or attempted to.
Suicide is a tricky topic. And, it’s only about to get trickier as I begin to take on understanding the nuances and specificities of youth suicide and indigenous suicide, two topics that are very close to my soul.
Much of my project scope has changed here given my past experiences in the Netherlands, Lithuania, and Argentina. So, as of right now, I only have an initial meeting and interview on the table with Maori Council Leader, Matthew Tukaki. I have also reached out to Simon Tatz to hopefully connect me with some other critical suicidologists in the country. But, beyond that, I think I’ll revert back to reading Infinite Jest and writing poetry.
New Zealand is so beautiful but also eerily similar to the States…if I glance up quickly, sometimes my brain tells me I’m back in Tacoma. I snap back to reality when I realize that Mushawn, Wendell, Tommy, and my other best buddies are not here.
Some asshole grabbed me in the middle of the night while I was sleeping, chipping my front tooth. I always talked about how this fellowship often feels like a kick in the teeth…but, I didn’t mean it fucking literally.
At the end of the day, I am proud of myself for continuing on this journey despite the seemingly endless heartbreak. I think I’m a damn good Watson Fellow. It took a hell of a lot of courage and gumption to leave Argentina but that’s what this fellowship is all about, I suppose.
Here’s to my 23rd year on this beautiful planet. Let’s get this shit done, my dudes.
Stop traumatizing people.
Water the house plants.
Treasure your community.
You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down for ya.
Eat the rich.
NO WAR WITH IRAN.
Be nostalgic.
Be radical.
Sit with your soul –
Same mantra, new country:
Let my naivete once more get the best of me and may my radical soul sitting recommence with confidence, knowing that I have people who love me scattered across the globe.
Saluuuuudddd,
Sam
This is Tyler — Tyler was the most lovely person to spend my first days in NZ with. Thanks for the hugs and luvs, buddy.
Te amo, pipi.