Who do we discard?
The phone calls occurred in late March 2013, on a warm day in central New Jersey. Winter had not yet surrendered, and the night wind would smack me in the face every time I left Firestone Library. Like Florida, the air in central New Jersey can suffocate you, primarily due to its spongy and damp quality. And yet, I often found solace on the edge of Princeton’s campus, embracing my solitude where I could find it. During those mild days, after a jog in the lush forest, I would inhale the decaying air, which I imagined was filled with droplets of toxic dust.
In his poem “Patterson,” William Carlos Williams offered a Janus face of New Jersey:
From above, higher than the spires, higher
even than the office towers, from oozy fields
abandoned to gray beds of dead grass,
black sumac, withered weed-stalks,
mud and thickets cluttered with dead leaves
The vibrant wealth of Princeton often felt separate from the industrial decay in other parts of the state. Yet, living there, I was never fooled by this landscape, especially on days when my brother called me. Our conversations were almost decadent and meandering yet filled with fantasy. He was sincere, saying, “Tupac stole my rap lyrics,” or “Last week, I started dating Rhianna.” As far as I knew, he had never met these people. What was always challenging was how his wandering tone, at times drifting towards the absurd, confirmed the presence of psychosis.
I could imagine his forlorn face, with a faint smile staring blankly into our parents’ backyard, ceasing to understand the world as I knew it properly. The relationships he conjured and his responses could sometimes seem clairvoyant, but mostly, they were encased with his fantasies. These phone calls would happen regularly until they didn’t. They ceased when he would have violent episodes or when he was sent to a psychiatric ward. But the pause took form in 2014, when we finally received a diagnosis. When the voices finally had a name.
Next week, I’ll be traveling to Miami with my son. And he’ll have a chance to meet his maternal grandparents, aunties, uncles, and cousins, as well as a sojourn that will be met with laughter, cacophony, and music. My brother will see his nephew, and it’s unclear how that encounter will be. My brother might be withdrawn or verbose. Perhaps there will be a brief moment of lucidity in between the catatonic waves of murmurs. And yet, I know our kinship will continue to be tested, mostly because I will be reminded of how vulnerable life can be for my immediate and extended family.
For weeks, I have dreaded my US book tour because this discomfort forces me to confront the bits of my privilege and how it flows in and out of my life like a jilted lover. I am not like other authors who can perform in front of a crowd, especially knowing that some of my relatives are struggling or have recently passed away. Moreover, I cannot rely on “pretty privilege,” European sophistication, or feminine tact to garner respect or esteem. In a sense, I have to observe and reflect on the bits of life that work for me. I appreciate how my close friends have allowed me to be cheeky, experimental, or heedless. One friend gathered some companions to celebrate the Irish goddess St. Brigid, the goddess of healers, poets, childbirth, and inspiration.
As I continue to seek the courage to breathe life into the upcoming publication of my book, A History of the World in Six Plagues, I have been turning to literature in the hope of finding something familiar. I was reminded of my brother’s schizophrenia when I read Han Kang’s The Vegetarian, a novella in three parts about a woman’s mental deterioration. Although Yeong-Hye is the central character, the reader never gains her perspective. Instead, the story unfolds through the varying viewpoints of her husband, brother-in-law, and sister. Their tones reflect their emotional limits, intrigue, and betrayal, even from a distance to the protagonist. What slowly emerges is how unacknowledged yet overt forms of violence contribute to mental illness. Additionally, I was prompted to consider how people can abandon their loved ones when their brain chemistry feels too overwhelming. One character left a chilling note:
His brother-in-law seems to consider it perfectly natural to discard his wife [Yeong-hye] as though she where a broken watch or household appliance.
This hit a cardinal artery, spilling my guilt, knowing that my parents and sister bear the undue burden of facing, coping with, and managing my brother’s mental illness in ways I have been shielded from since leaving my hometown for university. Since the early 2000s, that distance has snowballed into a landslide. By living in a foreign country, I haven’t wholly discarded my brother so much as I have abandoned him. Yet, I am not the only one. He is discarded when so little effort is made to encourage Black thought. He is discarded when very little energy is directed towards providing Black people with empathy. And when we fail to offer free and holistic psychotherapy to Black people, he is discarded. Leaving America was easy because staying meant I would live in a place that was overripe with death.
As I hold on to the last month of winter, I hope to find reprieve and comfort from the community that has made this book possible. But more than anything, I hope that we can all hold on to the people in our lives who struggle with their mental health.
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