I didn’t know you, Anthony Bourdain.
But you made a difference to me.
Your book, Kitchen Confidential, made me laugh out loud. Its relentless and brutal honesty also gave me complete certainty that I made the right choice by not going into the business of food and letting cooking for others remain a beloved hobby.
Your curiosity and wanderlust were inspiring. The world is a big, wonderful and fabulously interesting place, and your intense hunger for knowledge and new experiences tantalized and nourished me, along with so many others.
The headlong-headstrong way you embraced – and even exalted – peasant and street food helped me to embrace and exalt some of the more humble food in my own family’s background.
I didn’t know you, Anthony Bourdain.
But I’ve struggled with your death.
I’ve been silent for a few days trying to process it.
My brother made the same choice you did, Anthony. He took his own life.
I’ve been silent – and not-silent – for almost five years trying to process it.
There’s an army of people out there just like me who are struggling with your death from a duality of emotions.
There’s the sense of loss from the abrupt ending of your huge contribution to the canons of travel, food and cultural understanding, and a reluctant but absolutely unavoidable comparison to our own unwelcome experiences with the savage, raw, rollercoaster aftermath of suicide.
We mourn you with already-broken hearts, Anthony. There’s a seat at the table that shouldn’t be empty yet.
We cringe and weep for your loved ones, who will struggle for years to understand.
We wish it was different. We know it will never be the same.
I didn’t know you, Anthony Bourdain.
I wish I had.
You made a difference to me. To many.
Today I join the chorus of voices, each mourning your death and celebrating your life in their own way.
Your egalitarian outlook, voracious appetite and adventurous spirit made the world’s menu so much bigger for so many.
Thank you for that, Anthony. I hope you’ve found peace. I hope my brother has found peace. I pray that your family and loved ones will someday find peace and acceptance.
It takes a long, long time.
And for anyone else out there who has read this far and struggles with depression and hopelessness like Anthony, my brother, and so many others, below is a repeat of a ragged little poem I wrote, a plea for you to reach out. The original post is here: My Brother’s Suicide: Out of the Darkness and Into the Light.
A Suicide Prevention Poem: Out of the Darkness and Into the Light
please hear my plea
if you are out there somewhere
in the dark
considering taking control of your life
by taking your life
please tell someone
just one person
let one person know
that you are at risk
in the dark
and sad
and feeling alone and desperate and unloved
please hear my plea
know that the people who have always loved you
still do
always will
know that your current situation
in the dark
doesn’t have to be
your permanent situation
there’s no death sentence for mistakes or regret
unless you pass it on yourself
please hear my plea
reach out to the light
please tell someone
just one person
let one person know
that you are at risk
in the dark
and sad
and feeling alone and desperate and unloved
you’ll never know
unless you reach out
that you can live in the light again
we’ll never know we can help
unless you tell someone
just one person
let one person know
we’ll never know
that we could have been
the light in your darkness
please hear my plea:
you matter to someone
he mattered to me
We brought fresh cherries to share, a late-summer harvest probably shipped from somewhere in the Northwest to our local grocer. Mom hadn’t had cherries in years; the grocery stores on the Bolivar Peninsula stocked the basics but didn’t have fancy mustards, gourmet cheeses or produce from out of state. She loved those cherries. She ate them with joy, the dark red juice staining her lips and her thin, worn fingers.
you
