Stay A While: Black Suicide(Trigger Warning)
“Suicide is possibly the weightiest, most beautifully benighted, and most painful act of self-love. Your body is a sun whose warmth and light sometimes give out. You alone don’t have the capacity to keep the entire world warm. ”
I was 17 when O.J. Murdock, Tampa native and former Tennessee Titans wide receiver, passed away on July 30th, 2012. He died that morning from a gunshot wound to his head, except he was holding the gun. O.J. pulled the trigger with his own finger while sitting in his car in front of Middleton High School— which he attended. I was a student at Hillsborough High, and my family lived in the area, on 22nd Street and Ellicott.
News outlets reported that Murdock texted one of his former football coaches around 3:30 that morning, tying his final words with an apology. “Coach, I want to thank you for everything you've done for me and my family. It's greatly appreciated,'" His former coach, Al McCray, recalled. "At the end, he goes: 'I apologize.”
He said he was sorry before hurting him, knowing that the world of those around him, who loved him dearly, would grievously come to rest in a few hours. But I’m reminded, we can’t center ourselves in someone else’s trauma, whether they survive or not. Their death nor subsistence is dictated by our initiatives.
Death is an end for some but a long-lasting interlude in the lives of others. And suicide is an ending with no actual resolution, an open window through which we, in all our despondency, pray for someone to return.
Today, suicide is the second leading cause of death amongst 25-34-year-olds and the fourth leading cause amongst 35-44-year-olds. Millennials are generally stressed due to financial obligation and the pervading pressure to have experienced certain heights at young ages– and some are troubled by newly recognized and named trauma from their childhood. But the idea that wealth or status can prevent us from crashing out has long been incorrect.
Our money and stability don’t operate as community and safe spaces. A man cannot hide behind his resources or expect them to prop him up. Rich or broke, your mind can beat you out. In 2020, we lost 45,979 people — about one death by suicide every 11 minutes, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
Men have yet to master the language of every emotion. And when they can’t speak, they swallow and stomach the pain causing them to choke. We still crumble beneath the expectation of others, and the harsh eyes of critics, whether family, homeboys, or lovers, we feel someone is prepared to leave us because of our lack.
Regina King’s son died at the hands of suicide at 26. Cheslie Kryst, crowned Miss USA in 2019, died in January of last year at 30. Her last disquieting words to the world via her Instagram were, “May this day bring you rest and peace.”
Arlana Miller, Southern University’s cheerleader, left a heart-rending message on her Instagram before ending her own life– one that the entire world eventually gathered to read, and she was only 19.
Stephen "tWitch" Boss died in December 2022, from suicide, at 40 years old. The world celebrated how full of life he was and always seemed to be; from the outside, he gave no signs of crashing out. Social media was flooded with those speculating about at which point everyone lost him, before we all lost him. This isn’t the space to echo the sounds of a broken record and assure anyone reading that we should “check on our friends” and lean into spaces that nurture our mental health.
“Check on your friends” is rhetoric that awakens in these moments, but we should also stop checking out. Stay engaged and open to everyone we’ve told, “I love you.” Give life to who we consider the life of our friend groups and the quiet ones. Our friends burn and die from lighting themselves on fire to keep everything around them warm. And sometimes, their selflessness won’t allow them to endure letting everyone down, so they throw one last rock and hide forever.
Friends don’t always open up. And we shouldn’t prioritize ourselves when we ask that they see us as safe havens, as it’s not this easy. We must find people when they run away— searching for symbols that would lead us to them— and bring them back home. Look beneath the facades of joy to see hopelessness and grieving hearts.
A cry for help doesn’t always look or sound like a direct pleading, but rather, it sounds like “I’m just having a hard time managing right now” or “yeah, I’m just waiting for things to come through, tryna’ stick it out in the meantime.”
Suicide is real even in Hip-hop, a space recognized as being encircled by masculinity. It’s Ab-Soul’s “Do Better.” We find it in Kendrick Lamar’s “U” translated to “God is Gangsta,” a visual depicting a man wrestling through the conflict of being a beacon of hope and wisdom for his home, Compton— and rapping through his survivor’s guilt while hoping to find a message from God at the bottom of a Hennessy bottle.
The distressing message usually left behind leaves questions about what suicide victims believed they owed the world before leaving. Debts that they thought their death would save them from or pay off. The apology doesn’t always seem to be offered as an assurance that people would be better off without them, but rather that it will be worse, and for that, they’re remorseful. What do you think you owe the world that you aren’t able to pay?
O.J. Murdock’s death didn’t make sense at the time. Not to a boy who felt so much life was reserved for him to see. Not to a boy who feared what would happen to a soul and body after their time on Earth expired. Even when religion eased my conscience by reminding me of how God had preserved my spirit.
Capital Steez, a close friend of Brooklyn-bred rapper Joey Bada$$, was a victim of suicide in December 2012. Don Cornelius took his life in February of the same year. There were then scattered conversations about suicide. Likely because a new fear grew of this kind of death. Those who were athletes like O.J. can relate, even if we weren’t standouts on the football field and track, nor were we Rivals ranked in high school.
O.J. has a backstory. One that got him from Tampa to Kansas, then Mississippi and Tennessee, and ultimately back in front of his old High School. The curiosity from him being parked in front of Middleton during his last moments haunted me, from the innocence of a 17-year-old boy to the emotional vigilance of a 28-year-old man.
More than ten years later, I couldn’t let time erase O.J. Me remembering his story and it finding my heart when writing these words was sobering. Even though I didn’t know him well, he was missed and needed.
The last thing I want to do is leave when restoration lies on the other side of the hill. These words weren’t supposed to make it to anyone else but me. I’ve never been ashamed of my scars, so hiding them is to bury the stories of how they became so beautiful.
Part of me was already gone the night I wrote a suicide note for the first time. The other part of me was hanging on, desperately, to the hope that I believed would keep me from taking any life left of my body. I’d never been that low, ever. These moments are like playing chess with your thoughts for your life, hoping you lose and your mind lets you stay.
I tried sitting up in my bed, staring at the ceiling, and praying. Anything that would help me see the need to preserve my body even when I felt detached from all around me. This is no cry for help because I’ve already been “helped,” but both a lament and celebration, a pleading that God would step in and a thanking Him in advance. Prayer wasn’t the answer. But it was a guide. I found solace in knowing I could ask God questions– any question that confused my heart over the last two years.
How do you tell a story about suicide and make it sound, beautiful? There is nothing sufferable about dying. And I’ve always wanted a memorable death. But this isn’t about me. It shows how stories, in the abstract, connect. This story is about tWitch, O.J., and for Chelsie and Arlana.
Harming myself seemed to carry more peace for me than hurt for anyone else— I didn’t care about them. Suicide is possibly the weightiest, most beautifully benighted, and most painful act of self-love. Your body is a sun whose warmth and light sometimes give out. You alone don’t have the capacity to keep the entire world warm.
In the context of suicide, I think one dies in stages— I couldn’t reach the final stage of death. You die before you die, and you could die afterward. Your mind deteriorates as life seems further, and hope escapes you. In an interview leading up to his recent album, Ab-Soul said, “if you don’t say their name after they’re gone, they die twice.” And we are burdened with immortalizing those tired of lending their lives to rooms and parties, staying ablaze for everyone around, so they sought to put out their flames.
Black man and woman, the warmth of your heart is most felt when you are far away. But you should still stay a while.
Told by: Kwon
