APRIL 2012 - ISSUE 03 - Massive Magazine

class of 95, the beat goes on, muffled but
still audible. We will fight on though muted.
We refuse to marry young. We refuse to succeed
academically in pointless, outdated,
and uninteresting subjects. We refuse to accept
the world as it is. We refuse to hold the
same job for 40 years. We refuse to retire
at 65. We refuse to sit still. We reject this
world you expect us to take at face value.
We will construct our own place in it, carve
out our own slice of the planet to call our
own. We spit in the face of your rules and
of the day a school reflects the community
around it, and the community is on the
mend. The earthquake destroyed most of
the decay. The gang houses had crumbled
and, not being insured, were either set to be
bulldozed or purchased by families looking
for fresh starts.
The students, some of them survivors of
the class of 95, gathered together for the
first time with a cause. A cause to fix the
neighbourhood one shovel-load of silt at a
time. They worked to the sound of the old
‘By the time 1995 rolled around the sound had died down
completely. The wave our forefathers had ridden had crashed into
the shoreline and was now receding. 1995 had no cause, no reason
to exist except to get jobs, make money, fuck then die like the good
worker bees we were.’
we reject your hegemony. How dare you
mute a generation for talking out of line.
All we needed was someone to listen to
us, listen to me. Not to hear the words, but
to comprehend them. That was all that we,
I, wanted. An ear to lend, a hand to hold, a
shoulder to cry on. Perhaps some reinforcement
that we were allowed to feel the way
we did. Maybe that you did too. I read about
a study of grandparents that found that 85%
of grandparents died within six months of
each other. No medical reason. No medical
cause. The study concluded that once
life is deemed to be over, biologically the
body starts making preparations to leave
the world gracefully. The study stated that
purpose should be given to the elderly to
ensure they live long lives. Maybe this study
applied to the youth as well. Maybe without
a cause we were stuck without an internal
body clock and left at the mercy of a world
we no longer cared for, or respected.
+++
had returned to Christchurch, the place
I where it had all gone wrong, to gain some
insight into the subject. To put the questions
to the principal and demand answers
to the subject that swills around in my head
and keeps me awake at night. This was, after
all, where the ‘class of 95’ a class that included
a once bright-eyed Matthew William
Shand was counselled.
I am now 15 minutes late for my appointment.
She is probably angry that I wasted
her time. I have decided not to go in. What
could she tell me? Through no fault of her
own, she is the product of an era long gone.
A generation that stifled the music of the
one preceding it. Pointing fingers would be
petty at this point of the game. At the end
songs, and new, giving them new meaning
and context and all brought forth through
tectonic plate movement. The city is working
together to build a better future, and
part of that future is listening to each other.
That was all it needed, a bit of openness and
some understanding. An articulated scoop
truck could have done the work in minutes
but it wouldn’t have given the same sense
of purpose or hope that hundreds of people
singing and working united in one purpose.
That gave the city hope. Hope that people
can fix the problem and hope that the
people will ‘get through it’. Not ‘get over it’.
This is the same attitude being adopted by
the new breed of youth counsellors. Suicide
is no longer looked at as a problem to ‘get
over’, but something to be worked through.
If everyone works together on this problem
and stops hiding from it, or finding industrialised,
outdated solutions to simple problems,
we can all get through it.
+++
finish the song and head back to bed. It is
I cold now and I hope I am able to sleep the
rest of the night. It had been a sleepless few
weeks, and I was set to return to Christchurch
again soon, to gain some final insights
into the subject.
+++
Today, counsellors have admitted the ineffectiveness
of their ways. Youth workers,
church leaders, and even Youthline
volunteers are now taught to speak openly
about the topic of suicide. Youth suicide
rates, though still too high, have been dropping
steadily over the past 10 years. Perhaps
a result of the survivors of the class of
95 becoming youth leaders, like Veronica.
I had tracked her down on my second return
trip to Christchurch. WAYN.com had
proved ineffective but Facebook had found
a match after several attempts.
Veronica lives with her father again, who
has managed to find work and is working
on mending their shattered relationship.
“His idea, not mine,” Veronica said. “It’s
a good thing, and it’s working out well.
He’s doing well.” She doesn’t mention her
mother. Her arms and still bear the scars
of her twisted childhood. Neat rows cut
into perpendicular angles from each other
that could be mistaken for a tattoo from
far away. Despite the scaring, she wears a
singlet and makes no attempt to cover her
marks. They are part of who she is. She has
found a new purpose giving back to the
generation below her. Her past makes her
future stronger, or maybe it makes other
peoples future stronger. It enables her to
connect to others.
People can learn from her openness and
frankness on the subject. The kids can relate
to what she is saying as she shows
visible proof of their shared pain. Suicide,
after all, is a burden, a pain we all carry,
and all share but it is invisible to most. We
talked about the old school briefly, and
avoided the topic of Sunnyside Hospital. It
was a subject we both understood only too
well, though her experience was worse than
mine. We talked about the nights and waking
for no reason.
This happened to her, too, especially
after she threw her medication away, as I
had done seven years ago. It appeared that
volunteering at Youthline had helped her
start to manage the problem and she urged
me to do the same back in Wellington, my
experience was too valuable to not share.
Maybe she understood my feelings better
than I did.
+++
The class of 95 may have yearned to
change the world, and failed. But we
can succeed at making sure the next generation
struggling with the same uncertainty
that we faced. But this time with openness,
empathy, and understanding, instead of
textbook denial and diversion. Maybe this
is our great cause, or challenge to overcome.
Maybe the class of 95 will make its
mark after all.
As I left I had a passing thought and
asked her how she had coped throughout
the years. “Music” was the simple answer.
“I had a song that anchored me and it made
me feel sane, for a moment.”
She never said which one.
And I never told her mine.
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