Suicide hits taigu

Last week a boy threw himself off the top of Building Number 4 at 10:40pm.

They brought him to the hospital but he was already dead.

We found out the next day, when Gerald told us a student of his asked for permission to miss class, because he was going to see a roommate in the hospital. Gerald was confused, because none of his students were missing.

Then, we heard that it was a first year English major. I was jolted. I had taught first years last semester, but they had been switched to Dave this semester. Dave was sure it was his other class that had had Nick the semester before. So we waited to hear. Dave prepared himself to talk with Nick's former class, but it turned out that it wasn’t that class either. I suppose we all put off thinking about it over the weekend until Dave had my former class on Monday.

Last night he told me. We were in the middle of German party—a lighthearted gathering of students and foreign teachers that happens every Monday at our only German teacher’s house. Dave motioned to me in the middle of the party. I had seen Bryce, another first year in that class, come in, but had just casually said hello to him without really looking at his face. Suddenly, looking at Dave, standing next to Bryce, I noticed how red Bryce’s eyes were. “That student who jumped was Leo,” Dave said solemnly to me. I held onto the couch next to me as the names of my former students rushed through my head. I assumed it had been the student who I had criticized for copying in his journal and who I had given the lowest grade to, but no, that was Mark, not Leo. Leo...Leo had been the best student in that class, the one who always participated and always knew the answers to everything. “Jesus.” Was all I managed to say. Dave nodded, “I didn’t see that coming at all.” He replied. I could only agree with a silent nod.

I moved closer to Dave and Bryce. Bryce had never been a star student, but he had always had a good attitude and was eager to participate, usually in ways that made the rest of the class burst into laughter. He was one of those students that could always get a joke in, even when he was unsure of the English he was using. It was unnerving to see him looking so hopeless and sad. Bryce was trying to explain to Dave with mixed Chinese and English (and the help of another English major whose English was a little better) what he knew.

They thought it was family pressure. His family was very poor. “He was from Taiyuan,” Bryce began in Chinese with his reddened eyes glistening with tears he wouldn’t let fall, and choked up a little, “His father sold fruit.” He tried again in English. “They were poor.” English seemed to provide a reason for him to concentrate on something besides whatever was eating him inside and although his English wasn’t very good, his voice was calmer. A combination of his English and the female student’s translation of his Chinese words brought the story together: Leo’s family couldn’t afford the tuition. They had to borrow money and take out loans. He had a lot of pressure. He was always studying and working hard. Dave asked if they were roommates. Bryce explained that Leo had been roomed with some others in another class. “We didn’t know what he was thinking. We don’t really know what happened.”

Dave and I both told Bryce that if he needed to talk, or if any of the other students wanted to talk about it, we were there for them. I told Bryce in Chinese I had a had a good friend from High School who had killed himself at college, and, as my Chinese broke up into incomplete sentences, tried to explain, generally, that I understood it was really hard to loose someone and that I wanted to be there for them all. He replied that he recently had lost an elementary school friend the same way. This friend had been married for just 49 days before he took his own life. Two friends in a month. I couldn’t believe it. All I could do was put my hand on his shoulder and try to make some sort of facial expression that showed I was sorry. The appropriate response was beyond what I knew how to say in Chinese or English.

The female student who was helping Bryce finally said she couldn’t deal with this topic any more. Her stomach was hurting. So we tried to turn the subject to something more light-hearted. I don’t remember exactly what we were talking about, I just remember trying to laugh and smile for Bryce’s sake. He seemed eager to change topics. But while they were talking all I could think of was Leo. His friendly round face and bright eyes, his funny voice that always had the right English word ready, how he was the only student who understood everything I was saying, how he had dedicated his journal to me, his “favorite foreign English teacher” (I was his first foreign English teacher).

Suddenly the anonymous student-who-had-jumped-off-building-4 had a face. A face I cared about. My stomach destroyed itself as visions of the loneliness and desperation Leo must have felt before jumping rushed through me, and I tried not to look horrified as an image of his broken body being found on the ground ran unwittingly through my head.

I had gotten really attached to that class because I was their first foreign teacher and they were all so enthusiastic and sweet. I had them write in journals too, and their honesty about their troubles and thoughts made them seem more like younger siblings than students. Bryce finally went to sit with some Chinese friends on the couch and I was left standing with Dave and some students who weren’t ours. My face must have been easy to read, because Dave seemed concerned. He seemed to try to justify that I could take it harder: “You had them a whole semester; you knew them longer than I did.” And then a pause, “Are you going to be okay?” I couldn’t deal with such an honest question directed at me. “Eventually.” I replied. But as he put an arm around me, I couldn’t hold it in, and I ran into the bathroom.

Daniel followed me in, and held me while I cried for a while. I couldn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. He knew how hard I had taken the suicide of my high school boyfriend in my senior year of Oberlin. I had no idea how I would react to another suicide. When I had found out about that High school friend’s death, the news was also a week late and I had also been at a party. But it seemed that initially, now ,as it was then, it was all the same visceral upset—uncontrollable tears and uncontrollable thoughts.

I, of course, ended up leaving the party early. And as I moved from the darkness of Dave’s room into the bright and active living room, I tried to walk quickly, briefly tapping my friend Lynn on the head as I left, telling her I was going now. She responded that she would go with me, and as I passed many concerned faces watching me, I hoped they wouldn’t see how swollen my eyes were.

Outside she asked, “Are you okay?”

Again I couldn’t keep it in, “No.” I replied, and burst into sobs.

“He was my student.” I told her, as though that could explain everything. She looked at me, concerned.

“He was the best student in that class.” But that didn’t seem to explain things for either of us either. I told her that he had a lot of pressure from home, that his parents were really poor and had to borrow money.

“But that isn’t a reason either,” she replied. “He should be able to pay back his loans much later.”

I nodded. “I guess we don’t really know why.” I answered.

“Just too much pressure.”

I nodded. This was the simple answer I have heard given for almost all the suicides I’ve heard about in China. I think I still don't really know what it means.