As many of us already know, a member of The Gator Nation, Michael Edmonds Jr., took his life Sunday. I write not only out of my grief at having lost a friend, but also out of grief at my own actions. I find myself in a position that is my personal nightmare: Michael Edmonds Jr. asked me for help Saturday, and I did not come through for him the way I could have. I write to share his words and my regrets in the hope that these experiences can inspire others to a steadfast commitment to respond to members of our community who express a need for connection, no matter how busy life gets.
Michael and I often met up when he was feeling down, but, of course, I never imagined it would come to this. On the day of his death, I was on my way back to Gainesville from Cedar Key when I received his message: “I need your help sometime soon.”
We sent a few messages back and forth, and made plans to meet Thursday night (when my life as a grad student, teacher and researcher had calmed down). He assured me he’d be at work Sunday afternoon, and I promised to call him when I got back into town at about 4 p.m. I didn’t get back at 4 p.m. When I did get home, my workload was such that I flat-out forgot to call. Links about “someone” who had jumped off the stadium flickered on my Facebook newsfeed a few times. I didn’t give them a second glance. Tragedies happen every day, and I never dreamed the person in question could have been Michael.
After a night of grading and lesson planning, I showed up to teach the next day, planning to call Mike in the afternoon. One of my students asked, “What do you think about this guy?” and held up a copy of the Alligator.
“What guy?” I asked
“Michael Edmonds Jr.,” he read aloud.
My legs went to jelly. I started to shake. My gut soured. I could have called him. Stopped by. Anything.
I immediately started to make excuses in my mind: “I didn’t think it was that serious.”
“He didn’t tell me he was suicidal.”
“I didn’t know it was urgent. I was going to make time later.”
This lapse in judgment is even more tragic when I think back to my Sunday. I woke up to a stressful email from one my bosses, obsessed over my work for a few hours, took an hour off to go to church and then meant to head back home. The message at church was “Hugs, Kisses and Prayers,” and that we all need to connect and feel loved in an increasingly difficult world, especially in times of struggle. Michael reached out to connect. I took time to text him back and shoot up a quick prayer. And that’s it.
Even after hearing this message and letting it move me to tears while in the service, I didn’t call back. My work, my grading — MY life — kept me from feeling like I had the time to sit down and hear Michael, listen to him and comfort him.
I cleared a space in my personal life for my work rather than clearing a space in my work life for myself and my loved ones. We must choose to make time to take care of each other, and defend those choices to those around us. This will be one of my life’s greatest regrets; it contradicts the commitment to human connection and love that drives my work as an anthropologist and as a teacher at this university.
I cannot apologize to Michael. I cannot do anything to make this better. I will dedicate myself to the service of our community in his honor, but I’ll never again get to enjoy his laugh or hear his ideas.
The last thing Michael said to me when I apologized for being out of town was, “It’s not your fault.” This last text is the greatest gift he could have given me as a friend. I do not think what happened to Michael was my fault, but I do think it’s my fault for not living my belief in connection and for taking “a day off” from my values rather than from work. Those of us who, like Michael and like myself, have felt so much pain that this life seems impossible know never to underestimate the power of an affectionate presence in times of grief or fear.
Michael Edmonds Jr. isn’t just some guy who took his life — a meme, a sound-clip on the news, a “did you hear?” story. He should be remembered for many other things: an advocate for those suffering through mental illness and physical pain, a passionate cyclist, a comedian, a budding journalist, a humble and dependable friend and an active and loving member of his family.
I want to argue here that we remember him also as a reminder of the importance of human connection, affection and affirmation.
May his memory convince us all to be there when someone tells us he or she needs our help.
Jamie Lee Marks is a graduate student in anthropology at UF.
