Losing people, losing history

I saw this in the news today:

An activist group says the death toll in the three-year Syria's conflict has exceeded 150,000.

Think about that: one hundred and fifty thousand people. Gone. When I read those words this morning, it brought me back to the AIDS deaths of the 1980s. When you lose an enormous number of people, it's not only the individuals that are lost. You also lose the flavor and history and reality of an era. And of course, and not least, you lose all the shared experiences. No more the joy of getting together with people who played pivotal roles in your life. All gone.

NYC wasn't the same after gay men began to die in large numbers. That was an awful time. So many talented, productive young people lost their lives, seemingly for no reason. It seemed the landscape itself was being altered on a daily basis. "Did you hear who died?!" It felt like an attack, especially in light of the daily casualty counts. It bred fear in us, which was followed by anger. Fury, really.

A pervasive sense of loss spread throughout NY's gay community. And there was also the matter of those missing talents. Stunning young artists, actors, dancers, painters and writers dropped from the ranks of the living. As Robyn Hitchcock said about the passing of Nick Drake: "And when you're gone, you take the whole world with you."

New York was never the same after these mass deaths. And Syria will not be the same country after the current atrocities end. You can't lose that many people and simply restart your country at a later date, as if it had been on hiatus. It's not just people but history, memory and sensibility that is being obliterated. 

It makes you wonder what kind of a world this is. And then you remember that it's all chance, all luck. It's about where you were and what you were doing on a particular day. There's no hiding from it. Death is the grim reaper, paring the world around us on a daily basis. Nothing is assured, nothing is promised -- not really. Life is what it is.

But AIDS was an unknown virus. There is no effective way to elude something you know nothing about. But that's not the case in Syria (and in so many other places). People's greed and lust for power should not be allowed to decimate an entire population.

But they are, Blanche, they are. Again and again and again. 

My greatest stroke of luck

I am so glad I wasn't born to a rich family. I'm thankful that I went out into the world on my own -- to succeed or fail without help from anyone. Parachutes don't build character; real life experiences do.

The bubble that surrounds every extremely well-off person frightens me to death. It "protects" them from reality, from people, from learning about life. They may thank their lucky stars for the hand that fate dealt them, but I thank mine.

It's good to try something, to go out on that high-wire and see if you can make it to the other side. It's rewarding to test your strengths and try to avoid the pitfalls of your weaknesses. It's good to learn from failure and gain confidence from success.

To me, this seems more meaningful than coasting through life on an eternal shopping trip. Bringing all that loot home and playing with it might while away a few hours. But it leaves nothing in its wake but emptiness. I don't want that sort of a life. It's too hollow. I want sustenance, not reassurance.

I lived. I did what I wanted to do and was lucky enough to experience success on several fronts. And as a direct result of living my life this way, I ended up being a very satisfied human being. Like anyone, I have regrets -- but they're not big ones. Mostly what I have is happiness, my own kind of happiness, a strain I basically invented while living my life. And it rewards me every day.

I don't regret my humble beginnings; I treasure them. And I feel sorry for rich people who never had the opportunities I had -- because they were "protected" by their money. It's like a closet they never stepped out of. An empty life like that makes me shudder.

I really lucked out. I hope you did, too.