Jericho Brown's "Hebrews 13"
Poems as Teachers, Episode 05
Dear friends,
There’s a concept in conflict (and psychology, and literature, and life … ) named triangulation. Person A and person B don’t get on; however, after sustained discord between them, person C comes into the picture. So then what happens if A and B find common ground in their mutual dislike of new person C? Their previous enmities are diminished — either entirely or pragmatically — so they can join in their dislike.
It happens in workplaces, friendship groups, families, neighbourhoods, and schools all over the world. Surprisingly deep connections can be established between previous antagonists when they discover the unifying force of a shared dislike.
Of course it’s complicated; you know that. You’ve probably been person A or B in this story. And you’ve probably been person C, too.
What’s interesting about the poem in today’s episode — “Hebrews 13,” by the ever-brilliant Jericho Brown — is that triangulation occurs between two men (a lover and a brother) not on the basis of shared contempt for a third party but of shared care. Two people who, it seems, would not easily share space with each other find themselves sharing space with each other because someone they both love is in need.
Triangulation based on love and concern. The need of the speaker in Jericho Brown’s short punch of a poem may make the speaker feel weak or isolated. But it’s also a currency of connection.
Has this happened to you? Have you found yourself coming together with a person with whom you’ve previously had conflict? What caused it? A triangulation based on a shared dislike? Or some new cause of common concern?
This prompt brings up a memory in a new light. My life partner died in 2013. She had been dealing with Cancer for six years. As she grew weaker, dying, I realized, as her full-time ''care-giver" that we had yet to talk about dying and death. In her own way, she was so determined to live, making plans for the next phase of her life, as soon as she was stronger, that I could only support her in this planning. We never did talk about dying and death. So, maybe what I am describing is not a true triangulation. My partner was in a rehab, originally to regain strength and receive physical therapy. However, as each day passed, it became clear to me that she was, in fact, dying. I spoke to a nurse who often visited my partner, bringing her freshly baked treats. The nurse suggested that if she didn't wish to talk about dying and death, be with her as she wished to be. So, I did things like go on line and order new clothes for when she was ready to take on whatever was her next life plan. I struggled with the difference between what I saw and felt, and my beloved's wishes. Yet, I kept supporting her. A few days before her final week on this Earth, a dear friend visited her and gently, clearly said, "I think you are dying. Would you consider going home, with hospice care?" Our friend told me later that my beloved had tears in her eyes, recognizing that, yes, she was dying. On my own I had been reaching out to the oncologist, who hadn't visited for weeks. I told him that I thought she was dying, and would he be able to visit? His response was to suggest we travel by health-care van to visit his office. We did, and this led to an immediate response from the oncologist: " let's get her upstairs to the oncology floor of the hospital." She was by now too fragile to travel home. This was her final week. She died surrounded by friends, beautiful harp music, angelic singing, and a few of us toning. She died with a smile on her face. We had this final week prepared to bring her body home for a 3-day vigil. A living room filled with flowers, and time for friends and family to visit and say goodbye. Remember that dress I ordered online? She wore this for the vigil, and eventual journey to be cremated.
I sometimes find myself wishing I had brought up talking about dying and death earlier. That we could have shared this conversation together. However, there was a quiet, almost secret wisdom in that nurse's suggestion, "care for her as she wishes to live, bring her delicious treats, and be with her on her path." The three day vigil: all day visits from friends and family. In the evening, alone with her, I would read to her, beloved children's stories, sing, play the piano, read poems, and cry. We are still together, in a special, different way.
It was great getting to chat with you a bit after your lecture on Tuesday, Pádraig.
Your question brings to mind an experience I had recently. After I moved to Pittsburgh in 2020, I would often pass one of my neighbors while walking: a gruff man with big glasses and a bigger scowl. I found him to be intimidating and even somewhat threatening at times. He always seemed angry and would often raise his fist and mutter or shout at folks (myself included). I wondered (but had no real idea) if any of his attitude or behavior toward me was homophobic in nature. Regardless, for years whenever I saw him I'd steer clear, just to be safe.
This past November I attended a presentation about suicide prevention put on in my neighborhood by a local social worker. I've experienced suicidality and suicidal ideation, so it's something I care quite a lot about personally, professionally, artistically. The presentation was in the evening and I was exhausted from work, so I almost didn't go, but I did. And to my initial discomfort I found that the only other attendee aside from myself was the man with the big glasses.
Over the course of the presentation, which included a fair amount of interaction and Q&A, I listened closely -- and in a kind of awe -- as this man shared that he was attending this presentation because he'd had friends and family members try to kill themselves before, and he wanted to learn how he could help them.
And my awe was less at this man or what he said, and more at my own dawning warmth and sense of connection to him. All the fear I'd felt toward him dissolved, and I felt this shame at all the energy I'd expended avoiding him on the sidewalk, but even my shame started to dissolve in the face of my emerging appreciation of his vulnerability and his humanity.
After the presentation I wiped the tears from my eyes and introduced myself to him. I learned his name. I shook his hand. And now whenever I see him, no matter how gruff or angry he looks (and he does!), I always wave and greet him by name.
I think what I treasure about this experience isn't just that it was healing, but that the salve for this extreme tension I felt was our shared interest in facing something as dark and difficult as suicide head-on. Suicide, for me, is a profound symbol of despair and disconnection. The fact that it led to this bridge between this man and myself -- a kind of connection, a kind of hope -- serves as such a potent reminder to me. To try to be kind. To try to see humanity even when it might not feel safe. To leave some room for something like grace.