THEY’RE THE PEOPLE THAT YOU MEET

Do you remember that song from Sesame Street about the people that you meet? It featured a person interacting with puppets representing different people you might encounter in your neighborhood. It had a catchy tune. (Sorry if you can’t stop singing it now). I think about that song as I write this essay because, in my world, I meet many people drawn to what I say on stage, the stories I bring to life. Often, something I disclose illuminates a piece of their own narrative. This essay is about one of those people.

I spoke at a New Jersey school for children with emotional disabilities. The staff, except for the principal, were resistant and detached.

During my presentation, I referenced “Jumpers”, an essay from The New Yorker about the Golden Gate Bridge’s allure for those who are suicidal, and the difficulty the public had to install a safety net to prevent the tragedy. It’s the top suicide site in the U.S. and only second worldwide. Upon examination of those who jumped to their peril, many of them felt completely alone and unseen. I highlighted this very theme to the staff. Many of their students share these feelings of invisibility as well. Beyond lessons in math, English, and history, true education lies in connecting with students’ unique stories and experiences, helping them feel less abandoned.

Since 1937, more than 2,000 people have committed suicide from the Golden Gate Bridge.

Throughout my talk, the principal was engaged, providing comfort with her smiles and reactions. She refused to let her staff’s detachment affect her transparency. She laughed at the humor and quietly wept at the emotional segments. She was the reason I survived her staff’s aloofness.

Since 1937, there have been approximately 40 survivors who have jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge.

At the end of my presentation, only one audience member approached me—the principal. She hugged me, a gesture filled with a deeper narrative than mere words. Turning her back to her staff, she whispered, “Michael, please don’t walk away. I don’t want my staff to see me cry. I don’t want them to know that I am not as strong as they believe, but I need to tell you that your show deeply affected me. I have a secret that I have never shared with anyone. It is the reason I am crying now, but it is also the reason why I refuse to give up on these children at my school. I am one of the survivors who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. I am one of them.”

She wept, and we continued to speak for another 20 minutes. I was worried about her, but I was moved by her transparency. Here was a woman who spent years wearing an ironclad mask of tenacity that hid the most brittle of pain; a woman who was an impenetrable leader in a demanding school district who knew all too well the sadness behind her students’ eyes.

I wanted to alleviate her pain, helping her find relief from her shackled grief. I wanted her to understand that she was meant to survive that day, both then and now. She was here for more than just survival; she was here to live fully. And like the Sesame Street song, she is the person who you meet, as you’re walking down the street each day; an individual who helps the unseen be seen. Sometimes, that’s what it’s all about.

Dr. Jerome Motto, who has been part of two failed suicide barrier coalitions, is now retired and living in San Mateo. Motto had a patient who committed suicide from the Golden Gate in 1963, but the jump that affected him most occurred in the seventies. “I went to this guy’s apartment afterward with the assistant medical examiner,” he told me. “The guy was in his thirties, lived alone, pretty bare apartment. He’d written a note and left it on his bureau. It said, ‘I’m going to walk to the bridge. If one person smiles at me on the way, I will not jump.’”