Holding Space in Oakland
I’m struggling to understand how to feel after the Ghost Ship fire. Thirty-six people — just like me; just like those I love — died panicked and in pain. How does anyone process that hard truth? I felt guilty for showing deep sadness when I wasn’t personally tied to those who died and I wasn’t sure how to act, what to say or how to be. I can’t imagine what victims’ friends and families are going through. The thought is agonizing.
What I came to realize is I didn’t need to understand their pain to be supportive. And it was okay to feel pain, too.
Two days after the fire I walked up a curb parallel to International Boulevard. A small group peered over tightly stretched caution tape. It was hard to tell if they were neighbors or friends of lost loved ones. The shock — that look of disbelief — is universal.
Media vans filled the already blocked off streets around the warehouse. Firefighters were removing bodies but had only reached a quarter of the building at that point. Small memorials popped up on each corner — flowers weaved through fences and candles and notes lined the sidewalk.
A friend and I went to the scene to drop off food and water. The atmosphere was heavy. And I realized I owed it to myself, to my community and to the people who died, that I needed to stay, no matter how uncomfortable I felt. I needed to talk to strangers, even though I didn’t have the right words to offer.
I met a woman that day. She stood stoically, holding two plastic cups of water and resting her arms across her chest. She watched her boyfriend sprint down the street. He was drunk and getting drunker. I watched as he angrily ripped off part of his jacket.
On any other day I’d be cautious, maybe nervous in his presence. But I stood by her and let her talk. “He shouldn’t be drinking,” she kept saying, “but those were all his friends in there.”
The man was a bouncer at the Ghost Ship. He was supposed to work Friday night but called in sick. And just like that, he lost everybody.
He ran up the street, anxiously clenching his fists. I saw a man, desperate for some relief — searching for an outlet. What the fuck was anyone supposed to say to him?
The same afternoon I met Sgt. Ray Kelly. He’d spent the last 36 hours retrieving bodies and answering questions. He snuck under the caution tape and starred at the fence. He looked stiff and numb and eager to say something to make him feel human again. Tears began to swell just before he started talking to my friend and I. Kelly worked Ground Zero on 9/11. He said the last two days he’s experienced “the same feeling inside.”
Again, what was I supposed to say to him?
And then I realized, maybe we aren’t supposed to say anything at all. We’re just supposed to show up and hold space for each other.
I spent the rest of the night at Eli’s Mile High Club. I walked in the back with my friend and we chatted about the day and how we felt. And soon, one-by-one, different people began to sit at the table. Nobody seemed to know what to say to each other or to themselves. The guy next to me said he hadn’t felt “this numb” in as long as he could remember. But slowly, they started sharing stories about their friends who perished — some of whom they were supposed to meet at the party.
By the end of the night there was laughter. People needed to be together. I left the bar at about midnight with a sense of gratitude. A group of strangers just lost their friends, their family, but they shared bits and pieces of their life with me.
The richest life lessons come from the most unexpected places. That night I learned that if we’re open to it, other people’s pain can touch upon our own and we can all start healing.
I’m incredibly sorry to each and every person suffering right now. To the beautiful, artistic men, women and children who died that night. And to the art/music community that is raising money, collecting donations and doing what they do best — playing music and connecting us all. I love you. And we’ll get through this together.
❤ Oakland ❤
