Survival After Tragedy
Donation protected
I met Matthew when I was twenty years old and a junior at Dartmouth College, naive, wide-eyed, uncertain about my future but passionate about my art. He was a local who, at the time, worked in the mailroom at the college, identifiable across campus by his spiky mohawk and affability. In him, I discovered a kindred spirit who voraciously consumed movies, books, fine art, philosophy, and every creative medium in between. He introduced me to my favorite authors, including Manuel Puig and the writing and films of Miranda July. He regaled me with stories of meeting John Waters and Peaches in 1990s Portland, Oregon, where he had found both community and crushing despair as one of many homeless gay youth in the city.
I am now almost 25 and because of the emotional and intellectual support of guardian angels like Matthew, I have found success in my chosen field of film.
My life circumstances echoed and intertwined his own: I am also from Oregon, grew up with little money, consumed culture when I was starved for other comforts, and of course, ended up in the odd little burg of Hanover, New Hampshire, home to an Ivy League and a prestigious hospital, but nestled in one of the most economically disparate regions of New England. Unlike Matthew, who had followed his partner of ten years to the Northeast, dependent on that partner’s significantly higher income from working in the medical field, I arrived a fresh-eyed youth on a full scholarship, about to begin college. Unlike Matthew, as a queer person, I had not faced great adversity in coming out, and I had not subsequently depended on peers who struggled with and enabled addiction to serious drugs.
But artists connect on a soul level. We see each other with our inner eyes, and while inequality and difficult experience certainly drives deeply personal creations, artist-to-artist is its own animal that seemingly transcends the systemic demons that keep so much of humanity apart: designated to forever operate within the confines of the class, sexuality, gender, mental and physical ability that has been bestowed upon you.
One year after our friendship began, Matthew’s partner died of an overdose of tainted heroin; heroin they had done together one night, a rare event in this latest chapter of Matthew’s life, but one whose roots were seeded in all that came before: a practiced and necessary quelling of deep pain with something that could ease it, even momentarily.
He awoke that morning beside his partner’s lifeless body.
In rapid succession, following a tragedy of such boundless scope: Matthew lost his job, as well as his partner’s income (as they were not married and his partner’s family did not condone the relationship, he had no access to the funds that go to one’s significant other in an event like this). His partner’s family refused to allow him at the funeral, and would not tell him where his partner would be buried. His sister, across the country, suffered a stroke. And Matthew, without funds, could not go to be with her.
Just a few weeks after I landed in Poland to begin filming my first feature-length thesis documentary, I received word that Matthew was in the hospital after a suicide attempt. Once the police felt he was no longer at risk of trying again, they informed him that they would be pressing drug charges.
He was sentenced to a year in jail. They asked that he report to booking on Valentine’s Day. I sat with him the night before and we cried and ate deep fried pickles and he gave me all of his plants and his most beloved novels and cookbooks for safe keeping.
He was released after I had graduated. So rapidly our lives had diverged; his pain and suffering was unfathomable to me, yet I offered what support I could as I rode a post-grad-artist wave that felt comically uncertain in comparison to the nuclear chaos that had forced him to live minute-to-minute. He was barely scraping by financially and the emotional and physical impact of never having been offered (or able to afford) resources to cope with his immense grief.
Still. I remained in awe of his resilience, dark humor, joie de vivre. This was not a skeleton of the man I once knew: he was still whole, still himself, still ready to fight. When his petition to move back to the West coast to be with family and complete his probation in their care was approved, I cried tears of joy.
He got a job with his brother-in-law’s company, began talking to me about a future that felt more attainable again. He was looking healthier, eating better; he had been clean for over a year.
His probation did not just forbid illegal drugs. Though he was a non-violent offender who had proven himself to be drug-free since he was charged, he was also forbidden from drinking alcohol. And near the anniversary of his partner’s death, he began to drink and his probation officer found out.
He was ordered to return to New Hampshire, charged with violating his probation - for drinking alcohol to treat a trauma that could not be treated in the legal and financial aftermath of the initial tragedy.
One more year. One more fucking year. One more year in jail for being poor, gay, addicted, desperate to survive. One more year to put true rehabilitation on hold. One more year without books and cooking and deep fried pickles and community and love and healing.
And now here we are.
Yesterday, my dearest friend - a Survivor with a capital “S” - was released into the “free world” yet again.
He cannot leave New Hampshire this time. He is staying at a homeless shelter, with no money to his name, a broken computer screen, no clothes, no certainty of his next meal, no means of transportation, no job and no housing. See, these things all go together. He needs a working computer so he can find a job and make a resume. He needs money so he can eat, shower, shave, get clothes to wear to an interview if one comes his way. He needs a phone so he can take the call that tells him he got the job. He needs a job and income so he can sign a lease and live in a real apartment. He needs a way to get to that job every day: a bike, a bus pass, gas money to pay a fellow commuter.
Every human deserves to have their basic needs met. And there are so many in need. I write this story not because the details even matter: they shouldn’t. But I write it anyway because capitalism even commodifies empathy, and I hope I can tap into yours, reader, by telling this story.
Our incarceration system is fucked. We do not meet the needs of people with addiction. We do not meet the needs of people with trauma. We do not care for our homeless youth, especially the queer and gender non-conforming. We do not offer true rehabilitation for those convicted of crimes: yes, all crimes. Even the violent ones.
I write this plea because I can’t help everyone, and try as I might, dismantling these systemic inequalities and issues is a long process. I write this plea because this is just one person that I might know how to help, who has been affected by so much of what my friends, lovers, fellow artists, and most of my fellow humans, proclaim to fight against.
Make a difference any way that you can, because this is what it means to be a human being. Share this, donate what you are able, use this as a platform to dig your heels into those bigger behemoths that wish to dampen our humanity.
In love, light, and hope,
Rena
IMMEDIATE NEEDS (in order of prioritization):
Money for food, toiletries, medicine, basics: at least $150/month
First month’s rent + deposit for a studio apartment or room in a shared house: at least $1500
Money for clothing, haircut, shoes (particularly for interviewing for jobs): at least $100
Money to keep a working cell phone: at least $20/month
Bike for transportation + helmet + pump: at least $150 for something used but durable
Screen replacement for laptop so it can function: at least $100, potentially much more
The lower end of what would help Matthew to survive and thrive in his current situation, for at least one month, during which he can hopefully secure a job: $2020
Of course, there are unexpected expenses that come along with moving, setting up a place to live, etc. A reach goal that would allow Matthew to survive and thrive and take on the unexpected would be around $4000.
Go Fund Me takes a percentage, and this is why our initial goal is a bit higher. Their total fees are 7.9% + $0.30 per donation.
Thus, we hope to raise $2500 so that the money that actually goes to Matthew will be the minimum of what he needs.
As this is an urgent situation, we hope to raise these funds within two weeks at most - by April 27.
I am now almost 25 and because of the emotional and intellectual support of guardian angels like Matthew, I have found success in my chosen field of film.
My life circumstances echoed and intertwined his own: I am also from Oregon, grew up with little money, consumed culture when I was starved for other comforts, and of course, ended up in the odd little burg of Hanover, New Hampshire, home to an Ivy League and a prestigious hospital, but nestled in one of the most economically disparate regions of New England. Unlike Matthew, who had followed his partner of ten years to the Northeast, dependent on that partner’s significantly higher income from working in the medical field, I arrived a fresh-eyed youth on a full scholarship, about to begin college. Unlike Matthew, as a queer person, I had not faced great adversity in coming out, and I had not subsequently depended on peers who struggled with and enabled addiction to serious drugs.
But artists connect on a soul level. We see each other with our inner eyes, and while inequality and difficult experience certainly drives deeply personal creations, artist-to-artist is its own animal that seemingly transcends the systemic demons that keep so much of humanity apart: designated to forever operate within the confines of the class, sexuality, gender, mental and physical ability that has been bestowed upon you.
One year after our friendship began, Matthew’s partner died of an overdose of tainted heroin; heroin they had done together one night, a rare event in this latest chapter of Matthew’s life, but one whose roots were seeded in all that came before: a practiced and necessary quelling of deep pain with something that could ease it, even momentarily.
He awoke that morning beside his partner’s lifeless body.
In rapid succession, following a tragedy of such boundless scope: Matthew lost his job, as well as his partner’s income (as they were not married and his partner’s family did not condone the relationship, he had no access to the funds that go to one’s significant other in an event like this). His partner’s family refused to allow him at the funeral, and would not tell him where his partner would be buried. His sister, across the country, suffered a stroke. And Matthew, without funds, could not go to be with her.
Just a few weeks after I landed in Poland to begin filming my first feature-length thesis documentary, I received word that Matthew was in the hospital after a suicide attempt. Once the police felt he was no longer at risk of trying again, they informed him that they would be pressing drug charges.
He was sentenced to a year in jail. They asked that he report to booking on Valentine’s Day. I sat with him the night before and we cried and ate deep fried pickles and he gave me all of his plants and his most beloved novels and cookbooks for safe keeping.
He was released after I had graduated. So rapidly our lives had diverged; his pain and suffering was unfathomable to me, yet I offered what support I could as I rode a post-grad-artist wave that felt comically uncertain in comparison to the nuclear chaos that had forced him to live minute-to-minute. He was barely scraping by financially and the emotional and physical impact of never having been offered (or able to afford) resources to cope with his immense grief.
Still. I remained in awe of his resilience, dark humor, joie de vivre. This was not a skeleton of the man I once knew: he was still whole, still himself, still ready to fight. When his petition to move back to the West coast to be with family and complete his probation in their care was approved, I cried tears of joy.
He got a job with his brother-in-law’s company, began talking to me about a future that felt more attainable again. He was looking healthier, eating better; he had been clean for over a year.
His probation did not just forbid illegal drugs. Though he was a non-violent offender who had proven himself to be drug-free since he was charged, he was also forbidden from drinking alcohol. And near the anniversary of his partner’s death, he began to drink and his probation officer found out.
He was ordered to return to New Hampshire, charged with violating his probation - for drinking alcohol to treat a trauma that could not be treated in the legal and financial aftermath of the initial tragedy.
One more year. One more fucking year. One more year in jail for being poor, gay, addicted, desperate to survive. One more year to put true rehabilitation on hold. One more year without books and cooking and deep fried pickles and community and love and healing.
And now here we are.
Yesterday, my dearest friend - a Survivor with a capital “S” - was released into the “free world” yet again.
He cannot leave New Hampshire this time. He is staying at a homeless shelter, with no money to his name, a broken computer screen, no clothes, no certainty of his next meal, no means of transportation, no job and no housing. See, these things all go together. He needs a working computer so he can find a job and make a resume. He needs money so he can eat, shower, shave, get clothes to wear to an interview if one comes his way. He needs a phone so he can take the call that tells him he got the job. He needs a job and income so he can sign a lease and live in a real apartment. He needs a way to get to that job every day: a bike, a bus pass, gas money to pay a fellow commuter.
Every human deserves to have their basic needs met. And there are so many in need. I write this story not because the details even matter: they shouldn’t. But I write it anyway because capitalism even commodifies empathy, and I hope I can tap into yours, reader, by telling this story.
Our incarceration system is fucked. We do not meet the needs of people with addiction. We do not meet the needs of people with trauma. We do not care for our homeless youth, especially the queer and gender non-conforming. We do not offer true rehabilitation for those convicted of crimes: yes, all crimes. Even the violent ones.
I write this plea because I can’t help everyone, and try as I might, dismantling these systemic inequalities and issues is a long process. I write this plea because this is just one person that I might know how to help, who has been affected by so much of what my friends, lovers, fellow artists, and most of my fellow humans, proclaim to fight against.
Make a difference any way that you can, because this is what it means to be a human being. Share this, donate what you are able, use this as a platform to dig your heels into those bigger behemoths that wish to dampen our humanity.
In love, light, and hope,
Rena
IMMEDIATE NEEDS (in order of prioritization):
Money for food, toiletries, medicine, basics: at least $150/month
First month’s rent + deposit for a studio apartment or room in a shared house: at least $1500
Money for clothing, haircut, shoes (particularly for interviewing for jobs): at least $100
Money to keep a working cell phone: at least $20/month
Bike for transportation + helmet + pump: at least $150 for something used but durable
Screen replacement for laptop so it can function: at least $100, potentially much more
The lower end of what would help Matthew to survive and thrive in his current situation, for at least one month, during which he can hopefully secure a job: $2020
Of course, there are unexpected expenses that come along with moving, setting up a place to live, etc. A reach goal that would allow Matthew to survive and thrive and take on the unexpected would be around $4000.
Go Fund Me takes a percentage, and this is why our initial goal is a bit higher. Their total fees are 7.9% + $0.30 per donation.
Thus, we hope to raise $2500 so that the money that actually goes to Matthew will be the minimum of what he needs.
As this is an urgent situation, we hope to raise these funds within two weeks at most - by April 27.
Organiser and beneficiary
Rena Sapon-White
Organiser
Hanover, NH
Matthew Nordquist
Beneficiary