As I restlessly scribbled some notes in one of my articles for class, I heard my phone's familiar ding indicating an iMessage. The screen lit up showing a text from my high school friend who I hadn't spoken to in a while. The text read: "Did you hear about what happened downtown?" As I read those words, I knew I'd be the recipient of less-than-ideal news. It wasn't typical of that friend to text me that late at night, considering that home is always three hours ahead of L.A time. I understood that what I was about to learn would require my undivided attention.
As our conversation progressed, I learned that a girl, aged fifteen, fell to her death from a five-story building in the Lower Manhattan neighborhood of Tribeca. This news certainly caught me off guard. One of our youth had, once again, been robbed of a long life.
My first thought was this: Death isn't kind. It snatches where and when it can. It takes people who are far too young. And people that are far too good. It doesn't pretend to care, it doesn't pretend to distinguish. It just takes.
Imogen Roche was her name. As I read the syllables of her name aloud in a mere whisper, I was taken back in time about ten years. Suddenly, I was up in my cousin's treehouse in upstate New York, waiting motionless for him to find me in our game of hide and go seek, I dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on my back. I had fallen asleep way too close to the edge. Upon impact, my consciousness had returned in a millisecond for me to experience every wisp of air being knocked from my lungs instantaneously. I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything. That's how I felt in that instant: trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as Imogen's name bounced around inside my skull. I fell from a tree, she fell from a building. Two parallels, one in which I came out alive and one in which she didn't. Despite the details of the official reports, I can't fathom the pain she must've felt in that sliver of time, the suffering she must've experienced between that moment and her end at Bellevue Hospital. I won't get into the specifics or logistics of how she passed. Talking about how it happened won't bring her back, so I won't do that here.
What struck me most about her passing is that I see so much of myself in who she was. She was a city kid, through and through. She had artistic inclinations as an actress and musician. Most importantly, she wanted to have an impact and to be of service to others. Imogen was considering a career as an attorney or counselor advocate for children in the legal system. Even in a city of eight million people, the news still managed to spread in a few hours like an unforgiving wildfire. Prior to any newspaper headlines, the story cut through us all like a knife would, except the wound was familiar. Just two months ago, Lesandro 'Junior' Guzman-Feliz, another fifteen year old, was brutally murdered in the Bronx.
The night she passed, Imogen had gone to what we call back home a "free." A free is synonymous with a house party; a typical teenage pastime. Naturally, this free took place in Tribeca: one of my favorite neighborhoods of lower Manhattan. How many times have I walked the streets of Tribeca and looked in the eyes of strangers passing by me? How many times have I gone to frees in Tribeca and then I'd have to take the subway back home to Queens at 3 a.m? I look back at these memories fondly, yet I can't help but wonder how many times Imogen had strolled through Tribeca's cobblestoned pavements. She ventured into this night as she would any other night: without a doubt in her mind that she'd wake up the next morning. When I go home, because of Imogen, I'll see Tribeca through a different set of eyes.
When I began writing this, I didn't know which direction to go in. I now see that her death serves as a reminder, a reminder that needs to be shared. I won't always know for sure whether or not I will wake up in my Trojan Hall dorm after a night out. Her unfortunate passing reminded me that we're all so vulnerable in the world we live in.
Everything is temporary. Nothing is guaranteed.
That being said, let's all be more grateful for what we have in our lives. Let's all be more attentive of one another. We take for granted the simple act of opening our eyes in the morning to a stream of sunlight coming through the glass windows and hearing the familiar sound of birds chirping their morning song. We take for granted all these 'little' details that make all the difference. I want to remind each and every person reading this to go about your life with intention and thoughtfulness. Don't allow yourself to be idle and distracted; instead, be focused and determined. Stop fearing judgment: laugh hard, love hard, live hard. Be compassionate, be kind. None of us knows when the end will be, Imogen didn't.
To Imogen, I say this: I'm heartbroken that you're gone. I'm sorry you were taken so soon. I'm sorry you won't be able to know what it feels like to get into college, graduate high school, fall in love and then get your heart broken. I'm sorry you won't know what it feels like to fulfill your potential. I'm sorry your last moments were filled with fear and pain. But I can say this: I hope that you lived your best life in those fifteen years. I hope you loved hard and laughed hard. I hope you're somewhat satisfied with the mark you left on this world, on your dad especially. He knows you're watching over him. There are no words to alleviate the pain of those who knew and loved you. There are no words that can bring you back. All I can say is people will fondly remember you for you. None of us will put you on a pedestal and pretend that you were a perfect girl with a perfect life because that couldn't be farther from the truth. You were... you. And that was more than enough. I pray that you're someplace better. Rest in Peace, Imogen Roche.
