(The following is an excerpt from my memoir, Requiem for My Rave. I’ve been asking myself lately what lessons I can share from this time in my life with audiences today.)
It was March 2000. Robin, my girlfriend at the time and I were in the middle of making dinner. It was a night no different than any other. Robin was cutting some tomatoes, and I was working the stove with tilapia. It sizzled in the frying pan.
Suddenly there came a loud knock at our apartment door. We usually ignore the door if we’re not expecting guests, and we can’t be bothered with solicitors and religious pushers, but Robin was expecting a neighbor’s visit and went to answer the door. She then turned to me.
“Uh, Chris, it’s for you,” she said in such a way I knew this couldn’t be good.
Since we lived in such a small apartment, a one-bedroom in Toronto’s Yonge & Eglinton area (often referred to as “Yonge and Eligible” because of the high concentration of young professionals in the area), I was only a few feet from the door. I had no choice but to follow and see who was waiting for me out there.
I approached the door nervously and finally took the dreaded turn around the door to face four Toronto police officers, fully dressed in their street uniforms, including bulletproof vests and, of course, their sidearms. A particularly surly looking senior cop spoke to me.
“Remember me?” he snarled.
I did, actually, but in my fear, I froze, staring at him. What in the hell was he doing here? I shrugged my shoulders, feigning that I had no memory of meeting this cop before.
“From the rave in the parking garage. The one where the kid died.”
Now, of course I remembered meeting this cop there, Detective Garrison of 12 Division police in Toronto. Out of fear, I still stood there, saying nothing. Were they here to arrest me? I didn’t know, but whatever business they had with me, this was not going to end well.
“We have a summons for you to appear at the inquest into the death of Allen Ho.”
Boom. And there it was. They served me with the papers and left without saying anything more. We closed the door, and Robin immediately started berating herself for answering.
“If you go to prison, I’ll never forgive myself!” she cried, but it wasn’t her doing.
Prison, police at the door, someone is dead. This is not how it’s supposed to be.
Chris’ commentary for today: I started work on writing my memoir in the year 2005, 5 years after this moment. I completed my first draft in 2009. I then hit “save”, put it away, and 10 years passed. It was eventually released in the year 2019. It turned out I needed 20 years distance to properly tell my story. To heal enough to be able to tell it in the way it needed to be told.
During all those years I felt like a failure for being unable to complete my book. It turned out the timing just wasn’t right. I ran away from telling my story for a long time. However, looking back now, the book was better because I gave it that time. The person I was when I completed it was wiser and could reflect better. I’m now very proud of the book, the story I told (of the life that I lived), and the history that is kept alive because I did.
If I’m honest, I still run away from that past in different ways. Despite my ongoing reintegration of that old self into who I am today, there is still much that could be done. It’s probably why I’ve been content with maxing out my email list at 100 readers, because there is still a part of me avoiding a spotlight.
I’m going to do a series of “Lessons from the Underground” about some of the lessons I learned from that time in my life as a best-selling DJ and underground rave promoter and how that might serve others today. It’s a unique history that only I have access to.
And that’s my invitation to you. What unique lessons do you have from your past that you can share with others today? Imagine what a gift that would be for the world. And maybe you need more distance, as I did, before you’re ready. And if so, that’s OK.
