Propinquity

I drive a school bus for Jefferson County. The massacre at Columbine High School hit close to home. I know several staff members, two going all the way back to our days as students at Lakewood High School. I transported Coach Sanders to numerous games. I worked with Cassie Bernall's grandparents at the South Area terminal for the better part of ten years. And Cassie rode my bus during her middle school years.

I learned that Cassie was one of the victims the day after. I barely reacted. I had not seen her in three years. Her grandparents, Shirley and Bernie, had retired and moved away about the time that Cassie had moved into the Columbine attendance area.

After awhile, I remembered Cassie's first day in 7th grade. She was just a name on my student roster. On her way out, she asked whether I knew her grandparents. Now the name Cassandra 'Bernall' meant something. "Your Shirley's granddaughter?" I said. "Yes," she smiled. When I returned to the terminal, Shirley asked, "Did my granddaughter ride your bus, this morning?"

"Yes, she introduced herself. Cute kid." Shirley smiled and I smiled, saying, "Poor Cassie. She'll never get away with anything on my bus." We both laughed.

On the Wednesday evening after the shooting, about 11:00, I started wondering whether Shirley and Bernie might wonder about her last moments - how someone so innocent could face up to such consummate evil. Tears welled up in my eyes and I forced the thought away. Eventually, I fell asleep.

On the Thursday morning, my mother showed me the picture of Cassie (at the bottom of page one of the Rocky Mountain News) reporting her last words. One of the lost boys (supposedly) asked her, "Do you believe in God?" And Cassie replied, "Yes, I believe in God." Then, he blasted her life away. I muttered, "Poor Cassie." Then, I walked through the garage where Bernie had been the lead mechanic for years. I put my hand over my face as I walked past the guys. I went into their restroom, stood in the mechanic's shower, and wept bitter tears, powerless to turn the clock back to Tuesday morning.

The police estimated that there were 8000-10,000 pieces of evidence at the high school. The building would remain a crime scene for at least a month, probably longer. So, the School Board had to decide what to do with the remainder of Columbine's school year. They chose to use Chatfield High School's building from 1:00-6:00. Naturally, the kids needed Transportation. The dispatcher, Louise, tacked an evening take-home onto my route.

On May 3rd, the kids returned to school. As I turned onto Chatfield Avenue, I couldn't help but notice a bunch of tents across Simms Street - the media lying in wait. Numerous police effected a healthy respect for the campus boundary, but I still felt a touch of paranoia. I made sure my turn into the parking lot was perfect.

Two kids boarded the bus around 5:30. The bell rang at 6:00 and my bus started to fill. I left at 6:10 with about 35 passengers. They were all new to me. Due to the media presence, the police would not allow me to turn left onto Simms. I noticed the kids looking across the street. As we got away from the school, conversation started to pick up. A girl right behind me, a Senior, told the kid next to her that she expected a phone call from a counselor that night. Apparently, she felt hugged out when a teacher tried to hug her earlier in the day. Later, the teacher said something she did not like. She stormed out of class.

It is my habit to frequently check the overhead mirror. About half the kids were talking quietly one to one. The other half stared out the windows. The engine is in the back of the bus, so I could hear some of what was being said. Several conversations seemed to drift and float around the horrible event. But, it was not the only subject.

I dropped off my last two kids. Turning onto Pierce Street, my eyes welled up. I fought back tears, source unknown, and returned to the terminal. I clocked out, telling Louise, "There are some hurting units on that bus."

The next day, the press disappeared. I mentioned that observation to the first two kids, Doug and Karen, as they got on. They were both glad. I went back to reading my book and listening to KVOD, our Classical station.

Something started Karen talking. Her mother died three years ago. Her father's present address and disposition are unknown. Her aunt brought her up from Texas to get her out of a 'bad school.' She had been attending Columbine for less than two weeks when the massacre occurred. She may have been one of the last three kids saved by Coach Sanders. She also mentioned that her sister teaches in Jonesboro, Arkansas - at the school where the previous school shooting took place. Stunned, I said, "How did the press miss you?" She told me that her sister called, instructing to keep her mouth shut - otherwise the press would make both of their lives miserable.

One day during the second week, my eyes were drawn to an especially pretty, unusually curvaceous brunette leaving for the school parking lot. She looked familiar. Then, I heard a voice call out, "Bae!" She turned and I remembered her. Like Cassie, she had attended Carmody Middle School before moving into the Columbine attendance area.

One of the ugliest incidents ever to occur on my bus involved Bae. She had bloomed early. Like most girls that age, she went through 2 or 3 'boyfriends' per month. One boy - a very big football player (235 lbs. of 14-year old baby fat and muscle) - did not take well to being put on waivers when she began 'going out' with a boy from her church. The big boy's half brother decided to get even.

The bus arrived at Carmody one morning. Bae, on the verge of tears, came up after every else got off. She carried some pennies with her. She said some kids had been throwing them at her during the ride - sending a message that they regarded her as a cheap whore.

I took the pennies and promised to deal with it. I inspected the bus and picked up all the pennies (26 in all), put them in a sandwich bag, and took them to a counselor. I explained all I knew and let the school investigate. At the end of the day, seven kids (five of them, girls) were kicked off for two weeks. But, none of the kids had the courage to finger the two half-brothers. They were not kicked off.

The mother of one of the kids who was kicked off could not believe that her son was involved. "He likes Bae," she said. I told her that I was disappointed with her son, but not terribly surprised. "Why," she asked. "He's securing his social credentials for next year. He thinks he'll need protection at Bear Creek," I replied. She still could not believe that her son could be so cruel for such a petty reason. "I'm sure he felt terrible. And I know that Bae will forgive him. But we can't let this pass without consequences."

Now, it's two years later. One day, as I walked back to the bus from Wendy's, I saw Bae again. She's still the prettiest girl in braces that you'd ever want to see. We walked back together. She told me about her day on April 20th. She ran from the commons to the library when the shooting began. Somehow, she made her way to the auditoreum and out of the school. She failed to mention that she witnessed the murder of Isaiah Shoals.

On Friday, May 21st, I had to switch buses with another driver. I wound up with his 32-foot mountain bus. My kids loved it! Two boys, in very high spirits, out-yelled everyone for the oldies station, KOOL 105. So, I tuned it there. The disc jockey played some great old songs. As we turned into the neighborhood, Carole King's "Natural Woman" came over the air. The boys sang in full voice, "You make me feel like a na-tu-ral woman!" The girls laughed themselves silly - all except one. One girl, right behind me, held back tears throughout this entire fun ride. I knew she would get off at the first stop, so I stood up to look straight at her and say, "have a nice weekend." She smiled. But, she's hurting.

The "Natural Woman" boys got off at the same stop. They high-fived me as they got off - all because I had let them sing. Kids are funny. They put me in a good mood, then give me the credit.

At the next stop, I asked a few girls for the name of the unhappy girl. Nobody knew her. They did not grow up with her. They thought she may have moved into the neighborhood just before the horrible event.

I dropped off the last kid at his house. As I was coming out of the neighborhood, I heard another driver announce (over the C.B. radio) that she had to return to the school for disciplinary reasons. I knew her bus was packed, as she was covering two routes. The dispatcher decided to send two buses to meet her back at the school. I volunteered.

When I returned to the school, I recognized one of my kids limping around in an ankle cast. I asked her name and why she had missed the bus. She - Dani - told me that she had been in a meeting. And now, she could not get anyone at home. I told her I would take her home after we sorted out the problems with the other bus. About ten minutes later, I had 35 kids aboard. I took them home first. Then, I took Dani home.

Dani is a basketball player, so she knew Coach Sanders well. She fled from the commons when the shooting started. She ran for a stairwell with at least a hundred other kids. The kids were falling all over each other, so Dani and a couple others took the responsibility of getting those being trampled back on their feet. Then, she made her way out, running for dear life. She had never run so hard for so long. She ran to a friend's house where a few dozen kids had congregated.

I felt awkward, like apologizing for my generation's neglect of her generation. Instead, I told her that when I went to high school, the only security we needed was the threat of being sent to Mr. Brownlee's office. She smiled.

Dani is tired of the sympathy. The gifts are all very nice, but it's time to move on. I asked her about her stuff in the school. She said the Administration notified everyone that backpacks and other property will be returned by messenger.

"Oh! They won't allow you back in the school?"

"Some kids want to walk through before they remodel. For closure."

I asked whether she want to see the school before the remodel. She said she wants to see it, but will understand if the Board won't allow it.

I think the kids should be allowed to walk through if their parents will sign a permission slip. Dani may be right. It could help with closure. (The kids walked through on June 1st.)

On the way home one day, the kids were noticing how many cars had WE ARE COLUMBINE bumper stickers. One of the shell-skocked boys mentioned that he will never go to McDonald's again. "Why?", I asked. "Because they started the WE ARE ALL COLUMBINE bumper stickers. I hate those bumper stickers!" I nodded in agreement.

I had thought the same thing. The kids at the school, their parents and siblings, the faculty and administration - are the Columbine community. The rest of us can sympathize. Some can truly empathize. All of us can wish them well. But, we are not ALL Columbine.

The vicarious connection of some with this horrible event is almost promiscuous. The flood of emotion seems to affect some almost pleasurably. At least it seems that way. I've gotten a real creepy sensation from some women when they talk about it.

Men of my age are immune to this perverse reaction. I've noticed something else, though. Men my age are angry about the massacre - and very eager to point fingers. Most condemn the SWAT teams with cowardice. We also blame the leniency of the criminal justice system. I listened to one guy rant on that theme for awhile. Then, I asked, "What about the dead beat dads?" He looked at me as though I had changed the subject. I explained, "The criminal system, lenient or not, would not matter if fathers were doing their duty." This remark went over like a lead balloon. Sometimes, the hardest thing to see is right in front of one's face.

I wonder how many of my generation feel guilty about the massacre? A recent study shows that parents today spend an average of 22 fewer hours per week with their children than 30 years ago. Does anyone else find that statistic staggering? Imagine! More than 3 hours of parental supervision per day has vanished!

One of the lost boys was the son of an Air Force colonel with a glittering record. The other lost boy, the son of a Jewish mother, worshipped Adolf Hitler. The young man who sold them the assault pistol is the son of parents involved in the gun control movement. The boy who filmed the video of the dry run is the son of the lead FBI investigator. Does anyone discern a pattern here? These kids all seem to be saying, "Hey! Screw your careers and ambitions! Take a look at me for once!"

Good parenting can prevent even a born sociopath from wreaking such a tragedy. Three more hours per day of parental supervision might have led a parent into a garage which had been turned into a bomb factory.

The shell-shocked kids sit in the front of the bus. Three boys, in particular, have gotten my attention. One day, I overheard one say, "I was the only one at my table who wasn't shot." The other two went to a counseling session on a Sunday. They arrived early and were asked to consume some time in the bathroom - for confidentiality reasons. The counselors apparently wanted the previous clients to sneak out unnoticed. The boys surmised that the previous clients had been accomplices to the lost boys.

On Monday, May 24th, the kids told me there had been a bomb scare. Some dumb kid had decided that it would be funny to start a rumor about a bomb in the school. Parents heard and rushed to the school. Several kids started crying as soon as they heard the rumor. One of my kids admitted that she had reacted that way. Dani said her stomach knotted up immediately. The shell shocked group in front got that hunted look in their eyes. They started breathing faster.

I asked whether the school had caught the dope who started the rumor. They nodded. I suggested that the perfect punishment would be for the jerk to have to bare his butt and bend over while every student in the school gave him one solid blow with a ping pong paddle. The kids laughed and their breathing subsided. Such punishment would probably bring all bomb scares to a screeching halt. Public humiliation from one's peers is a wonderful tonic for a bad sense of humor.

Wednesday, May 26th was their last day. I won't see any of them again, unless they happen to be transported with a team or band to a game or musical competition. I made no special effort to learn their names. As I pulled up to the first stop, I got on the p.a. and said, "I hope the world steps back and lets you guys have a carefree summer." One of the boys seemed offended, "Carefree?" I said nothing. The remark stands on its own (lack of?) merit. But several of the girls - as they exited the bus for the last time - eyes glistening, made a point of saying, "Thank you."

John Ciardi once said, "Who says only artists suffer. Adolescence is enough suffering for anyone." These kids have filled their quota.