1) One of the co-owners of my health club, Larry, has a friend who paints houses. This friend and his partner were working a job directly across Pierce Street from Columbine when all hell broke loose. The police began ferrying the wounded - some seriously wounded - across the street and onto the lawns. They instructed the painters to get to work applying direct pressure to minimize bleeding. Soon, the two painters were up to their elbows in blood with about ten kids. Two television cameraman showed up. The painters yelled at them to roll up their sleeves and pitch in. They refused. Apparently, they prefered filming a kid bleeding to death over saving a life. I wonder whether their employer paid them a bonus for their work that day?
2) The local television stations stayed with the story, almost continuously, well into the evening. I watched the television at my terminal, with my co-workers, until 5:30. Then, I went to the home of my best friend, Bill Wright, a teacher at Lakewood High School.
As the horrible event unfolded, one of the anchormen never missed an opportunity to remind us that the Columbine area 'is such a nice neighborhood.' Every horrible detail elicited the same blood-curdling vacuity from the anchor. One could almost see the Grant Ranch developers - those touting their investment as 'the last great place' - pulling the anchor's puppet strings. I looked at Bill and said, "The denial machine is working at full capacity, today."
3) Shortly after the massacre, a local talk show host, Jay Marvin, encouraged kids to call in. He thought it was time for adults to begin listening to kids. I seldom pay attention to talk shows. But my ears perked up for this show.
A young man, probably a teenager, called in to offer the opinion that kids nowadays face the dilemma of NOT having new frontiers to discover. I think he wanted to develop the point that destruction is the only form of meaningful activity left. I'll never know because the host shut him down immediately: "I don't buy that! There are always new worlds to discover!" The kid clammed up. I don't recall any others calling in after that. So much for letting the kids talk!
Now, whether you agree with the kid or not, you must admit that he should have been allowed to develop his point - especially given that the host had urged the kids to call in. But Jay Marvin, like most talk radio hosts, simply refused to yield center stage.
And don't you think his remark was rather flippant? Did our host discover a vaccine for polio, this week? Climb the Matterhorn? Cross the Continental Divide in a Conestoga wagon? Land on the moon? Plant a flag on Iwo Jima? Sail to China on a Yankee Cliper? Charge up San Juan Hill? No, of course not. And, sorry, I don't think today's youth will find much inspiration in the adventures of another insensitive radio talk show host.
4) I watched a few minutes of the memorial service the Sunday after. The southern end of Jefferson County is loaded with evangelicals. Naturally, they invited Franklin Graham to speak. I listened to a few sentences reminding everyone that only through the Savior Jesus Christ can there be peace. He was preaching to the choir. I've heard it all before, so I turned off the television and went upstairs to read a book.
In the paper the next day, I read that a local rabbi 'felt disenfranchised' by Preacher Graham's remarks. I nearly fainted from the blood rushing to my temples! Imagine! One of the lost boys, the son of a Jewish mother, worshipped Adolf Hitler! The entire Jewish community, all of us (and especially the rabbinical order) have failed miserably. How could we have nourished this viper in our bosom - this dagger aimed at our hearts - and never known? For a rabbi to spare a single moment, expend a single neural impulse, critiquing the oratory of a competitor under these circumstances is vanity of galactic breadth!
5) When a new President takes office, most Americans wish him well. On January 20, 1993, my goodwill toward President Clinton was probably deeper than average (even though I voted for Perot). I felt that President Bush was a phoney and that President Reagan had bankrupted the country. I admired President Clinton's intellect. I thought he might turn out to be like President Kennedy, someone classy and poised.
But, more than any of that, I was impressed by the fact that he was from Arkansas. My family lived in Little Rock during the desegregation crisis at Central High School. The Governor at the time, Orville Faubus, made a fool of himself (and the state) by his words and deeds supporting the racists. My English mother thought she was living with extra-terrestrials during those years in Little Rock. When President Clinton was inaugurated, she smiled and shook her head, saying, "I can't believe this man is from Arkansas."
I am glad President Clinton survived the impeachment ordeal. Hopefully, we have had our fill of gutter politics and honey traps. But, I am still disappointed with the man. During the campaign, his enemies used Gennifer Flowers to fire a shot across his bow. He should have realized that he would have to give up the womanizing for the duration of his Presidency. He failed to do so. Apparently, his urges take precedence over all other considerations - including the dignity of the office.
At Dakota Ridge High School, President Clinton addressed the Columbine students. Afterward, he shook hands with all of the boys and hugged the girls, who noticed the difference in physical treatment. Sad, isn't it?
6) On August 16th, I transported some Columbine kids up to Windy Peak, one of Jeffco's outdoor education schools. We departed from Colorow Elementary to avoid the press circus at the high school. Before leaving, I asked the kids to choose a radio station. They selected KBPI, a hard rock station. After a few songs, the disc jockey took a call from a listener, who must've been in his late 20's. The listener remarked that he always liked school. He expressed some fatigue with all of the media coverage on the kids returning to Columbine and the focus on security. The disc jockey piped in, "Those kids at Columbine are justg a bunch of whiney rich kids." I looked in my mirror. Those listening had been wounded. I asked, "Do you want me to change the station?" "Please," a girl answered for all.
I wish these puffed idiots with a mike in their hands would quit imagining themselves as tough guys and start imagining themselves as human beings. I am reminded of how I reacted to my first trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. That night, I wrote: "It is absurd to consider toughness and sensitivity as contradictory aspects of human nature. The man esteeming himself sensitive, discounting toughness, is neither. His effete superficiality is transparent to the true artist. The man projecting toughness to the world, mocking sensitivity, is neither. His false bravado elicits contempt from the true warrior. The artist and the warrior are one."
This idea is supported in both the Eastern and Western tradition. Chogyam Trungpa remarked, "To be a warrior is to learn to be genuine every moment of your life." Christopher Marlowe, in his play Tamburlaine, has the barbarian firmly assert, "Every warrior that is rapt with the love of fame, of valour, and of victory, must needs have beauty beat on his conceits."
There are many voices beating over the airwaves whose conceits comprehend nothing beyond their little pinkies.
Showing posts with label Columbine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Columbine. Show all posts
Monday, July 16, 2007
The Divisible Bill of Rights
At the end of the last day of the school year, every year, many of the drivers at my terminal gather at a local tavern. This year, we went to Greenfield's. Kelly (a hot-blooded woman of Irish descent) showed, even though she no longer drives a bus, having transfered to a better job with the Warehouse department. I had not seen her for several months.
Kelly knows many of my Columbine kids. A few years ago, her Ken Caryle Middle School route served the same neighborhood. She knows Patrick, the boy dragged out of the library window on national television. We talked about the kids we both know for about an hour. (I had promised one boy on the bus, Reed, that I would say, "Hi!," for him the next time I saw Kelly.) We both remarked on the peculiar feeling we had watching the events unfold on television that day, suddenly realizing that people we know were caught up in it.
Kelly, politically, is a real liberal. I have seen her argue the pro-choice position, ceaselessly, against all comers. Imagine my surprise when she urged her firm support for the Second Amendment. Once, in high school, one of her teachers spoke of gun ownership as a 'privilege.' Kelly erupted, "It's not a privilege. It's a right! It's called the Bill of Rights! All ten are precious or none of them!" Then, with an epithet-filled exercise of her First Amendment right, she stormed out of the classroom.
She makes a fine point, don't you think? All ten are precious. A local talk show host, Peter Boyles, apparently does not agree. Lately, he's been sealing his arguments with gun owners, saying, "What if one of the victims was your kid? Would you sacrifice your kid for the Second Amendment?" I take that to mean Mr. Boyles considers the Second Amendment expendable. Is he right? Or, is Kelly right? Is the Bill of Rights a unified whole? Or, are those Rights divisible?
Let us assume those Rights are divisible and we should throw out those which have wrought too much evil.
During Slavery and Jim Crow days, the southern states defended their racist policies behind the Tenth Amendment - State's Rights. Those states contravened the spirit of the Constitution by insisting on the letter of it - the Tenth Amendment. Behind its shelter, thousands of black Americans were lynched. Millions were intimidated from exercising their right to vote and denied access to the courts. With that kind of bloody history, we really ought to throw out the Tenth Amendment along with the Second. Maybe we could do it on the same day?
What about the Fifth Amendment? It has blood all over it. Thousands of racketeers, pimps, drug pushers, and other scum have escaped justice by invoking the Fifth Amendment. What if your daughter died of a drug overdose? Would you sacrifice your child for the sake of the Fifth Amendment?
If you don't agree with chucking out the Fifth, how about the Fourth? Why should the police have to wait for a search warrant? Let them swoop out of the blue and pounce on those drug pushers. Or, we could get rid of the Eighth. Remember those Wyoming goat ropers who tortured Matthew Shepard? Why should they be sheltered from cruel and unusual punishment? They merit torture. Let's do it! And the same for those racists in Texas who dragged their victim two miles down a dirt road. We should tie them to the back bumper of their pickup truck and drag them down the same dirt road until they die. Let's do it! And televise it! Do you think any racist would dare torture anyone ever again, knowing that they themselves would become the object of their cruelest fantasies? Let's get rid of the Fourth, Fifth, and Eight Amendments all in one fell swoop.
Amendments Six and Seven can stay. I have some qualms about the Sixth, though. It's in the interest of us all that criminals receive a speedy trial. A competent prosecutor can get a conviction and quickly punish the criminal. But, I don't see why the criminal's accusers should have to go through the ordeal - and danger - of a public trial. Why can't they remain anonymous? What use is a Constitution which compels people to be so brave? It simply sets them up to be victims again. Maybe I was too hasty. We should also get rid of the Sixth - or at least that part of the Sixth.
We can keep the Seventh. Of course, juries can act perversely. We all remember the O.J. trial. The Defense team managed to put together a jury ignorant enough to dismiss solid, conclusive DNA evidence when presented with a cockeyed theory that a racist cop must have planted that evidence. Throw in the fact that the victims were adulterers, stir in some breast implants - and you have a gross miscarriage of justice. I must admit - trial by jury is also expendable.
I am a writer, so naturally the First Amendment is sacrosanct. But, if we keep the Ninth Amendment - "The enumeration, in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people" - maybe I don't need it. Maybe I can look a censor in the eye and say, "Look! I retain certain rights. I think I have the right of Free Speech. You cannot stop me from saying whatever I damn well please!" Maybe, he'd agree.
Maybe?
Kelly knows many of my Columbine kids. A few years ago, her Ken Caryle Middle School route served the same neighborhood. She knows Patrick, the boy dragged out of the library window on national television. We talked about the kids we both know for about an hour. (I had promised one boy on the bus, Reed, that I would say, "Hi!," for him the next time I saw Kelly.) We both remarked on the peculiar feeling we had watching the events unfold on television that day, suddenly realizing that people we know were caught up in it.
Kelly, politically, is a real liberal. I have seen her argue the pro-choice position, ceaselessly, against all comers. Imagine my surprise when she urged her firm support for the Second Amendment. Once, in high school, one of her teachers spoke of gun ownership as a 'privilege.' Kelly erupted, "It's not a privilege. It's a right! It's called the Bill of Rights! All ten are precious or none of them!" Then, with an epithet-filled exercise of her First Amendment right, she stormed out of the classroom.
She makes a fine point, don't you think? All ten are precious. A local talk show host, Peter Boyles, apparently does not agree. Lately, he's been sealing his arguments with gun owners, saying, "What if one of the victims was your kid? Would you sacrifice your kid for the Second Amendment?" I take that to mean Mr. Boyles considers the Second Amendment expendable. Is he right? Or, is Kelly right? Is the Bill of Rights a unified whole? Or, are those Rights divisible?
Let us assume those Rights are divisible and we should throw out those which have wrought too much evil.
During Slavery and Jim Crow days, the southern states defended their racist policies behind the Tenth Amendment - State's Rights. Those states contravened the spirit of the Constitution by insisting on the letter of it - the Tenth Amendment. Behind its shelter, thousands of black Americans were lynched. Millions were intimidated from exercising their right to vote and denied access to the courts. With that kind of bloody history, we really ought to throw out the Tenth Amendment along with the Second. Maybe we could do it on the same day?
What about the Fifth Amendment? It has blood all over it. Thousands of racketeers, pimps, drug pushers, and other scum have escaped justice by invoking the Fifth Amendment. What if your daughter died of a drug overdose? Would you sacrifice your child for the sake of the Fifth Amendment?
If you don't agree with chucking out the Fifth, how about the Fourth? Why should the police have to wait for a search warrant? Let them swoop out of the blue and pounce on those drug pushers. Or, we could get rid of the Eighth. Remember those Wyoming goat ropers who tortured Matthew Shepard? Why should they be sheltered from cruel and unusual punishment? They merit torture. Let's do it! And the same for those racists in Texas who dragged their victim two miles down a dirt road. We should tie them to the back bumper of their pickup truck and drag them down the same dirt road until they die. Let's do it! And televise it! Do you think any racist would dare torture anyone ever again, knowing that they themselves would become the object of their cruelest fantasies? Let's get rid of the Fourth, Fifth, and Eight Amendments all in one fell swoop.
Amendments Six and Seven can stay. I have some qualms about the Sixth, though. It's in the interest of us all that criminals receive a speedy trial. A competent prosecutor can get a conviction and quickly punish the criminal. But, I don't see why the criminal's accusers should have to go through the ordeal - and danger - of a public trial. Why can't they remain anonymous? What use is a Constitution which compels people to be so brave? It simply sets them up to be victims again. Maybe I was too hasty. We should also get rid of the Sixth - or at least that part of the Sixth.
We can keep the Seventh. Of course, juries can act perversely. We all remember the O.J. trial. The Defense team managed to put together a jury ignorant enough to dismiss solid, conclusive DNA evidence when presented with a cockeyed theory that a racist cop must have planted that evidence. Throw in the fact that the victims were adulterers, stir in some breast implants - and you have a gross miscarriage of justice. I must admit - trial by jury is also expendable.
I am a writer, so naturally the First Amendment is sacrosanct. But, if we keep the Ninth Amendment - "The enumeration, in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people" - maybe I don't need it. Maybe I can look a censor in the eye and say, "Look! I retain certain rights. I think I have the right of Free Speech. You cannot stop me from saying whatever I damn well please!" Maybe, he'd agree.
Maybe?
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Everyman Copes
As a school bus driver, I am usually free from about 9:30-1:30. Most days, I go home for a nap. On Hitler's birthday, my mother woke me, screaming, "All hell's broken loose at Columbine!" Groggily, the enormity of the event began to sink in.
I made it to work around 1:30. One of the drivers, Val, had just left a home full of hysterical kids. Her niece and a bunch of friends had fled there when the shooting began. Val seemed just barely holding together.
We had two old televisions at my terminal, donated by the drivers. Needless to say, we were all glued to the sets. At that time, our supervisors had to wait for the police to determine the extent of the cordon sanitaire around Columbine. All Jefferson County schools were in lockdown. Some Denver schools also locked down.
Finally, they sent us all to our first schools, even though they were still in lockdown. I sat alone in my bus at Carmody, listening to KHOW continuous news coverage. After 20 minutes or so, a kid (perhaps high school) asked me what was happening. I (inappropriately) blurted, "Some little shitheads at Columbine are shooting people!" The kid said, "Oh!" and walked on.
About 15 minutes later, Carmody let the kids out. They had just a vague idea of what was happening. When someone said there were kids shooting guns at Columbine, a few of the boys reacted, "Wow! Cool!" I had expected this, but lacked the heart to throw an appropriate fit. I just quietly asked them whether they wished to listen to music or the news. They all wanted to hear the news. As it became clear that many Columbine students were seriously wounded, a somber mood took over. We left the school. I made extra stops. Several parents were outside or at the bus stops waiting for their kids. I wondered how many would be enrolled at private schools the following year.
My elementary students seemed unaffected by the tragedy. I put on the music, keeping up the daily routine.
I finished my route and returned to the terminal around 5:00. The Hitler worship of the lost boys was being reported. I slammed my fist on the table and bellowed: I knew it! Little fucking Nazis!" I watched television until the office shut down at 5:30. Erin (a lovely young woman who must have been absent the day Generation X passed out the armor) and I were the last to leave.
As I was driving home, I decided to see how my best friend, Bill Wright, was doing. Bill and I graduated from Lakewood High School in 1974, a class of 490. Bill graduated 245th. He is so average, I sometimes think of him as Everyman. He was born in Wellington, Ohio (sight of the Lorain County Fair in mid-August every year). During the 1850s, Lorain County was a major stop on the underground railroad. Personal liberty laws were taken seriously. There were several big trials in Wellington - test cases for the Federal Fugitive Slave Act. Prosecutors experienced great trouble finding juries willing to convict. The South was enraged. One historian even argues that the Civil War began in Lorain County. Bill descends from simple, decent people.
Bill is non-violent, almost to a Jain extreme. He won't kill bugs in his house. He sweeps them up onto a piece of paper and evicts them to the garden. (My maternal grandfather used to do the same thing.) Bill teaches and coaches track at Lakewood. When I came by on Hitler's birthday, he was glued to the television. Until that moment, I had not thought about the people I know at Columbine. Bill, on the other hand, had thought of little else. He was scanning the coverage, each camera angle, looking at the people in the background. He spotted Andy Lowry, the football coach (and one of Bill's former students)at Leawood Elementary. He also spotted Ivory Moore, the track coach, Ivory is black, so there was reason to worry that the lost boys might have made him a special target. We never saw Rudy Martin, the basketball coach (Lakewood class of 1972). Usually, I would see Rudy's wife, Jan, at Peiffer. But not that day.
By the time I got to Bill's house, it was rumored that Dave Sanders might be wounded, perhaps from doing something heroic. To Bill, who knew his colleague well, that heroism seemed plausible. It also seemed plausible that Rudy might react in a similar way. Jan thought so. She dashed from Peiffer straight to Clement Park. While searching, a reporter stuck a microphone in her face. Jan slapped it away, saying, "I'm looking for my husband!" Eventually, she found him.
Rudy began that day way behind on his paperwork. To catch up, he traded Commons duty with Patty Neilsen. He was alone in his classroom when all hell broke loose. Patty took a bullet in her shoulder. She took charge of a group in the library. She called 9-1-1. She accurately described her location and immediate peril to the dispatcher. Somehow, this information was not relayed to the SWAT teams in a timely or prioritized manner. The lost boys found the library - and lambs for slaughter. Meanwhile, Rudy got himself and about 30 kids safely out of the school.
That night Jan received about 500 phone calls. One was from Bill, voice cracking with sorrow.
I made it to work around 1:30. One of the drivers, Val, had just left a home full of hysterical kids. Her niece and a bunch of friends had fled there when the shooting began. Val seemed just barely holding together.
We had two old televisions at my terminal, donated by the drivers. Needless to say, we were all glued to the sets. At that time, our supervisors had to wait for the police to determine the extent of the cordon sanitaire around Columbine. All Jefferson County schools were in lockdown. Some Denver schools also locked down.
Finally, they sent us all to our first schools, even though they were still in lockdown. I sat alone in my bus at Carmody, listening to KHOW continuous news coverage. After 20 minutes or so, a kid (perhaps high school) asked me what was happening. I (inappropriately) blurted, "Some little shitheads at Columbine are shooting people!" The kid said, "Oh!" and walked on.
About 15 minutes later, Carmody let the kids out. They had just a vague idea of what was happening. When someone said there were kids shooting guns at Columbine, a few of the boys reacted, "Wow! Cool!" I had expected this, but lacked the heart to throw an appropriate fit. I just quietly asked them whether they wished to listen to music or the news. They all wanted to hear the news. As it became clear that many Columbine students were seriously wounded, a somber mood took over. We left the school. I made extra stops. Several parents were outside or at the bus stops waiting for their kids. I wondered how many would be enrolled at private schools the following year.
My elementary students seemed unaffected by the tragedy. I put on the music, keeping up the daily routine.
I finished my route and returned to the terminal around 5:00. The Hitler worship of the lost boys was being reported. I slammed my fist on the table and bellowed: I knew it! Little fucking Nazis!" I watched television until the office shut down at 5:30. Erin (a lovely young woman who must have been absent the day Generation X passed out the armor) and I were the last to leave.
As I was driving home, I decided to see how my best friend, Bill Wright, was doing. Bill and I graduated from Lakewood High School in 1974, a class of 490. Bill graduated 245th. He is so average, I sometimes think of him as Everyman. He was born in Wellington, Ohio (sight of the Lorain County Fair in mid-August every year). During the 1850s, Lorain County was a major stop on the underground railroad. Personal liberty laws were taken seriously. There were several big trials in Wellington - test cases for the Federal Fugitive Slave Act. Prosecutors experienced great trouble finding juries willing to convict. The South was enraged. One historian even argues that the Civil War began in Lorain County. Bill descends from simple, decent people.
Bill is non-violent, almost to a Jain extreme. He won't kill bugs in his house. He sweeps them up onto a piece of paper and evicts them to the garden. (My maternal grandfather used to do the same thing.) Bill teaches and coaches track at Lakewood. When I came by on Hitler's birthday, he was glued to the television. Until that moment, I had not thought about the people I know at Columbine. Bill, on the other hand, had thought of little else. He was scanning the coverage, each camera angle, looking at the people in the background. He spotted Andy Lowry, the football coach (and one of Bill's former students)at Leawood Elementary. He also spotted Ivory Moore, the track coach, Ivory is black, so there was reason to worry that the lost boys might have made him a special target. We never saw Rudy Martin, the basketball coach (Lakewood class of 1972). Usually, I would see Rudy's wife, Jan, at Peiffer. But not that day.
By the time I got to Bill's house, it was rumored that Dave Sanders might be wounded, perhaps from doing something heroic. To Bill, who knew his colleague well, that heroism seemed plausible. It also seemed plausible that Rudy might react in a similar way. Jan thought so. She dashed from Peiffer straight to Clement Park. While searching, a reporter stuck a microphone in her face. Jan slapped it away, saying, "I'm looking for my husband!" Eventually, she found him.
Rudy began that day way behind on his paperwork. To catch up, he traded Commons duty with Patty Neilsen. He was alone in his classroom when all hell broke loose. Patty took a bullet in her shoulder. She took charge of a group in the library. She called 9-1-1. She accurately described her location and immediate peril to the dispatcher. Somehow, this information was not relayed to the SWAT teams in a timely or prioritized manner. The lost boys found the library - and lambs for slaughter. Meanwhile, Rudy got himself and about 30 kids safely out of the school.
That night Jan received about 500 phone calls. One was from Bill, voice cracking with sorrow.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
