I escaped death. The surgery anesthesia didn’t kill me, the doctor didn’t slip on a damp towel while he was injecting me with heart-slowing solutions and my hospital gown did not inappropriately open, not while I was conscious anyway. Success!
A lot has happened in a week and a half: the hikers being held for ransom in Iran were released, a 13-year-old boy in Colorado was sentenced to 8 years in juvenile hall for killing both of his parents and stabbing two younger siblings, a drone killed an American-born Muslim fanatic in the dusty hills of Afghanistan, Amanda Knox was found not guilty on appeal in Italy, 700 people protesting The Man were arrested in New York and protests are springing up across the country like fungi.
Plus, I’ll say it again: I didn’t die. Notice that not too many news organizations picked up that story but it is big news around here. When I say “around here” I mean in my mind. But let’s not quibble.
I have to say protesting The Man in New York falls into “these are a few of my favorite things” category. Granted, all protestors didn’t profess to be marching against The Man, but there was no cohesive reason to march en mass beyond unified indignation at tunnel-visioned, monolithic callous disregard for middle America. Or so it seems. If I could I’d be up there marching too. For what? I don’t know! Truth, justice and the American way I guess. Every good protest has a little theater thrown in.
Then, about a week ago yet another “kid” in the town of Cornelius, NC killed his parents. I’m not talking about the 13-year-old boy in Colorado. This particular “kid” was 25-year-old but he lived at home and supposedly had mental issues evidenced by a few past run-ins with the law – but nothing that screamed “Future murderer here. Everybody look out – especially you two, the people who named him, hugged him, rocked him and changed his diapers when he was a baby!!!”
Who knows what the “kid’s” parents thought to themselves about their future killer or what they talked about behind closed doors. I think about those last violent moments, what it would be like to be killed by your own child.
Remember that 15-year-old boy Kip Kinkel in Oregon who shot his father, his mother then went to school and killed two students? He shot his dad in the back of his head. Did Kip cock the gun in another room so his dad only heard the pull of the trigger? Then Kip went out to meet his mother as she got out of her car, she was coming home from accepting a teaching award. Kip walked up to her with his gun that he’d gotten as a gift, said “I love you Mom” and pulled the trigger.
Sometimes love means never having to say you’re sorry. Not this time.
I imagine beyond the human instinct of not wanting to die, a parent being confronted with death at the hands of their own child would feel deep regret for the life their child was now setting themself up for. I can’t even begin to uncover all that is turning our youth into unfeeling, impatient automatons. Start with the obsessive behavior toward video games, glorified violence in movies and on television, ear buds that separate people from each other and constant reliance on the Facebook/cell phone world.
Oh pish. I’m blathering. I can’t right any wrong all by myself, but venting is underrated. I’m glad to be back.