Close to home

April 20, 1999, I remember sitting in the Union Hall of my college campus among the bustling activity of my peers purchasing lunches at the adjacent food court, some studying at various tables, some stealing glances at the enormous cinema-style television screens on the walls between bites of fries and chatting with their friends. It was coming close to the end of an academic quarter, and I had a project for a writing course that required a trip to the copy store, also situated in the Union Hall. (This was a HUGE Union Hall.) A friend and former dorm mate stopped me as I whizzed by, and asked if I’d have lunch with her. I was so busy, I hadn’t realized I might have skipped lunch. I grabbed a quick bite from a terrible Chinese fast food joint, and took my tray over to meet her. I hadn’t been in my seat five minutes before one of the kids shouted, pointing at one of the large TV’s, “Oh my God. Turn that up!”. Something bad was happening in some little town no one had ever heard of: Columbine, Colorado.

I was sitting at my desk no more than five minutes Monday before a colleague made me aware of the news. A high school, not 30 miles outside of the city, had a shooting. I had been receiving alerts on my phone on the train ride into town, but I get alerts on my phone if people win Oscars. If the weather will be unusually warm. If I have an appointment to wax my facial hair. I tend to ignore alerts on my phone since I get so many. This is exactly how I ignored the alert a few weeks ago telling me Whitney Houston had died.

(The morale is: If you have something important to tell me, don’t let it come to my phone as an alert. I might unintentionally hurt your feelings if it’s important.)

I say this so many times here, but I had no intention of having children. Not that I didn’t want them, or that they freaked me out as a few of my friends are prone to giving as their reasons for avoiding procreation. (“Kids freak me out! The germs! The yelling! The crying! The poop!” I almost don’t have the heart to tell them they will all meet similar fates in nursing homes.) I took one look at this world and questioned whether I had it in me to be strong enough to lose something I’d given birth to. Also said here often, I’m a glass-half-empty gal. I don’t see graduations and weddings and grandchildren. I see napalm and Agent Orange and H-bombs.

I see school shootings.

I see planes flying into tall structures, collapsing them to the ground.

WHY WOULD I WANT TO HAVE CHILDREN?! CRAZY PEOPLE HAVE CHILDREN!

Somehow, B.Fam tricked me. Made me think it was okay. That life happened and you couldn’t control it. Blah blah blah blah. And now I’m stuck with these kids that are ticking time bombs. Yes, I’m fully aware this is how my family felt about me at some point, maybe still does. That my mother, peach that she is, has already told me she will jump into the ground with me when I’m buried if I go before her which, you know, don’t invite HER to my funeral. Does it help that Mooter is an unprofessionally diagnosed Worry Wart? That her anxiety caused by uncontrolled real life is like stuffing Mentos in a 2-liter soda pop bottle and giving it a good shake? That I can’t get her away from the television when there are tsunamis or earthquakes, let alone school shootings, and that the job of explaining all this bad stuff and why it happens consumes me to the point that I’m shaking and twitching and writing around on the floor with a little foam pouring from my mouth for added affect while Booger just wants to know what time is dinner?

Yes! Children! Sounds like a FANTASTIC idea!

These past few days, those of us with children (no matter the age) have been nervous wrecks as the copy cats are wreaking havoc with their fake bomb threats because ha ha ha, isn’t that FUNNY? I’m not one for physical violence, but I’ve never so badly wanted to manually strip the hormones out of these ignorant dipwads as much as I do right now. I used to take small comfort in knowing crazy stuff like this didn’t happen here. It was one of those “Our city has so many other problems, let’s take heart in the ones we don’t”-type of thing.

Theories are flying about why the boy did it. 17 years old, that’s still a boy. Aspects of his life being dissected for analysis. I just see photos of this kid and wonder what he must have been thinking. Then I look at my own children and wonder: If they’re lucky enough to dodge a bullet, are they sane enough not to be standing behind the gun. Booger still gets all my bail money. All of it. Every cent. I’m already writing apology letters on her behalf, just in case. (Dear Sir/Madame: I’m sorry my kid choked your kid. Etc, etc.)

I can’t imagine the grief of the parents whose children lost their lives. I can’t imagine the shock and terror of the community. It’s hard to fathom. Even harder right here in my backyard.

Hug your kids.

*HD