At one of my former daycares, worked an Indian woman, a Hindu, who was one of the wisest, kindest people I knew. We were talking about crime and I was holding forth about what we should do with criminals. Ah, the years when I knew everything! This woman looked into my eyes, and said with a gentle tone, "It was Mother Theresa who said, 'I can't judge you because of the Hitler in me.'" I was stopped cold and I've never forgotten that proverb. Any of us are capable of anything given the perfect storm of circumstances - so it behooves us never to say, "I would never..."
Along with the nation and the world, I am horrified at the disaster in Newtown, Connecticut. For the first two days I couldn't stop crying when it came on the news. I'm was a preschool teacher for 30 years. I see the faces of those precious little ones, and superimposed over them, the bullet holes, the blood, the survivors seeing their friends torn apart. So much misinformation came out as news anchors rushed to be the first to spread the news. Grasping for bits of gossip, interviewing traumatized children. The shooter's mother worked there, they let him in because they knew him, he had ADHD, she was too hard on him...
As it turned out the mother never worked at the school, the boy had untreated Asperger's, he broke a door to get in, and his mother was in the middle of trying to get her son into treatment for his mental illness. The guns were hers, from her collection. She was an enthusiast and taught her boys how to handle a gun safely. Sure, we can ask now how she could keep weapons in the house with a mentally unstable son, but hindsight?
I wanted to say something vengeful about the dead shooter but the only thing that came to mind was, "Lord Jesus, have mercy!" Wow! Where did that come from? I know what mental illness is like. It's around me, it's in the family, I myself need medication and counsel. I spent 20 years behind a curtain, cut off from the world, seeing it but not being able to participate. When I was diagnosed the curtain was ripped away and I saw with painful clarity how disastrous my life had been up until that point. Was that me who said _______? Did I really ______? How could I have ______!
I feel like I can see the mind video of Adam Lanza. He wasn't capable of seeing life in the abstract, only the individual details. Things like love, happiness, patience, puppies and babies, respect, God - his mind wasn't able to understand these concepts. He adapted, of course, in order to survive. He learned how to play the game. But he was mentally and emotionally blindfolded.
When he grabbed the guns, although he certainly knew what guns were for, and that he would use them to kill, he didn't reason out the consequences because 'reasoning out' an idea from beginning to end was not in his capability. When he broke his way into the school he didn't recognize adults, children, teachers. Age is an abstract concept. He saw bodies. Shooting and killing them were video games, TV shows, not real life human beings. He could have chosen to break into an old folks home, lovers in the park, a daycare or church. Human differences didn't exist in his disordered mind.
It made sense to him according to the context of his brain function. If he had lived he wouldn't have recognized that he had done anything wrong. He would have blamed the police for interfering.
All mentally ill people are not serial killers. Mass murder is still rare though seeming to gain ground. I doubt that I harbor serial killer genes nor do my friends who struggle with mental health issues. But I've done enough harm in my own corner of the world to understand the concept of it being done on a wider scale.
That's why I pray, Mercy, dear Jesus, for this boy, Adam Lanza. As distasteful as it is to contemplate, I see God standing there in that school as Adam put the gun to his own head, holding out his hand and walking his spirit off the scene. Adam looks around in a panic and says, "No! Did I do this?" And God says, "Beloved, come and let's talk." And all over the school angels are lifting children to their feet and dusting them off, gathering them in a group like the count before a field trip, which is kind of what's happening - the ultimate field trip. And their ageless spirits recognize Adam's and he is forgiven on the spot.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Defining People, Dividing People
Its fun to people watch! Our world is full of such variety, and good thing. It would be a boring world without it. Gender, race, religion, gender identity - such a garden. But I noticed something in myself that I don't like and here I am telling on myself.
I tend to make snap judgements about people based on appearance or tone of voice. I hate that I do that and I'm immediately sorry and change my thought pattern, but that first reaction is there, negative stereotypes. An obese man went by on the store Scooter. "Probably ate himself into obesity." Talking to someone about their diabetes - "Well if they'd lay off the sugar.." Screaming children - "spoiled brats". The cranky old woman - "Old battle ax". Anyone who doesn't look like me and mine - "Am I safe?" "Just like a _______ to ______." When the fact is, I don't know the medical history of any of these people. I don't live in their homes. I don't see what happened just before they got to Walmart, or what's waiting for them at home. I don't know their personal histories or tragedies. How can I judge on the basis of a 4 second glance?
Forty years ago my mother got cancer. By the time they found it and operated, it had spread everywhere. (By a miracle she recovered and lived for another 30 years.) I was going to lose my mother in the worst possible way. And I had only just had a baby who would never know this remarkable woman. I went to the grocery store, in a daze, and knocked something off the shelf. Didn't even realize it. Until an elderly lady walked up to me, a stranger, and said, "I saw you knock that down and you didn't even pick it up. You're the reason prices are so high." I burst into tears and said, "My mother is dying and I can't see straight!" And she said, "Yeah right." and walked off in disgust. I have never forgotten how that felt. One can knocked to the floor defined me.
Ten years ago, my father died and I took mother to the grocery store. He loved to shop and this store was the last place he had gone. We took his suit to the funeral home, then to Superfresh. Inside the door, helping my crippled and mourning mother into the Scooter, I met someone I've tussled with from time to time. He said in a monotone, "Hellohowareyou". With tears in my eyes I said, "Not so good..." That's all I got out before his whole expression changed to one of disgust. He turned and walked away. I know he didn't know my father had just died. But his first response was to assume it was old negative depressed Martha again. He defined me by my emotions.
Today I was speaking with a businessman I know and like. Very good man. Who is gay. Femininely so. I felt the thought rising and stopped it before it saw the light of day. His gender identity doesn't define him. It doesn't even enter into the equation. It hasn't got anything to do with anything. But something in people, not just me, reacts so nastily to the person who doesn't meet our moral standards or our stereotypes of what a man and woman should look like, talk like, walk like, feel or behave. What is it in humans that makes them define a person by their mannerisms or personal life? Fear? Probably.
I'm not perfect and I'll probably do it again. But I'm in there trying!
I tend to make snap judgements about people based on appearance or tone of voice. I hate that I do that and I'm immediately sorry and change my thought pattern, but that first reaction is there, negative stereotypes. An obese man went by on the store Scooter. "Probably ate himself into obesity." Talking to someone about their diabetes - "Well if they'd lay off the sugar.." Screaming children - "spoiled brats". The cranky old woman - "Old battle ax". Anyone who doesn't look like me and mine - "Am I safe?" "Just like a _______ to ______." When the fact is, I don't know the medical history of any of these people. I don't live in their homes. I don't see what happened just before they got to Walmart, or what's waiting for them at home. I don't know their personal histories or tragedies. How can I judge on the basis of a 4 second glance?
Forty years ago my mother got cancer. By the time they found it and operated, it had spread everywhere. (By a miracle she recovered and lived for another 30 years.) I was going to lose my mother in the worst possible way. And I had only just had a baby who would never know this remarkable woman. I went to the grocery store, in a daze, and knocked something off the shelf. Didn't even realize it. Until an elderly lady walked up to me, a stranger, and said, "I saw you knock that down and you didn't even pick it up. You're the reason prices are so high." I burst into tears and said, "My mother is dying and I can't see straight!" And she said, "Yeah right." and walked off in disgust. I have never forgotten how that felt. One can knocked to the floor defined me.
Ten years ago, my father died and I took mother to the grocery store. He loved to shop and this store was the last place he had gone. We took his suit to the funeral home, then to Superfresh. Inside the door, helping my crippled and mourning mother into the Scooter, I met someone I've tussled with from time to time. He said in a monotone, "Hellohowareyou". With tears in my eyes I said, "Not so good..." That's all I got out before his whole expression changed to one of disgust. He turned and walked away. I know he didn't know my father had just died. But his first response was to assume it was old negative depressed Martha again. He defined me by my emotions.
Today I was speaking with a businessman I know and like. Very good man. Who is gay. Femininely so. I felt the thought rising and stopped it before it saw the light of day. His gender identity doesn't define him. It doesn't even enter into the equation. It hasn't got anything to do with anything. But something in people, not just me, reacts so nastily to the person who doesn't meet our moral standards or our stereotypes of what a man and woman should look like, talk like, walk like, feel or behave. What is it in humans that makes them define a person by their mannerisms or personal life? Fear? Probably.
I'm not perfect and I'll probably do it again. But I'm in there trying!
Thursday, December 6, 2012
The Reason for the Season
I remember Christmases past. The earliest memories are of sitting under the tree, (yes I was that small), and somehow, somehow the whole tree fell over. Ornaments were made of glass then, there was no plastic and predictably, shards spread across the carpet, adults came running. I do not remember being punished or made to feel bad. Mother spoke gently to me and I felt such guilt I didn't do it again.
I remember when, around Thanksgiving time some of my dolls disappeared. I asked where they were and mother said they had all gone to the hospital. "ALL of them? At one time?" Yes, it was contagious. "Well what did they have?" Mumps. I couldn't let it go. It worried me terribly that my babies were sick and I couldn't help. Meanwhile I was banned from the basement. There were sounds coming from there all the time my father was home. On Christmas morning, when the family descended the stairs en mass there under the tree were eight cradles, with my eight babies, all wearing new outfits and one extra each.
I remember piles of presents. But going back in my mind, there was one big one, usually a doll, and lots of small things - a hairbrush, shirt, dolly bottles, coloring book. It looked like a mountain of gifts, and although it was exactly that, they were negligible items from Woolworth.
My parents never told us Santa knew we were naughty or nice and would reward us based on behavior. The thought that we could influence love and generosity by mistakes made or sins comitted was anathema to my parents. They believed that the idea of Santa was so close to a kid's view of God they never wanted us to make the jump to believing God was the stern keeper of records. In Him was light and not darkness.
And so it went.
For my own children it was the same. Piles of presents under the tree - one big one and many small, dime store items. It was all we could afford. We counted boxes to make sure each girl got the same because believe me, they counted. Each year I would start in October to sew up Barbi clothes. Buying bits and pieces of fabric for 25c gowns, leisure sets, pants suits, fur coats and business dresses would come off my machine. A card of Barbi shoes and purses would complete the gift. One year there were homemade Mickey Mouse hats. One year homemade Cabbage Patch dolls. We had so little money and did the best we could to make sure the girls never knew it.
As an adult my aging parents had little extra but they always took care of me. Every single year they got me a sweater - in size L. I've worn a 1x since I was 30 but mother simply wouldn't believe her 5 pounder was that big. Size Large it would be. They would give me my favorite pens, a hair clip, slippers, socks. David would receive a bath towel in his favorite color with his name embroidered on it. I loved it because they came from these generous, thoughtful people.
Here we are in 2012 and there's no extra money for Christmas. I have everybody's Christmas lists and wish I could tick everything off. David and I promise each other every year that we aren't going to get each other anything (yeah, right). Save the money for Brianna. I hate this. I keep searching my mind thinking where I can get extra money and where I can get knock offs inexpensively. By Christmas eve I will have earned enough from my little job, minus the bills, to provide a modest pile under the tree. I'm very proud of my daughters who have taught their children not to expect a consumer's paradise. They do not bury their children in gifts this one day a year.
But there are other memories of Christmases past. Helping my father search for the perfect tree that we could afford. He always knew 'a guy'. Throwing the tinsel on the tree, my brother would guffaw and step all over the lights, Dad and Mother retelling the stories of the ornaments as they came out of their wrappings, testing the bubble lights, placing the tin foil angel on the top of the tree, hot chocolate and homemade donuts when we were through, Dad reading Luke 2 and praying, carolers, Christmas Eve services, brother ringing sleigh bells to make me think Santa was there, having to stop on the stairs to get an 'excited' picture taken every stinkin' year instead of rushing downstairs and diving in, waiting for each other instead of thinking of our own gifts only, dinner at Granny's or Aunt Jessie's, inviting the neighbors in and us going to their homes to view the gifts.
I've never been one to burble on about 'the reason for the season!' or keeping Christ in Christmas or how much more fun it is to go to church than open presents. Seriously? But I do know there's more to the season than the height of the pile of gifts or their expense. Family, tradition, memories, warmth, the knowlege that we were never outside of our parents or our God's good graces, generosity, creativity, thoughtfulness, celebration. That's the Reason for the Season!
I remember when, around Thanksgiving time some of my dolls disappeared. I asked where they were and mother said they had all gone to the hospital. "ALL of them? At one time?" Yes, it was contagious. "Well what did they have?" Mumps. I couldn't let it go. It worried me terribly that my babies were sick and I couldn't help. Meanwhile I was banned from the basement. There were sounds coming from there all the time my father was home. On Christmas morning, when the family descended the stairs en mass there under the tree were eight cradles, with my eight babies, all wearing new outfits and one extra each.
I remember piles of presents. But going back in my mind, there was one big one, usually a doll, and lots of small things - a hairbrush, shirt, dolly bottles, coloring book. It looked like a mountain of gifts, and although it was exactly that, they were negligible items from Woolworth.
My parents never told us Santa knew we were naughty or nice and would reward us based on behavior. The thought that we could influence love and generosity by mistakes made or sins comitted was anathema to my parents. They believed that the idea of Santa was so close to a kid's view of God they never wanted us to make the jump to believing God was the stern keeper of records. In Him was light and not darkness.
And so it went.
For my own children it was the same. Piles of presents under the tree - one big one and many small, dime store items. It was all we could afford. We counted boxes to make sure each girl got the same because believe me, they counted. Each year I would start in October to sew up Barbi clothes. Buying bits and pieces of fabric for 25c gowns, leisure sets, pants suits, fur coats and business dresses would come off my machine. A card of Barbi shoes and purses would complete the gift. One year there were homemade Mickey Mouse hats. One year homemade Cabbage Patch dolls. We had so little money and did the best we could to make sure the girls never knew it.
As an adult my aging parents had little extra but they always took care of me. Every single year they got me a sweater - in size L. I've worn a 1x since I was 30 but mother simply wouldn't believe her 5 pounder was that big. Size Large it would be. They would give me my favorite pens, a hair clip, slippers, socks. David would receive a bath towel in his favorite color with his name embroidered on it. I loved it because they came from these generous, thoughtful people.
Here we are in 2012 and there's no extra money for Christmas. I have everybody's Christmas lists and wish I could tick everything off. David and I promise each other every year that we aren't going to get each other anything (yeah, right). Save the money for Brianna. I hate this. I keep searching my mind thinking where I can get extra money and where I can get knock offs inexpensively. By Christmas eve I will have earned enough from my little job, minus the bills, to provide a modest pile under the tree. I'm very proud of my daughters who have taught their children not to expect a consumer's paradise. They do not bury their children in gifts this one day a year.
But there are other memories of Christmases past. Helping my father search for the perfect tree that we could afford. He always knew 'a guy'. Throwing the tinsel on the tree, my brother would guffaw and step all over the lights, Dad and Mother retelling the stories of the ornaments as they came out of their wrappings, testing the bubble lights, placing the tin foil angel on the top of the tree, hot chocolate and homemade donuts when we were through, Dad reading Luke 2 and praying, carolers, Christmas Eve services, brother ringing sleigh bells to make me think Santa was there, having to stop on the stairs to get an 'excited' picture taken every stinkin' year instead of rushing downstairs and diving in, waiting for each other instead of thinking of our own gifts only, dinner at Granny's or Aunt Jessie's, inviting the neighbors in and us going to their homes to view the gifts.
I've never been one to burble on about 'the reason for the season!' or keeping Christ in Christmas or how much more fun it is to go to church than open presents. Seriously? But I do know there's more to the season than the height of the pile of gifts or their expense. Family, tradition, memories, warmth, the knowlege that we were never outside of our parents or our God's good graces, generosity, creativity, thoughtfulness, celebration. That's the Reason for the Season!
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