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cyberanarchy RULEZ!!!
When my son appeared home from work last Tuesday evening just
as the 10 p.m. news was beginning, I was pleasantly surprised
to see him. Earlier in the day he told me he'd be home around
11 since he was scheduled to be one of the `closers' at Chuck
E. Cheese that evening.
I hated it when he was scheduled to close on school nights,
and I told him so that afternoon. But since his fellow
employees and manager had been so kind to him during a recent
illness, and since he hadn't been able to earn much Christmas
money, I didn't say much more. So when he came in and said,
``Hey, someone else wanted to close tonight, so I didn't have
to stay,'' I knew I could lock up and go to bed a little
earlier than I'd planned.
Then the news bulletin came on: ``There has been a shooting
at Chuck E. Cheese pizza parlor in Aurora.''
I yelled and my son came out of the bathroom with his
toothbrush still in his mouth. He sat on the edge of the
rocking chair watching and waiting for more information. Then
he said, pointing his finger at me and shaking, ``I bet I
know who it was...''
I questioned him about what he had seen and dialed the police
department. The police spoke with him and said they'd send
out a detective. Then my son told me about the people who
were still at the restaurant when he left.
Bobby -- the nicest guy in the world, he said. Sylvia -- a
lot of fun. Ben, oh yeah, he was in the game room. Colleen --
she was working the show room. And Marge -- did you know she
liked weird pizza -- like spinach and stuff? He spoke about
each one as we waited for more information.
In the meantime, we heard helicopters and sirens waited for
more word. The early reports were sketchy ... Several people
had been shot ... Some were still in the restaurant, some
were being wheeled out on stretchers ....
More on the morning news, they said. We looked at each other
in disbelief. I knew that my son had missed being one of the
victims by minutes, maybe just a couple of minutes.
No one in our family slept well that night. At about 4:30
a.m., I got up. I had been having nightmares anyway, and I
wanted to make sure that whatever the news was, I knew it
before my son did. I'll help him through it, I thought. He
was sleeping on the floor in his brother's room. He didn't
want to be alone.
As I looked at the front page of the newspaper, I felt some
relief that at least some of the people had survived. But
then I turned on the early news and learned that all the
victims had been shot in the head and that two were dead:
Marge and Colleen. I held my sides and wept. My son heard me
and came out to watch the news. He urged on those still
living: ``Come on, Sylv, come on ...''
I prayed hardest for Bobby. He had offered to close for my
son. I didn't know if I could handle it, or how my son would
feel, if he didn't make it. But as that day wore on -- that
horrible day -- two more would die.
There but for the grace of God, I thought.
I kept picturing my son's face as he talked to the TV
reporters. My child is in shock, I thought. And here I am at
work, trying to act as though my world has not been blown
apart as well. After a few short hours, I decided I should go
home -- I wanted to be there when he came home. I wanted to
hold him and tell him I love him.
After my son arrived home, the phone rang and rang. People
from all over the country were calling to make sure that he
was OK. He told his story over and over again. He needs help,
I can see, but I don't know how to give it to him.
It's so hard to imagine the pain felt by the families of
Colleen, Sylvia, Ben, and Marge. I've thought often about how
horrible that night was for them and about how hard it will
be in the future. It's hard for me to even imagine the depth
of my own son's pain.
No one taught me how to help my child through a mass murder.
I can't explain to him why the police say they are going to
call and then don't. I don't know why the alleged murderer
was allowed to threaten people for months without anyone
challenging him. I'm not sure that it would happen again
tonight. Most of all, I'm scared to admit that most people
won't attach any responsibility for the situation to anyone
but the killer.
No parent, no school official, no juvenile or adult law
enforcement agency, no former employer recognized and took
responsibility for the potential danger of this situation.
Maybe that is today's truth. We have become very adept at
avoiding responsibility for much of anything.
I'm angry at s many people -- and I'm angry with myself. Our
young people need our help. They are living through these
horrors because we are allowing them too, mostly because we
are just too busy to care. They did not, in their short
lives, create this violent, irresponsible society. We pretend
not to see that we sell them the means of their destruction.
I realize that my nerves are raw right now. I just hope that
as the days and months go by that we do something meaningful
to show our kids that we really mean to help them end the
violence that threatens their generation.
I am sorry, too, son. I haven't done enough so far. But that
doesn't mean that I can't do more now. Please help me. We all
need to speak up when we see something going very wrong. If
we are going to effect an real change, I'll need your energy
and commitment to push me. And I will take responsibility for
my part. It isn't too late, son.
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