This morning, as usual,I turned on the news as I prepared to face the day.
This day, however, I was hopingfor more than the current temperature and traffic report. I was hoping forinspiration for my column since I’d lurked at the computer for hours yesterdayyet written nothing.
The morning show Iprefer, on CBS, is the more serious of the three major network's dailyofferings--not because I'm seriousbut because if I want tabloid crap (and I often do), I'll watch the likes ofInside Edition. But, if I want actual news, I try to find it despite how trickythat has become.
The two female anchorswere seated in high director's chairs, all bundled up---exactly like whencovering the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Behind them, a line-up of tentsand canopies erected by the army of media has encamped to provide the latestinformation of the horrific events in Newtown. Today that will include thefirst two funerals slated to occur later.
Great idea, media! Whatbetter way to elevate the name of a twisted killer to universal notoriety andmake it irresistible to others (and we all know, there are others) to commit similarcrimes! Why not provide a pipeline toinfamy by endlessly pumping the shooter’s photos and pathetic life story out tothe public? When did you all lose your minds, your dignity and yourself-control?
Some may defend thisblitz, saying that the more focus put on Newtown’s misery, the better for thereinvigorated arguments about gun legislation. Others will claim that thepublic has the right to not only every new development but also be privy toevery expression of grief, sorrow and despair. I say that a welcoming environment for the next lunatic is being fertilized.
The reporters I knowfrom my years of addictive TV viewing (including the news) are more affectedthan I've ever seen them. Many are parents, I’m sure, and like our presidentwhose unmistakable sincerity has given him one of his finest hours, thenightmare of last Friday feels very personal.
This week's column was goingto be about Christmas. I was going to recount how hilarious it was when I ran outof tape while wrapping gifts. Or maybe I'd aim for your sentimental side bydragging out another holiday memory from my well of anecdotes but, notsurprisingly, funny is gone. Even sentiment is shattered.
Christmas, itself, isin question while sanity has certainly taken a powder—both in the nature ofthe actual events of last Friday as well as in the fact that it’s being coveredlike a goddam holiday parade.
I am not going todiscuss gun legislation, mental illness or Nancy Lanza's questionable parentingbut as I write this, it feels like the Newtown tragedy happened well over aweek ago. Was it just three days ago? Is it really possible that I am readingthe names of 26 souls who were gunned down in a town in which I shop, meetfriends for lunch, have sat on sunny baseball fields to watch my children playagainst yours?
As I look at thephotographs of those killed, I can only think "This is where their story stops." But, I alsothink of the daily joy I experienced on the most routine of days as I picked upkindergartener Tommy or Charlie--their coats buttoned by a teacher, theirboots put on by a classroom aide in whose care I had unquestioningly placed mytrust.
I remember the big greenpompom of Charlie’s hat as he was led from class, holding hands with hispartner and smiling. I remember how happy we were to see one another after no morethan three hours apart. I see a tiny Tommy sitting in a booster seat in the barber’schair as we make eye contact in the mirror while he gets an after-school haircut..I was, and still am ridiculously happy to be their mommy.
To love your ownchild is to automatically understand how another parent feels, put yourself intheir place and, to some degree, feel their pain.
In the current tumult ofmy mind, I believe solutions are far more complicated than we think.
Thosedetermined to hurt others will always find a way to do so....for many reasonsincluding through the vulnerability of good people because, in their goodness, theycannot fathom -- or certainly expect and adequately prepare for the type ofhell unleashed at Sandy Hook Elementary. To believe that people exist who arecapable of such incomprehensible evil means accepting it and that, in itself,is unacceptable.
After this, there will morerules, more restrictions as well as media coverage until we’re dizzy. There arealready reports of Newtown residents wanting the”journalists” to pack up andleave. There will be more bad dreams at night, more fear and more anxiety thatcan’t be talked away by the well-intentioned grief counselors deployed acrossthis little state.
As kids return to schoolall over America, I find myself grateful that mine are not among them. Yet Iworry about my grown-up babies shopping in malls, on line at the supermarket orat their desks at work. This kind of fear, and ultimate desensitization, hasbecome the new normal.
I cannot pretend, evento myself, to comprehend why anyone would do what was done last Friday. I, aswill many, continue to pray that those who need comfort will receive it as wellas for the safety of the innocent everywhere.
Good luck to those prayers…they're going to need it.
The best I can dois Ieave you with a line from a poem called "Desiderata" by MaxEhrman...”with all its sham,drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.”
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