Columbine

Around the world and on my shelf: people in books and photographs.

I lived in Littleton, Colorado during the Columbine Massacres, and even worse than the media orgy that followed, was the timing of my very New York mothers' visit out west. Uh oh... she and I were eating at a local restaurant, when she noticed in horror that she was wearing a dark raincoat eerily similar to the teenage killers "Trenchcoat Mafia" look (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eric_Harris_and_Dylan_Klebold). 

It was an unfortunate synergy to the events of the day, not least of which was the almost ecstatic release of pent-up psychological energy loosened upon the area, a public hysteria that stood out sharply to the mostly sullen reticence of the prairie people I met native to the land, and therein lies the problem: affluent white people are often really fucked up. Rich white kids terrified me in the Ivy Leagues and Ivory Towers of school and work, a feeling that did not abate with exposure to more of them existing in isolated pockets around America. Needless, my mom told me I should leave Colorado and move back home, which she reminded me about almost every time we talked on the phone, and we both agreed: "There's something wrong with the people out there." She was right. We saw it in the people around us.

 In Colorado, there are two types of humans: whites and Mexicans. Some adopted Asian orphans are thrown in for diversity''s sake, but when I lived there, being from New York was considered so exotic, my fellow New Yorkers traded in their actual personas for an easier "Seinfeld" version of themselves to show locals over their truer colors, because native Coloradans just didn't understand them. There wasn't enough inside of them for us talk to, which is horrible if you are indeed the parent of a fucked up white kid. Who talks? Exactly. No one does. 

As the story unfolded, supposed new "details" emerged, none of which were particularly new or interesting to me: the killers had schemed and plotted their violent psychotic episodes right underneath their parent's noses, because the mom and dad were too busy with their petty careers to learn more about them. Teenage years are the prime check-out time for the dysfunctional parents who spawned their little messes, because high school age adolescents need less time and care, which is exactly what they got from their parents: nothing. Sure, both boys had enough money from their parents to stockpile a lot of weapons (same as the fucked up rich kid in Cali, with a plush movie-producing dad to go along with his intimate knowledge of video and youtube), and they lived in houses so big, there were plenty of spots to hide anything they wanted to, which is exactly what they did. Expertly.

Not teach, not learn, not grow, not function, and ultimately, not live. Just die. It was the same "here we go again" feeling I had early this morning on a rare coffee run to the corner because I was out of milk. The t.v. was on in the convenient store, showcasing fat white lady after fat white lady, crying about the cycles of dementia and abuse they remain trapped in (redundant to me already at this age), because their bodies tell me everything I know to be true about them with one quick glance, without me ever having to hear it from someone like them again: they're sick, and so are their kids. Again. 

What's next? First: drop the gun, asshole. Speak up about that sick kid in your class, or at your job, or sitting next to you pretending to work at a public library's computer so he can stalk you while smelling badly, openly and without censure from people who see me daily, in my own community. Tell someone, tell anyone, and keep on telling the truth about that sick motherfucker sitting next to you every single day, until someone around you does something about it. Speak up!

http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2014/10/mass-shootings-increasing-harvard-research

You're almost home, human. Join me: http://bit.ly/1j5tc6Y

Open Door

Oneonta versus Providence: a story told in manned, locked doors.

When I lived in rural upstate New York for school, in a old shared house that was dilapidated way back in the late 80s, the front door was always open. I took off my keys to give to a housemate for duplication in town and never got them back, or maybe I simply misplaced them one evening down at the "Black Oak Tavern", where my boyfriend worked the door. Because I was so young (and looked it), it was the only bar in town for me, which suited me fine. It greatly reduced the number of situations that needed handling with drunk kids, and everyone on campus knew I dated him.

He was proud to be a "strongman" when it suited him, often getting his way by being the biggest, strongest guy in the room; charms that wore off soon after the buzz from college faded. Violence is great for bar brawls; he'd worn an arm cast proudly back then to show that he could fight, but out in the real world (a place where there are tons of ex-football playing star quarterbacks from high school who are 6' tall), it doesn't really solve much. It didn't escape my attention on His Holiness' recent visit that he, too, had manned a door during his youth, as it is a common enough job for the working class man. My college beau did it during the summer, too, as a hatted doorman for rich people on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It suited his chatty nervy personality, but tons of talking has never done much for me that I couldn't learn more efficiently elsewhere.

But, he didn't do his work for the vocation of it; he wanted money (and lots of it), with hints of violence to go with the suggestion that he could throw you out anytime he wanted to. He and I sorted through that early on in our relationship, because we had to. I grew up in a violent household that did not grow more peaceful with alcohol, because fighting and drinking go hand-in-hand. We got into one night after one too many, and he told me firmly that he did not believe in touching women, so I couldn't touch him, even if it was a small quick shove on the shoulder. I immediately agreed. We set ground rules that night for our relationship in our dorms empty staircase (me, at all of 17, and he was just 18), in a way that still eludes the old neighborhood drunks here in town, poorly navigating life every single day on their own; without medication, appropriate health care, or stints in rehab.

It seems so strange to us now, perhaps because we have moved so far from the family as a holy role model, but there was a time when I could walk into a house I shared with my college buddies without ever carrying a house key for that entire year at school, because the front door was always unlocked. Oh, we all had locks on our individual bedroom doors (mostly for privacy with our boyfriends, or for studying and sleeping), but we never once locked the door after that initial key exchange, because we had nothing to be afraid about it. 

We'd occasionally find a drunk friend or two passed out on the large couches in the back living room after a party (all old houses had a front parlor that opened up into the main living room back then), but it stands out in stark contrast to the poor drunks around me now, with all the pain and hurt they cause daily, simply because they won't admit they need help, choosing instead to abuse the normal, happy, healthy people around them, for diseases they inherited from their own family.

Think about it this way: when was the last time you felt safe enough to keep your front door unlocked at night? When was the last time you didn't check all the windows in your home to make sure they were sealed tight? Who was to blame for your discomfort? I'll bet you know exactly who is unsafe around you (write a list of names), and so you have to ask yourself this: why do you protect them? And what from? The knowledge that they hurt? As easy as it seems to enable the problem people around us in the moment, it is always a poor tree that bears rotten fruit. If you know someone who is alcoholic and psychotic, the very best thing you can do for them is get them help today...no matter how violently they respond to your righteousness. Get help.

http://www.informationrockland.com/MatchList.aspx?c;;0;;N;0;0;POPULATION%20GROUPS;People%20with%20Disabilities;424;Psychiatric%20Mobile%20Response%20Teams