Starting
Point Asking violence to justify myth that it takes care of
things
By DONNA SCHAPER
As the news from Littleton, Colo., broke, I was preparing a party
for a dozen 14-year-olds on spring break. My older son was instant messaging
me: Keep an eye on them.
He wanted me to keep his twin brother and sister safe. I know I
cant. The parents in Kosovo and the Bronx cant either: Violence
wins battles it should never even be allowed to have. We let it. And we cannot
let it. We can withdraw permission from the myth that violence solves things.
It doesnt. It only destroys things.
Between tears and 16-year-old paternalizing of 14-year-olds, I
picked up the smelly sneakers other mothers wont be able to bear to even
see. I folded the laundry, probably the same brands the parents of the dead
teens were asked to describe to law enforcement officers so that their children
could be properly identified.
More news on the radio. The commandos hated jocks.
They didnt want to be treated badly by anyone anymore. These kids in my
fragile care were not all jocks but they were dropping the words
nerd and geek with dangerous impunity.
They were also playing video games, playing records while making
fun of my musical taste, singing, dancing and banging out Heart and
Soul on the piano, badly, while E-mailing their absent friends, all at
the same time. Some were just jumping up and down for no good reason. Janis
Joplin was crooning about freedom being nothing left to lose just
before outdoor flashlight tag began.
Then someone got out an $8 pouch of hair dye, alias peroxide. Some
of the kids called their parents for permission. One parent said, no,
dont do it, and if you do, dye only the top ring. Youre getting a
hair cut soon. Thus, Jeff now has a spiral. Officially the parents are opposed;
unofficially, we know how helpless we are.
I had asked my daughter what she expected from me for the evening.
Just walk through every now and then, smiling, dont talk and then
leave. I was thinking of posting a guard at the door, but apparently she
wanted much less.
Between real and imagined dramas, I fought with my daughter about
details, probably the same details a parent fought with a daughter about on the
way out of the door this morning. No boy-girl sleepovers. Period. Thats
the end.
Do the kids know about Colorado? I whispered during a
soda replacement visit to the kitchen. She said, yes, of course. Weve all
known all afternoon. Are people going to be upset, will they want to
talk? She gave me that now familiar look that says I am from Mars:
No, Mom, we are having a party. We dont have to worry about that
now.
They worry by appointment. My older son works out an hour a day. I
finally found out why. So no one can take me on the street. He
lives in a part of the world that is as safe as Littleton used to be. But he
knows about danger.
Like many of his peers, he wants to act in his own movie. He plays
those violent games that I pay for and that bring military training into my
household. I, a draft protester, now pay for the training he receives. Violence
and strength solve problems, according to this 16-year-olds world-view,
for at least a few minutes at a time.
Then we have to go back to school, walk the corridors where the
smell of gun smoke still lingers, an awful lot like the Old West. My son
probably wont use a Tech DC9 to express himself -- but then those parents
didnt think their kids would either. But he will salute the dominant
myth: Violence is good. It takes care of things.
This morning there are bodies all over my house. Six girls. They
giggled till after 2 a.m. when I quit protecting them from no real danger.
These bodies will wake up. Others will not.
The end of sleepovers has come for a dozen or more kids. The end
of parental battles. The end of sneaker debris. And someone is going to have to
say why. Someone is going to have to ask violence to justify its perennial
lure, nonviolently. Then maybe the kids will have a chance for safety, tag and
dyed hair. Otherwise, they dont.
Donna Schaper writes from Amherst, Mass.
National Catholic Reporter, May 7,
1999
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