Now, this kinda scares me, and it makes me wonder what’s going on. What if it were my kids? What if my wife was a teacher? I’d worry about my family getting killed by a loony toon with a gun.
[Click Here for the lyrics to “Lunchbox” by Marilyn Manson. Disclaimer: Explicit Content]
Columbine. Wisconsin. Minnesota. The Amish in Pennsylvania. It seems that no one is safe really.
But then, I recall my own preteen and teenage years. The tauntings at school. Being chased home from bullies. Fighting for my own honor instead of backing down from a challenge. Terrible nights of walking, looking over my shoulder, anticipating every shadow’s shifting. Carrying a pellet gun, brass knuckles, a lead pipe, or a kitchen knife. . . “just incase.”
Then, I’d come home to another bully: my dad. Beatings for being rude, bad or annoying; even for “playing too loud.” Bruises. Splits in the skin. Shifting buttock to buttock in my chair, in class, because of the pain. Where I should’ve felt safe to go, after being bullied at school, was not a Safe House at all.
Remembering these years, I can empathize where these kids are coming from. They just want the pain to stop. They just want the teasing to cease. They just want to be respected, loved, and dignified.
[Click Here for my hypothetical news article on victims striking back.]
Pain. All emotion begs for an outlet. All anger seeks to be vented. All pain cries out for healing. We take Ny-Quil to kill off a cold. We take aspirin to kill the headaches. We nap to kill off fatigue. We take guns to school to kill off the torment.
Vigilante justice is not always right, but I can almost nod with understanding.
© 2006 Pomoxian Press
