I see this face on Little K too often, and it breaks my heart.
Friday's school shooting in Connecticut happened while my children were still at school. I heard about it on the radio when I was on my way to the hospital to pick up my husband who was being discharged after a knee replacement surgery just 3 days earlier. On the way home I told my husband that we shouldn't have the TV on at all. He's an avid TV news watcher, but he agreed.
When the kids arrived home from school they appeared not to have heard the news. I kept them off the computer and away from the TV. Late at night when they were in bed I went to the internet for advice on how to talk to them about this. On Saturday I kept them engaged in helping me care for their dad and playing board games. By Sunday it was time. I had to tell them something, so they wouldn't hear it first from friends at school on Monday.
As I expected, Little K broke down. I did my best to describe the event simply, omitting much of the details, and emphasising that she was safe and that changes were likely to be made so that it would never happen to her. I reminded her that the world is filled with many more good people than those who want to do harm. That hundreds of people died that same day of illness, car accidents, and old age, and although we don't understand why things like this happen, God knows and is always with us. I even went so far as to say that the shooter was mentally ill, and perhaps didn't even know what he was doing (though personally I suspect otherwise).
Little K has a very sensitive soul. She cares deeply, and has enormous empathy for others. As I tried to console her, she said she wasn't so scared about herself being harmed, she was more terrified about having to witness someone else being hurt, watching others in pain. She said that if she ever had to see someone die, she would go live alone in the forest so she never had to see people hurt each other again.
Her fear is not new. She has no tolerance for violence of any kind, and gets very upset if she sees someone at school being teased. Images of suffering are seared into her brain from accidental glances at solicitations from charities that come in the mail, TV commercials with graphic previews for violent movies, photos in the "Time for Kids" news magazine she is forced to read in school. Because of this she refuses to see any films in a theater, will only watch PBS or a few other channels that don't have "bad commercials," and avoids newspapers and magazines.
Sunday night she had trouble going to sleep. In fact, she was up until 11:00pm crying, hysterical at times. It was heartbreaking for me. I prayed silently to myself, "Please, God, spare this girl knowledge of the horrors of the world." I let her sleep beside me, as my husband was downstairs in a twin bed anyway, unable to climb stairs yet on his new knee.
Monday morning early I emailed Little K's teacher to let her know that K was having a hard time. The school principal then called me half an hour before school started, and we planned that if K was feeling scared, she could tell her teacher she felt sick and needed to go to the nurse's office, and once there, the principal would come talk with her and help her. That made K feel so much better, and I was able to get her off the floor where she had disolved, and up and out the door to school.
I am so grateful that my daughters attend schools with truly loving, supportive staff. I know that every single one of their teachers as well as the other staff would give their own lives to save their students, just as the staff at Sandy Hook did. I feel no fear in sending my children off to school.
What I do fear is how we can help the future shooters, many of whom are young boys right now. There are several boys in my daughter's schools that I worry about. On Thursday night, before the tragedy, I was at our local elementary watching a winter concert. On stage was a boy I'll call "Z," who is now 11, but I've known since he was 5. Surrounded by nearly 100 other children who were belting out holiday songs, he stood stiffly, silently. He did not sing, he did not sway. He glared out at the audience, seething at having to be up there against his will. I've volunteered a lot in the classroom through the years, and during second grade I tutored this boy each week, trying to help him learn to read, write, and spell. Often during our sessions he would just ignore me. He'd put his head down on the desk and cover his ears. Interacting with people was unbearable for him. The teachers knew about this. He was seeing a counselor. His parents were concerned and aware.
There is another boy who is now in 7th grade, whom I'll call "X." From the time he was in kindergarten, he doodled during class. His drawings were always the same: mutilated body parts, guns, explosions of blood and guts. His face was often blank, expressionless. He was undergoing a horrible situation -- watching his mother die slowly of an incurable illness. Eventually his mother died. Everyone who knew the family, which was most of the school, rallied around to help, but X sank even further. Years passed. X was in 5th grade the first time I saw him smile, ever so briefly. I was hopeful for him. He was getting an abundance of help from school, from counselors. Maybe he would be OK. I've seen him a couple of times at the middle school. He looks sullen, and is often alone.
Middle school is Hell for most kids, but particularly damaging for those who have mental illness or deep emotional issues. I question our push to mainstream children with these challenges into the chaos and social cruelty of crowded classrooms. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be kinder to allow these kids to retreat, providing them with quiet places to read, listen to music, and get their education through online programming or tutoring. Continue to provide supportive adults and professional help, but forget "throwing them to the wolves," expecting them to find their way among kids who tease or reject them.
We don't take paraplegics to marathons every weekend and tell them to just get out of their chairs and run, so why should we send teens with Asperger's or other mental health issues to big schools and expect them to succeed, let alone cope? Sometimes I think more scars are laid down, and more hatred is kindled, in our quest to force emotionally fragile kids to integrate.
Little K is acutely aware of those at school who are suffering, and she has always been good about reaching out to comfort or defend them. I reminded her that although she is scared of witnessing violence, she is brave in a way that most kids aren't, in her ability to step forward and help others. She said that of course she had to help -- how could she not?
I don't know what the future holds for K. She has enormous compassion and depth of feeling. She could do great things in the world helping others, if she can get past the heartbreak. I'll do everything I can to help her grow strong and hope that her fears do not consume her.
This is terrible to admit, but I don't worry so much about my children, as I do about those lost souls who are living on the edge, some this very moment fantasizing about enacting their own rampage. Pray for them, that when kindness crosses their path, they are able to soak it in, and when adversity strikes, they are able to cope and move on.
