Predictable
Hi, my name is Philip Teresi and in high school I wore a duster. I was bullied some when I was in grade school, and one of the mixed blessings of having a gay parent was that a few kids thought that should continue indefinitely.
I wore the duster because I thought it was a cool coat. It made my broad shoulders stand out even more. It also had a lot of pockets so I could keep my contraband hidden. Usually that meant cigarettes, but it could also mean everything from a little hash pipe to a duct-taped roll of nickels we called a ‘cheater’ that I somehow had the good sense to never actually use in the manner imagined.
Also, in my idiot adolescent mind I looked like a superhero when the wind (or a passing car) blew it out behind me. I always wanted to be Superman.
Most of the bullying stuff stopped right around the time I passed the 5’11” mark. Tall and loud is too much trouble for the kind of kid who just wants to roll a little shit downhill. I don’t know how you’d define the difference between ‘bullying’ and ‘kids being unremarkable buttheads’ so I can’t say for sure, but I think the last time someone made a real effort to bully me I was a Freshman. Some yelling, name-calling, and a couple thumps upside the head later and that kind of thing pretty much ended.
Eventually my duster went into the collection of an ex-girlfriend. The (still unused) cheater got cut open and dumped into a CoinStar machine right around the first time a paycheck wasn’t enough.
Not quite two years after I graduated, on what was - if I recall correctly - not coincidentally the 110th anniversary of the birth of Adolph Hitler, Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris made those old pictures embarrassing in a new and horrible way.
Since then there’s a list. Dozens of schools. Every social/economic demographic gets touched.
And there’s the predictable aftermath. Shock, grief, horror for the people directly affected. Disgust, regret, guilt, fear for the people at the close periphery. Politicians offer Thoughts & Prayers™ and the Smort Peepul tell each other why that’s not enough. No satisfying meaning is found, no conclusive action is taken.
The news cycle will bring you sad stories and the heart-breaking pictures of lives cut short. Mothers and Fathers will give interviews, sobbing, trying to let the world know their child existed and deserved more. Politicians will fundraise off of threats of action or inaction by The Other Team. Shock Jock Wannabe Talking Heads will say something offensive, the Church of Perpetual Outrage will give them an evening of free promotion….
Like I said: predictable.
As previously discussed, a big part of this can be boiled down to: Boys Need Fathers. Or at least: Boys Need Healthy Male Role Models.
A pastor, a coach, a teacher, a neighbor, a troop leader, a mentor. Normal, healthy, decent men leading by example and demystifying that stuff every boy needs to learn. Direction, Discipline, Structure, Affirmation, Affection, Education.
A guide to navigating bullshit. An example of how to cope with embarrassment, disappointment, jealousy. And sometimes the administration of tough love.
When you identify a kid who doesn’t get it you have to triage. Is this a kid who hasn’t really thought about anything that raw? Is this a little Edgelord saying dumb stuff because they still haven’t figured out positive means of attracting attention? Do you have a kid with an unnatural fascination or a destructive impulse? As with all things there is a spectrum.
One of the tools left unused is Klebold & Harris themselves. Sometime after that investigation was complete the evidence photos were leaked. That includes two angles capturing the Columbine shooters’ dead bodies. If you’ve got a kid pushing that boundary it’s time for the Poopy Pants Conversation.
When you come to a point on that spectrum where tough love is in order reference the Klebold/Harris suicide photo. Explain what happened, why Klebold and Harris smelled like urine and feces and bad meat. Help them understand that the perpetrators of that crime didn’t give off an aura of menace. They stank like a truck stop men’s room. Because of the requirements for processing a body under those circumstances everybody who interacted with them thinks of a ruptured diaper genie rather than two men.
The last act of every mass shooter has been to soil themselves, and every adult knows that. They can’t be scary or worthy of long thought if they arrive at the gates of hell with a load in their pants.
For most kids that’s too much. Most kids will never need anything like that, if they ever warrant a thought of “Is he nuts?” to begin with.
I know all of that sounds extreme and even a little crazy in its own way. But being predictable isn’t working.
Get your family off of Social Media, especially your children. Take them to museums or the movies. Go for a walk, watch TV, or start learning how to play guitar. Live the example you want them to follow or at least show up and let them know you care.
Nobody needs to hear the millionth invocation of “Back in My day…” We know. You’re right. It WAS better. I was there, riding my bike without a helmet, disappearing from view until the streetlights came on, upgrading the Atari 2600 to the NES and still spending enough time outside to drink from hoses and smash pennies on railroad tracks. We settled fights with one-on-one fisticuffs and teepee’d pretty girls’ front yards and nobody got sued or shot at.
Our kids don’t care. We robbed them of that. Greedy, myopic fools treating the American Dream like it’s a zero-sum game. All that is part of the reason school shootings and QAnon exist to begin with.
EDIT: Two days after posting this I came across an article that captures some of what I was trying to articulate (albeit from the other side of the political divide), which led me to the story of a kid named Emmett Till and the choice his mother made to stop pulling punches. Both articles deserve your time, maybe especially because neither article is there to offer comfort.
I’m posting this on Memorial Day, a day reserved for remembering and honoring America’s war dead. I don’t want to ignore the reason I’m home with my family, I just don’t know how to transition from the horror and the shame of last week to a thoughtful reflection on our greatest heroes.
Having visited their memorials with Central Valley Honor Flight #21 I feel a strong connection today. Those men gave their lives to preserve and defend our nation. I don’t know how I would explain Uvalde to any of them. I don’t know why we keep electing people who pretend we should have to.