It is abundantly true that "thoughts and prayers" are never sufficient to assuage the unspeakable anguish of man-made abominations such as what transpired in Parkland. However, are these feeble offerings of good intention really more obscene than the abject inertia of our lavishly funded protective institutions? If, by its own admission, the F.B.I. remains inert (once again) in the face of actionable information about an impending slaughter, what is the point of any sort of debate (once again) about the legality and availability of the instruments of said slaughter? "Thoughts and prayers" offered in earnest are infinitely superior to the institutional equivalent of "Oops."
It started with a little bump; a barely visibly, scarcely tangible, yet ominously persistent pea-sized bump on my chest. A seemingly innocuous atoll that concealed a submerged continent of malignancy. My very existence nearly ran aground upon these cancerous reefs five years ago this week. It was the very definition of a mid-life crisis, the existential struggle to survive, a battle only won through passivity and humility in the presence of wise and patient people. And I was extremely lucky. It is a story that I will return to periodically. My insights about the experience, such as they are, come in shuddering and periodic fragments, bursts of trauma in my mind's eye. Cancer haunts the mansions of my mind, a howling demon that comes sailing around darkened corners and rising out of floorboards with cackling taunts. I do not know if I will ever stop being afraid of the demon's return. Cancer stalks my memory, and periodically I genuflect before my history with this monster who terrified and transformed me five years ago this week. More to come.
Good luck isn't proof of virtue or evidence of merit. It's just good luck. I say that as one of the lucky.
As I hurtled down 280 in the dark before dawn, my mind ambled among the news of the latest classroom carnage to erupt in the Republic, this time in Parkland, Florida. Like a lot of people, I'd picked over the flurry of harrowing and horrific reports of this Valentine's Day Massacre for the 21st century, and mulled over the usual debates on gun control and mental health. I scrutinized the killer's brief biography for tell-tale signs of something significant that would have definitively marked him in advance with the sign of Cain and Manson and Eichmann. The one thing that struck me though as I made my way to work, was that for all of the adversity and tragedy that this young man endured before he inflicted unspeakable agony on countless others, HE HAD A CHOICE. HE MADE A CHOICE. He made that choice with deliberation and precision over weeks and months. He made a choice to commit evil. Evil that would leave an enduring mark, that would ripple throughout a community, indeed, a nation. There were undoubtedly MANY moments when this young man could have decided to choose to do something else. Instead of picking up his gun and his ammo, he could have kept them locked up. He could have chosen to get a job. He could have chosen to go back to school. He could have chosen to get advice or counseling or some kind of help. He chose otherwise. He chose to hurt. He chose to prepare to harm on as massive a scale as he could manage. And when he was done, he chose to have a snack at Subway. His decision to do evil on Ash Wednesday may not have been intentional, but it is significant. The image of a Douglas High mother sobbing with fear or grief with the ashen cross smeared on her forehead confers an awful sacramental majesty on this atrocious event. The day is intended to remind us of our lowly and fragile status in this universe, and that for all of our free will, we all end up in the same humbled condition. Driving down 280, the Parkland Massacre made me think of the Baptismal Vows that parents and godparents make when their child is christened. The priest asks the parents and godparents to renounce Satan and all his works, specifically his "pomps" and false "glamor." Those particular words, especially "glamor" struck me as acutely relevant for the ills that afflict our social media saturated age. A quietly obscure life of plodding along, fulfilling basic duties, doing small kindnesses, and exhibiting unsung generosity is not going to make anybody a celebrity. Decency is never as spectacular or eye-catching as infamy. This self-confessed butcher in Parkland heeded the siren song of the camera flash and click bait. He made himself famous on a mountain of misery and tears. Without meaning to do any such thing, the Parkland butcher created an Ash Wednesday parable for our times.
