Schrödinger’s Child

WARNING: This post addresses school shootings and the threat of those shootings. Please take care of your mental health, always.

I’m sitting at a child’s activity, listening to the moms around me try to figure out the lockdown at their kids’ middle school last week. They’re pretty sure a student just messed up, sending a text with a few of the words that automatically require action.

Yesterday, students at the University of Virginia died in a shooting. 

Two days ago, I had coffee with a friend who showed me a video of armed and armored SWAT agents escorting her daughter out of a high school here in town, after a rash of prank calls a month ago. 

Over the weekend, I listened to This American Life’s October 28 episode, “Kids These Days,” which highlights the voices of students discussing school shootings. 

And last year, my child called me from a lockdown that was not a drill. 

I am asking you all, as a community, why is this normal? Why do we accept it? 

Even if it were somehow possible to accept that all children in America today live under the constant threat of dying at school—live with regular drills in hopes that they won't die at school—children are actually dying. 

Children are actually dying. I can tell you how it feels to not know if my child is alive, but I cannot tell you how it feels to know that my child did die in a burst of gunfire. 

I do not want to know that. I do not want ANYONE to know that. I am not okay with this “normal.” I do not accept it. 

And, unfortunately, I think it will take all of us to make a difference—not by legislating the symptoms, but by rooting out the cause. My instinct tells me that the cause lies in how utterly consumed we adults have all become by our economic survival. I think we need to re-examine our whole culture, reducing our expectations of status, increasing our support networks, and valuing humans—families of all kinds—over production. I truly feel we need less pressure and more connection, more rest, and more joy in our children’s lives—and our own. 

I’m no expert. I am just a parent in 2022 saying that I’m not okay with this. I do not accept it. I am listening for ideas and I will throw my support behind anything that moves the needle away from this unthinkable “normal.” 

 

    Schrödinger’s Child 

    Anytown, America 

            2022 

 

Heartbeats 

Between texts 

Empty space 

Silence 

Between 

Time in which I both have 

And do not have 

A child 

 

9am 

Before class 

Putting his bike 

In the rack 

 

He texts 

Lockdown at school rn 

    For real or drill? 

silence 

    Are you outside? 

silence 

    You’re in parking lot? Can you see or hear anything? 

silence 

 

A brief connection, a call, a voice, my child alive 

    Go inside, find a teacher 

Okay 

 

silence 

silence 

silence 

and 

silence 

(weeks later, as I write this, the school calls 

In between ring and answer, silence) 

 

In silence 

I drive pointlessly 

Toward the school 

Mother of both 

A living child 

And not 

In the silence 

between 

 

Two thousand 

Children that day 

Alive and dead 

In the silence 

between 

(a student in crisis 

the call said later) 

 

Another 

Two thousand 

Last week 

Alive and dead 

In the silence 

between 

(a rash of pranks 

the call said later) 

 

Did you know that 

Our bodies 

don’t know 

The difference 

Between real 

And perceived 

Danger? 

 

In the time between 

My childhood 

And now 

We have all lost 

Our children 

In the silence 

between

Happy Trails, Bruno

 

 

Farewell and happy trails to Brunelleschi “Bruno” Catalano, the puppy formerly known as Elvis. I waited my whole life for you—I hope you’ll wait for me now.

 

 

 

 

You have been the best adorable puppy pain in the butt, yard work impeder, winter foot warmer, and snoring writing companion, not to mention the most enthusiastic and random running partner, the most worried nanny, the most dedicated night watchman, and the most fanatical licker of beer bottles.

 

 

You awed us with your wily ways of outsmarting training techniques. You touched our hearts when you jumped out of your comfort zone and into the pool to rescue your children. We learned so much from your deep understanding of acceptance, love, and loyalty. We will miss you.

 

Wherever you are, may all the rabbits know that you want to play; may you scamper up trees with the squirrels and leap high enough to reach the birds.

 

 

 

 

 

My beloved companion for over four and a half thousand sunrises and sunsets, it could never have been enough time. Thank you for what we shared. My heart is better for what you took with you—and what you left with me.

 

We have so many beautiful memories of our puppy--keep scrolling if you wish...

 

 

 

Words Matter

After a couple of years of mental drafts and revisions, it seems time to share this journey with the world. 

In case anyone’s missed it, I’m a nerd—the kind of nerd who misses social cues, reads for fun, and never studies but messes up the curve. The ‘80s weren’t particularly kind to any kids, including—and maybe especially—nerds. So, in the summer after seventh grade, I leapt at a chance to spend three weeks at a camp for gifted kids—all nerds, no bullying? Sign me up! 

We were all nerds, for sure, but, unfortunately, we were also middle schoolers of our time. One girl on our hall, who looked different and acted different, soon became the target of the more normal-passing girls. I felt deeply uncomfortable with what the relatively cool nerds did to this child, but I also seized my chance to NOT be a target, hanging in the back of their pack. I did not speak up for her. 

Ultimately, the group found out this sweet child had two moms and that became one of the primary targets for their mockery. As an incredibly socially immature child, also young for my grade and from a small rural town, I had almost no idea what having two moms meant. I don’t even know if I connected it with being LGBTQ+ at the time. In my world then, “gay” was just what the boys called each other as they exchanged nuggies. I certainly didn’t get why it constituted anything to harass our hallmate about. But I did not say anything. 

I deeply regret how we treated her now. So, so much. I am sorry that I did not speak up. 

As I grew, I became aware that the people I admire most stand outside the “norm.” (If you don’t know how I feel about the idea of a norm or normal, read more here.) In high school and college, some of my favorite people happened to be (mostly deeply private, if not closeted) LGBTQ+ folks. 

Seven years and a lot of learning later, I walked with Amnesty International at the Gay Pride March on Washington in 1993. Two moments stand out vividly to me. As we walked, I ended up one concrete barrier away from a notorious church hate group, with their hateful chants, their carefully taught children, and their hateful signs. I remember looking at them, hearing their words with utter bafflement. My brain could hold nothing but, Why do you even care? Seriously, what does this have to do with you? I have never been able to answer that question. 

The second moment came on the metro later. Many, many marchers took the train to Georgetown after the event—10, 000 Maniacs was playing that night. My friend and I sat behind two motherly-looking women, who seemed old at the time but were probably my age now, fifty-ish. The atmosphere of community had carried over from the mall to the metro, so we chatted. After a few minutes, these lovely women told us the story of how they met. 

I have utterly forgotten the story, but I will never forget the quality of it. They spoke with huge, fragile vulnerability, each word fresh, unused. They almost rediscovered their own story as they unfolded it for us. As a writer and a director, I recognized what I was privileged to hear—a decades-long love story that had been cherished in safety between lovers and rarely shared. I felt honored to hear it. I felt devastated by the knowledge that any lovers on this earth felt compelled to hide the story of their joy in one another. 

That moment came to my mind decades later, as I stood in line at a grocery store in Florida, well after all marriage became legal. A typical summer afternoon storm popped up, with rain sheeting down in the parking lot. The man in line in front of me turned around and said, with cheerful chagrin, “Oh, my husband is going to be furious. I left the top down.” I sympathized with him, both of us hoping it wouldn’t last long, until he began loading groceries on the belt. 

 I marveled at the beauty of that moment of careless small talk, such a different beauty than I had seen in the carefully protected love story years earlier. 

I reflected on how, when everyone feels free—and safe—in being who they are, we find so much in common as human beings. 

I acknowledged, again, the power of words both to bind us together and to separate us from each other. 

I gave thanks for the words of activists, which had brought about change in the words of our country’s law; I gave thanks that the words of law created space for me to share moments of everyday irony and joy with all my fellow humans. 

Words matter. Say the words that you believe. Say them for freedom, for connection, for joy, and for love.