Thoughts on Then and Now

It's been difficult for me to hear about the English major, the writing student, who went on a murderous rampage in a place that I have always considered to be in my neighborhood, family ancestry speaking. I have cousins in all the -burgs in Virginia... I was an English major at the University of Texas, passing by the infamous "clock tower" daily, sometimes thinking "there's no place to hide here" on my way to French class.

Tonight, I see/read his verbal sputum that he decided was newsworthy and mailed to NBC (and apparently, it is), and I hear that he was admitted to a psych unit, and was pronounced a "danger to himself" (and please, people "and others" is NEVER far behind with that kind of diagnosis).

I think back on all the students I've faced in my writing classrooms, all the drivel they wrote, all the outrage they expressed, all the apathy and slack-jawed, mumble-mouthed "kewl" and "dood" speak. And I think about the hopes and plans, the sense of justice, the empowerment and the entitlement that 18-23 year old students feel. They are in COLLEGE, they are ADULTS, and they are drunk with their powers. They are scared of making mistakes. They are bemused with the "older generation" and their rules... and they really just want to take it easy and have fun.

But they never ever would think that one of the messed up doods would bring a gun into the dorm and open fire.

Except now... they better think it, and parents of college students had better think it. NO ONE will ever enter a classroom and think they are safe. Because, face it, you're not.

I once had a student lunge for my throat, when he received a C or something non-A on a paper. He later apologized and finished the semester with a whimper. But all the seeds of rampage were there. I have never forgotten his name or what he looked like, either... I even remember what set him off (I learned how to make effective marginal comments that semester). Today, I would have called 911 on my cell phone, and he would have been maced, nightsticked and carted off to the padded room. I would be grateful, I guess. But I never stopped thinking about him every single time I commented on a paper, so no, I guess I didn't feel safe after that.

Did Cho's writing teachers know? Maybe, but what could they do? What can we do? If a student hands me a hate-filled manifesto, what will I do with it? Grade it? Confer with the student on it? Perhaps with witnesses/bodyguards present?

I haven't been in the classroom since 2002, and have been contemplating a return. But now? I simply don't know. And I don't think this is something I can put in an assignment and "open up the dialogue" in class about either. You either feel safe in English, French or Engineering class, or you don't. And now, I don't think the former is possible. So much for academic freedom.

It is disturbing to hear also that this "dood" wrote dark and violent screenplays (how original). And his teachers are reported to have said, "we thought it was satire." Um, ok. Reminds me of my Japanese student in a "Food in Culture" class who simply did not get Jonathan Swift's essay "A Modest Proposal." (Go look it up and read it... if you don't know it.) His outrage and grappling with the sheer blatant inhumanity was slightly amusing and perfectly understandable, because he simply did not have a cultural context for "satire." His strong moral compass never pointed to irony or satire. Is this true for South Koreans? For South Koreans who grow up in America where pop culture desensitizes and satirizes EVERYTHING? Hard to second guess his teachers... but not hard to see that professionals recommended treatment. Too bad it was "outpatient."

Quite rightly, NPR did have some good reporting about how (good) writing teachers do in fact know how to spot the difference between "disturbing situations" in a work and "disturbed" authors. This is true. It's fairly easy because students are not usually very good actors, and usually slack off or react honestly to an instructor.

I remember my students' faces in 1991 the morning after we went to war in real time, prime time.... One of them withdrew and enlisted because he wanted to serve. (No, the story doesn't end with drama and his corpse returning in a body bag. He probably is somewhere having a beer right now, enjoying his kids, or maybe he's in Iraq as a seasoned veteran.)

Then, at least there was a buffer, some recourse. We discussed it. You could protest the war, you could enlist, you could start a letter-writing group to support the troops, but it was organized, it was over there and you could still go to English class and hand in your 5 page paper. There was order somewhere in the world, where syllabuses and assignments mattered.

I remember their faces and relief when I cancelled classes on Sept. 12 (and 14), 2001, and then held special sessions on the 17, 19, and 21st, rearranging the schedule and encouraging them to get counseling if they needed it. The bravado, the slack jaws, the gum-popping slouching were gone. They were worried children. Frightened children. Two students withdrew. We continued with our work, but under the new normal, the new uncertainty.

But years later, a student came to me and said that none of his other teachers seemed to care or acknowledge what happened. He was able to heal and get on with it, and graduate.

The VTU boys and girls I saw on TV last night, talking about the massacre, the blood, the dead professors - they were not frightened children. They were strangely, peach-fuzzy, t-shirtedly mature, resigned to this new reality.

Later, I almost smiled indulgently when I channel-surfed past the E! channel's "Spring Break" show, depicting the flashing, drinking and hooking-up. Ah, youth! Well, at least those kids weren't armed and dangerous, or headed for war.

But a fellow student opened fire in the dorm, in a classroom. What is next? What in Goddess' name is next? Can we really ignore the fact that our children are not safe. Can we afford not to? It's not the guns, it's not the security, it's the ticking time-bombs inside our children, our neighbor's children. How many of our children are sick inside, how many of them will let the blackness take over, and how many of our children will be killed in a classroom, by a shooter or by their own hand?

And now? how in the hell do I protect my 11 yr old son from becoming a victim? or a perpetrator? There really are no answers here. There just aren't. Not now, anyway.

John Bruce Cox, 1945-2007

John Bruce Cox died on March 25, after a valiant battle with cancer. He was a loving husband, father and brother who served his country in the U.S. Naval Reserves and U.S. Army (both active duty and reserves). In the Army during the Viet Nam War, he was stationed in the U.S. and in Germany. The proud son of a career Air Force officer, John became a helicopter mechanic after active duty and later served as an airworthiness inspector for the Federal Aviation Authority. He attended the University of Kansas and the College of William and Mary where he studied humanities and philosophy. He retired from the Army Reserves with the rank of Major.

Above all, John was a family man. He helped his parents in their final years, he adored his three beautiful daughters, and cared for his younger siblings and two stepchildren. He was best man at his brother's wedding. As a child, he lived all over the country and eventually settled in Texas, residing in the Dallas-Ft. Worth area for the past 20 years.

John loved art, cars, books, music and film, and surrounded himself with laughter and beauty. Later in life, he became an avid SCUBA diver and cyclist, activities that he pursued with Lynn, his wife of three years. After a diagnosis of cancer, he rode in the Hotter N'Hell Hundred. He will be lovingly remembered by family and friends for his sense of humor and his magnanimous spirit.

John Cox is survived by wife Lynn Morrow, daughters Charlotte Nicole, Julia Catherine, Emily Marie; brother Lee and sister Jay; and his aunt Katherine Walker. He follows his parents in death, Samuel J. Cox, Jr. (USAF, Lt. Col, Ret.) and Nancy K. Cox (WWII WAC Sgt.).

A private memorial is scheduled with a military burial later. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that a care package be sent to active duty troops serving overseas.

(Visit http://www.anysoldier.com or http://www.uso.org.)

Lost

(Though we are enjoying this show, this post is not about Matthew Fox, Terry O'Quinn, Evangeline Lily or Josh Holloway. But a Lost cookbook might be fun to play with!)

I am lost.

My brother died on March 25, and I went to his wake in Dallas. I also went to see him a few days before to say goodbye, though he was pretty much ready to sail on at that point. He was in hospice - fighting pancreatic and hepatic cancer. And he won. He went out with dignity, peace and love. Too early, much much too early, but he made the best with what he had. He was in his own clothes, in his own house, holding his wife's hand, while his daughters were running errands. Shortly after he died, a helicopter flew overhead. (Long story short: he was a helicopter mechanic, later an FAA inspector for rotary aircraft.)

I made him laugh in his last days with an image that a friend sent to me. He even posted it to his internet "home" - a forum where he had some 5,800 posts over the years. I cling to that as his final thoughts about me, his Baby Sister, the chubby little drooler who undoubtedly annoyed him for 40-odd years.

His daughters came from far away (some distances are not measured in miles) to be with him, and each other. His brother came. I came. And his wife's daughters also gathered around him. His cycling friends came to him, and while we weren't always actually in his room, we were chatting and realizing that he was a hell of a guy and that even in his dying, he had brought the ragtag lot of us together.

What we make of it at this point is our own business, and our responsibility. But it does have promise. As the trees leaf out, as the greens in rainy Dallas spread and deepen toward summer, and as the fireants rebuild yet again right there where you step to get out of the car, life goes on and so must we.

But for now, I just feel lost. There are tears to shed, burials to arrange (both parents and my brother), ashes to scatter (my brother in a specified locale), and loose ends to tie. There is work to go back to, summer vacations to plan, decisions to make about the slipcover, the car maintenance and the bills. As my mother would say, there is wool to gather.

And there are blogs to read. So, thanks for reading this one. I'll be posting again soon, as food memories drift up and around (who knew catfish was comfort food to me?). But for now, my silence takes over again.