A Failed Intervention

Posted on 04/27/2008 by Jane Devin

I see her through the clouded lens of decades past, the tiny girl with the weary smile, and the sure, square hands darkened with charcoal and chalk. At nine, she built her world of art on sidewalks and cement walls, springing dark-eyed figures out of marigold fields, and white rabbits out of wishing wells.

She had a quiet grace and sensitive hearing. I remember her brother standing next to her in the empty schoolyard one summer day and screaming loudly in her ear. She collapsed to the ground crying, covering her head as if the sirens had gone off and the world was coming to an end. Her brother scoffed and walked away satisfied. I stood with my back against a wall, watching her world crumble, my eyes darting left and right, for what seemed like hours.

“It’s okay,” I finally whispered, gathering up her chalk and charcoal and putting them in my bike basket. “It will be okay.” I repeated myself dozens of times, not knowing what else to say, and finally she lifted her braided head and nodded at me with a tear stained face.

She wanted to hold hands on the way home, so we did, my left hand in her right, my other hand pushing my bike. We walked in silence, with another secret between us, one of several, and our shared knowledge bonded us together more tightly than any game of double-Dutch rope or cats-in-the-cradle ever could.

Ms. Mary Mack Mack Mack and hands wrapped in brightly colored strings were only covers, dusty book jackets under which all the real stories stirred and collided. We were, underneath the false sing-song rhythm of childhood, The Girls Who Knew Things (no one else knew). We were The Girls Who Felt Things (that no one else could guess). We were The Girls With Secrets (that couldn’t be trusted to the world). We were best friends.

On the day she was to move thousands of miles away, I rode my bike all the way to Idlewild Park, a leg-numbing journey of ten to twelve miles. I rode the kiddie train around the park and glared at anyone who looked in my direction. I wanted a fight. A knock-down, drag-out, fists flying fight. I wanted to beat the whole world up. I wanted others to know my pain, and I wanted pain enough to cry.

I did cry, eventually. Under the cover of pine trees and dusk, when I knew for certain that the moving truck would be gone. When I no longer had to see the sad brown eyes staring back at me, or hear the promises of daily letters and one-day-we-will visits.

She was gone. And she took with her all the art and color and trust that had filled me. I felt drained of everything except defeat. I screamed into the Truckee river, the scream of a wild, abandoned child, and I bitterly harbored half a hope that she would hear me.

I hear you screaming now, my friend. And I know, I really do, how hard this is for you. It came as a shock, although in my mind this last scene has played over and over again until it finally wore down to the inevitable.

I can’t, I won’t, compete with your darkly romantic visions of a slow suicide by neglect and Jack Daniels. I won’t be the one to keep your secrets anymore, because they are killing you, cell by cell, moment by moment, day by dreary day.

You climbed the ladder with drunken energy, only to let go effortlessly once you were near the top. There, crumpled into yourself, nothing mattered. Not those who felt obliged to nurture you back to health, or those who acted as both catalyst and crutch. Not those who paid your bills when you forgot, or remembered your children’s birthdays.

I was there when you bought your house. It was a beautiful house, once, and just what you always dreamed of – water, mountains, privacy, room for dogs and cats and horses. Now I walk inside and everything has turned into garbage. There are puddles on the floor, mountains of filthy clothes, rotting food on the counters. There are no animals in sight except the dark-eyed one that sits among the melted candles and artistic ruins, drinking herself into oblivion.

It turns my stomach to think that you live like this. That you, who are capable of so much beauty, and who worked so hard to produce and attain it, could let everything turn to a pile of shit in a matter of a few years.

I’ve wanted to scream, but I held back, not wanting to hurt you. I’ve wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shake you back to life. I have felt anger so primal that it took all my willpower not to add the mark of my hand to where yours had been, and punch holes in the walls. I thought, wrongly, that gentleness would sway you. I thought, maybe, if I washed the clothes and mopped up the puddles, and held your hand, and whispered in your ear, and showed you how deeply you were loved, that something would click.

Instead, it was all a huge disconnect. You. Me. The World. But mostly you. Growing so numb that I have to wonder how much of you is really left. Your eyes are void. Your dry skin hangs from fragile looking bones. Even your tears are dry. Pathetic, heaving sobs begin and end in wanting, needing, insisting on more of something, but it’s always vague and never named. You wallow in the dirt of self-pity, and tell me you are stuck, but your nearly lifeless hands reach for nothing except another grimy glass.

And there’s him. The leech that has sucked you down into some lover’s abyss I’ll never understand. He loves you, you tell me, but from here it looks like greed and a matter of ease. You, not for the first time, are so willing to let everything go for that one man who will finally take you into the less-than-zero zone. If you both have your way, and I’m now convinced you will, you’ll be worth less than zero when he is through living off your lifeblood and scavenging through your possessions. Then again, you might be dead and it won’t matter anymore. He’ll stay and pick through the bones like the vulture he is, and the rest of us – those who have truly loved you and tried to protect you – will have to sieve through our anger to find our grief.

It’s one thing to fight you. We have fought before, and fairly. Two against one, though, is one too many.

I am saying goodbye, my once-precious friend, and there will be no promises of letters or one-day anything. I am done, because you are done. Because I still have a life left, and I can’t live it fully while I’m trying to manage the one you and your two deadly habits are intent on destroying. There’s no damage control I can do that will ever rise above your need to experience some kind of death daily.

Do not dare tell me that I have not loved you well enough, or strong enough, or deep enough. I have loved you far too long, and way too much. I’ve kept your secrets and indulged your disease, and drained myself of time, money, and energy in order to give you whatever temporary relief would get you through another day. My love for you long ago exceeded any expectation of mutuality, and I have loved alone. Alone. Like a wild child, desperate to hang onto my one true companion – The Girl Who Once Was.

I will miss her. I will miss you not nearly as much.

Jonestown, Guyana: Effect & Reflections, 29 Years Later

Posted on 12/11/2007 by Jane Devin

I. The Horror of Jonestown

I was sixteen years old, and just months into an emancipation that was all at once frightening, peaceful, and confusing. I had no idea what I was doing, but was determined to let experience be my teacher. After a few fits and starts in the foreign territory of Northern California, I found a decent job and a furnished apartment. I signed contracts and opened accounts – and was absolutely giddy when I received my first box of checks.

I had a charged-up kind of confidence that came from years of hopeful and escapist reading. Positive thinking mantras, bootstrap philosophies, self-informed destinies. Think it and be it. I had scars, deep ones, but I was determined that they would fade. That as an adult, I would bury those crushed and diseased layers of childhood under so much happiness, love, and positivity that they would cease to exist in any real dimension, and become only distant memories.

Then, Guyana. Jonestown. A Utopian dream for those disenfranchised or disenchanted by society – a dream that somehow went terribly wrong – leaving over 900 people dead, including 287 children.

I didn’t really believe the news when it came blaring through my tiny black and white television. Adults die, but children – we bounce back. Adults are screwed up in a thousand ways, with their alcohol, their deceptions, and their rage, but children – we know, don’t we? We run, we escape, and when we can’t – we bounce back. We hold our thoughts and dreams in a special place they can’t touch. We make promises to ourselves, and take pleasure in every new inch added to our height. Soon, we will be grown-up. We will reach the magical age, and no one will harm us anymore.

I was so mad at the media. The newscasters wouldn’t shut-up, even after hours, about the dead Congressman and the camera man, their lives, and their families. It seemed to me that the media was pronouncing that these men, who lived professional, distinguished lives, deserved to be mourned, while 900+ other people existed only as a sensational backdrop – nameless, faceless, without stories to tell, or families left behind. I needed to know: Who were they? What happened? Why? How? Did they try to run, did they struggle, did any children escape, did anyone, in a moment of revelation, scream for others to stop? How could one man, who originally led others in a quest for equality and harmony, lead them into murder and suicide?

287 children. Really dead. Not able to bounce back from the sickness of adults.

I used my bus money to buy every newspaper and magazine available, and became frustrated and obsessed with the story of Jonestown. The answers were sparse and shallow, and the children remained largely anonymous. Adult survivors who were interviewed still seemed blinded by a charismatic madman and a broken promise of Utopia. At sixteen, I found them selfish and weak, and despised them for fleeing into the woods without carrying so much as one defenseless child with them.

Jonestown was thousands of miles away from the Silicon Valley, where I, like thousands of others, spent my working hours in a sparkling clean factory filled with diodes, capacitors, and motherboards – cutting edge technologies meant to make life easier and more efficient. While the horror of Jonestown was being broadcast, cars stalled at their usual pace on crowded highways, people fought for parking space at the malls, and billboards and radio stations hawked their usual wares.

People made jokes about the “Kool-Aid drinkers” as if there really was no more to the story than a bunch of really stupid, worthless people who followed a delusional madman into a murderous pact. But there were bent and broken syringes, showing signs of struggle. Reports of parents screaming, children screaming, and being forced to swallow. Tiny teeth marks on plastic syringes tell a story very few people had the heart or mind to tell.

They took the children first. 287 of them. Agents of Jones, for the most part, led them; a few parents. They led them to the podium like little lambs – and lions – to slaughter. It was a coldly calculated move, designed to make the bereaved parents easier to manage, more willing to let themselves be killed.

The dead and dying were placed out of sight, to painfully convulse to their deaths under the warm Guyana sun. They say it took about five minutes for their hearts, even the tiniest, to stop beating.

I grew up after Guyana. I changed, my dreams changed, and my thoughts shifted outward. My introverted nature turned itself inside out, and I began to demand answers for every unfairness, injustice, and act of cruelty I saw, experienced, or heard about. I became, to some, a hellion; a thorn. Others found my passion admirable, but “too much,” too “intense”. I was urged (and often warned) to be more diplomatic, to temper my tongue, and slow my thoughts.

I did / I didn’t. I tried / I failed. I burned hot and cold, got burnt, and burned myself out for months, even years, at a time. Often, I stepped up only to get shot down. Sometimes, I rallied back, fought harder than ever, and succeeded. There are rarely any easy choices in a life that’s determined to make a difference, no matter how small, limited – or even eventually inconsequential – that difference might be.

II. Naming the Rage

I raged most, and still do, against those in positions of power and authority – including parents, religious figures, CEO’s, celebrities, media moguls, politicians, judges, and those in law enforcement – who misuse and abuse their positions and then hide behind the many protections they are afforded in order to prevent their misdeeds from being discovered or, in the case of the wealthy or powerful, to escape punishment when they are caught.

I name as my enemies those who neglect, abuse and even kill their children, leaving scars, blood and tears in the wake of their negligence or violence. Those who pilfer and steal the hard-earned money entrusted to them – those who purposely distort the news millions of people rely on – those who make shady backroom deals to line their own pockets – those who bring their personal prejudices to bear in deciding the fates of others – those sworn to uphold the law, but who hold guns to their wives heads, torment their children, or beat handcuffed citizens to a bloody pulp, and then hide behind their badges.

I name you as my moral enemy, if you are one of those who are so dazzled by the light of power or celebrity that you will invent blinders or a different set of rules for privileged others. If you are one of those who will create excuses for authority figures that you would not create for your own friends or neighbors. Those of you, for example, who would support the torture at Abu-Ghraib as a justifiable means to an end, yet loudly proclaim America to be the near-infallible and supreme promoter of Human Rights.

I name you hypocrites – those of you who would line the streets to cheer for a perverted star like Michael Jackson, but who wouldn’t hesitate to demand the harshest sentences for sex offenders in your own communities. Those of you who would make heroes out of someone like (the now-dead) Kurt Cobain, or other drug-addled stars – but who want the poverty-stricken crack addicts in your own neighborhoods locked behind bars for years. (A disease is a disease regardless of how much money or talent a person has).

I name you selfish, those of you who vote only for the lowest taxes, and the least dent in your wallet, even while you claim to care about the most defenseless among us – the poor, the children, the disabled, the elderly.

I name you cowardly, those of you who choose blinders and invent excuses for even the worst acts perpetrated by those whose talents, lives or positions – or even whose looks – you idolize. Those of you who, although fully capable, won’t stand up in the face of adversity or injustice, but instead cower when there’s any perceived threat to your time, your peace, your reputation, or your resources.

There are many violent, abusive, power-hungry, corrupt, degenerate, illogical, dishonest, and cowardly people in this world. If I have enemies, it is because I do not care to make such people my friends.

III. A Fighting Spirit, a Fighting Chance

287 children died in Jonestown on November 18, 1978. The last remnants of my childhood died with them, and out of the tattered, torn spirit of a young adult sprung the heart of a fighter. I will fight for you, I promised them. You’ll see, we’ll make it right, we’ll make it matter. We’ll show others how to bounce back.

Twenty-nine years later, I carry my own battle-worn legacy, and it’s unremarkable really, except for the strength of convictions born out of the ruins of tragedy, and the long-reach of lessons learned. The intensity of my beliefs and feelings will die with me, and even the strongest of my words will fade into oblivion or obscurity. I will one day leave the earth as most people do – as the children of Jonestown certainly did – largely anonymous, leaving behind barely a ripple. Stronger, younger, and perhaps better-situated others will pick up the sword. I hope so, and pray that they will have more success than I did. At the same time I would not wish anyone into a life of prolonged struggle.

IV. Braving the Fears

Once, when I lived in the country, I made a hesitant companion out of a lone red fox. She would often come near my porch in the early hours of morning. Fascinated, I began to set out bowls of dog food for her, and watched her from behind the window whenever she came. If I spoke, or moved too quickly, the fox would startle and take off running. I watched her then, in silence, for several months. One morning, I opened my door to find the tiny, lifeless body of a fox pup on my steps. He was still somewhat warm but had gone stiff. I could not revive him.

I never saw the mother fox again, but I thought – if even the wildest creature can brave her most ingrained fears to try to save her young – what is wrong with us?

What the hell is wrong with us?

* * * *

Megan Meier: Targeted Even After her Death

Posted on 12/09/2007 by Jane Devin

By now, most people are familiar with the story of Megan Meier, a vulnerable 13 year old girl who committed suicide after a particularly detestable internet hoax, concocted by the mother of one of her acquaintances, led to a massive online bullying session.

Recently, prosecutors announced that there would be no charges filed against Lori Drew , her eighteen year old employee, or her teenager, who all participated in an online game that seemed purposely designed to do emotional harm to Meier, whom Drew knew was already being treated for depression.

Drew’s claim of moral and legal innocence is that she didn’t create the fake MySpace profile of “Josh” as an act of cruelty, but instead simply to “monitor” what Meier may have been saying about her own daughter online. She perpetrated the hoax, she claimed, not to be cruel, but to “protect her daughter.” However, the topic of conversation between Meier and Drew’s fictional character was not about Drew’s daughter. Instead, “Josh” began a campaign of compliments and adoration that played to the young victim’s insecurities.

Megan, who was on her way back up after recovering from a miserable seventh grade year, in which she was derided for being overweight, seemed to take solace in her new internet romance — a solace that abruptly ended when “Josh” told her that the world would be better off without her, and called her “fat” and a “slut.” After the two engaged in an online fight, the MySpace friends of the fictional boy joined the fray, adding their abusive messages to Megan in the comments section of Josh’s MySpace page.

Shortly afterwards, Megan Meier hung herself in her bedroom closet. Lori Drew busied herself with warning the participants in this online tragedy not to talk. Drew and her family attended Meier’s funeral, and kept up a pretense of sympathy and friendship with the Meier family. Drew even asked them if she could store some Christmas presents in their garage. Tina and Ron Meier agreed.

A neighborhood girl who was aware of the hoax perpetrated by Drew then stepped forward and informed the Meiers’ of the truth. In a fit of hurt and rage, Ron Meier smashed the Drew’s Christmas presents. When the Drew’s complained to police, Lori Drew’s involvement in the internet hoax was confirmed.

For a year, the Meier family kept silent as the FBI investigated. In the end, laws governing the internet were not adequate or substantial enough to charge Lori Drew and her accomplices with a crime. A New York Times article quotes the St. Charles County Sheriff’s Department spokesman, Lt. Craig McGuire, as saying what Drew did “might’ve been rude, it might’ve been immature, but it wasn’t illegal.”

Many people don’t understand that position, given that there are laws meant to address cyber-stalking and internet harassment, both federally and under Missouri state law. However, according to attorneys specializing in the internet, the few laws that are in place are vague, subjective, and widely open to interpretation. Further, many law enforcement agencies are not well-versed in or trained to handle internet cases, which tend to cross jurisdictional lines, and may involve multiple states. While there are reporting mechanisms in place, such as the FBI’s Internet Crime Complaint Center , people who have have filed reports complain that there is rarely a response, and that the ICCC is more geared towards handling multiple complaints of online fraud, rather than individual cases of internet harassment.

Adding more burden to those victimized, most complainants end up being referred to civil court for resolution, which can be a long, cost-prohibitive and unreasonably burdensome process.

Megan’s hometown of Dardenne Prairie, MO recently passed its own law in response to the deficiency of Federal and State laws, making internet harassment in their community a misdemeanor, punishable by up to 90 days in jail and a maximum fine of $500.

The ordinance makes it illegal for an adult to contact a minor in a way that would cause a reasonable parent to fear for the child’s safety. Anyone engaging in a pattern of conduct that would cause a reasonable person to suffer “substantial emotional distress” would also be charged with harassment.

In an ironic twist, Newsday is reporting that the first beneficiary of Dardenne Prairie’s new ordinance against internet harassment may be none other than Lori Drew.

A blog entitled “Megan Had it Coming” appeared on the internet on November 18, 2007, purportedly written by an acquaintance of Megan’s who called herself “Kristen”. However, on the third and last posting on the site, written December 3, 2007, the author proclaims herself to be Lori Drew, and explains that she began the blog because she was “so angry at the world for being so unfair, especially when it came to my daughter whom I had sworn to protect from all of this. I took a low blow at Megan’s memory because I desperately wanted the world to at least get a glimpse of the truth.”

Questioned by reporters, Drew vehemently insists that those low blows, which included calling Megan a “bitch”, “a total psycho”, and a “monster”, didn’t come from her but an imposter. While neither Drew nor her family asked for an investigation into the matter, St. Charles County prosecutor Jack Banas is determined to find out who is behind the vengeful blog about the deceased child. Both the Drew family and the Meiers, who have recently separated, told reporters that they welcome the investigation.