Remember all those posts I wrote that I felt needed a disclaimer? Well, my post tonight can be added to that list. Some of you won't like what I have to say this evening ... heck, it very well could be that many of you won't agree with I'm going to say. And so you know, I'm completely okay with that ... you have a right to your opinion just as I have a right to mine. I don't believe, however, that having differing opinions about something gives anyone, myself included, the right to judge or hate or mistreat another person. Now that you know my post this evening may not sit too well with some of you, let's get on with it.
Over the course of the last week or so, I've received a large number of emails asking me what I think about the guilty verdict that was handed down in what the media has dubbed "the suicide texter" case. If you're not familiar with the case, here's a very condensed recounting of what happened. A teenage girl sent her boyfriend, who had been struggling with depression and had made suicide attempts in the past, a barrage of text messages encouraging him to go ahead and kill himself. Even when the young man exited his carbon monoxide-filled vehicle and told the young woman he was scared, her reply via text message was, "Get back in." The 17-year-old girl told her 18-year-old boyfriend to get back in his truck and die ... and that's exactly what he did.
The young woman was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter a little more than a week ago and could receive up to 20 years in prison for her role in the young man's death. There has been and continues to be a great deal of controversy surrounding the case, and there are many who believe that the guilty verdict is in direct violation of a person's right to freedom of speech. The young woman waived her right to a jury trial, therefore allowing the one solitary judge to decide whether she was innocent or guilty ... I can't help but wonder if she's regretting that decision considering the outcome of her trial. I'm sure her attorneys are already working to file an appeal to have the verdict overturned, but for now she's out on bail until she goes back to court in August for sentencing.
Now, here's where I'm guessing some of you won't like what I have to say about this terrible tragedy. It should go without saying that I think the young woman's actions were deplorable and that she must be held accountable for the messages she sent and the words she spoke to the young man in the days leading up to death. And I think it is equally necessary that she be held accountable for what she didn't say or text to him or someone who could have helped him in the final moments of his life. As to whether I think she should receive the maximum sentence of 20 years in prison ... I'll just say I'm sure glad I'm not the judge who has to make that decision. I do hope that part of her sentence includes some type of mental health treatment, because there's not a doubt in my mind that she desperately needs it.
For those who are upset about her being found guilty because of what the decision could mean in regard to freedom of speech, there's a part of me that understands where you're coming from and why you're so concerned. But there's a bigger part of me that thinks you're forgetting what's really important in this tragedy ... a young man is dead and a young woman's life is ruined forever. Many of the articles I've read about this case have asked the question, "Can words kill?" In this particular case, I would have to say yes, words can and did play a role in the young man taking his own life. Had that young woman written or spoken different words to that young man ... a young man whom she knew was depressed and in such a fragile state ... had she encouraged him to live instead of die, I think he very well might still be alive today.
I don't think the discussions about freedom of speech or what kind of precedent the verdict in this case may have set for future cases are what should matter most to us. I'm not saying being concerned about those things and discussing them aren't important, because they most certainly are. I believe, however, that what's most important about this case is that we recognize why it matters. Though they may not be as extreme or blatant as the young woman's texts to the young man, we're just as guilty of sending the same message to others. Believe me, I know this is true because I've been there ... times when words spoken to me, or not spoken to me as the case may be, felt very much like I was handed a loaded gun and goaded, even begged at times, to pull the trigger.
Every time we make someone feel worthless ... every time we exclude someone from a conversation ... every time we dismiss someone's pain or discount someone's illness ... every time someone is hopeless and we stand by and do nothing ... every time we judge or look down on or ridicule another person ... every time we don't apologize to those we've wronged ... every time we know that our words are wounding another person's soul and we speak them anyway ... every single time ... every single time, we're committing the same crime ... we're committing exactly the same crime.
At what point do we accept that we aren't put on this earth to care only about ourselves? How many deaths will it take for us to understand that it is our responsibility to look out for each other? At what point? At what cost? That's why it matters, friends ... that's why it matters.
Monday, June 26, 2017
Sunday, June 11, 2017
No One to Tell
Unless you count the mini ones in the little pots at Home Depot, I had never seen a live cactus until last weekend. I've seen plenty of photos of the unusual desert plants, but those photos paled in comparison to seeing the real thing with my own eyes. Seeing all the different varieties of cacti last weekend in Phoenix reminded me of how I felt when I went to Maine for the first time and saw the lighthouses. There are some things in life you have to experience firsthand ... things you have to see and feel for yourself ... things you can never comprehend until you see them with your own eyes and feel them with your own heart. Things like majestic lighthouses that stand regally above the rocky Maine coastline. Things like prickly cacti that grow strong and tall in the burning sun of the Arizona desert.
The reason for my visit to Phoenix last weekend wasn't because I was on a quest to check seeing cacti in their native habitat off my bucket list ... not hardly. I traveled there with my son Brad and our sound man Jason for a very special filming session for the documentary I talked about in my previous post. Our time with Nate, Mark, Dortha and Mark's beautiful family was incredible, made even more special for me personally because Mark's daughter graciously allowed me to hold her precious 3-week old baby and give him his bottle. To experience firsthand ... to see with my own eyes and feel with my own heart the abiding love that exists within this family despite the horrible circumstances they came from ... it was truly incredible.
Their visit last weekend was the first time that Nate, Mark and Dortha have all been together in many, many years, and we were beyond honored and humbled that they chose to include us (and allow us to film) their reunion. There were plenty of tears as they talked about what it was like to have Fred Phelps, Sr. for a father ... his tyrannical demands and irrational rantings ... the severe and devastating beatings he levied against his wife and children ... the doctrine of contemptible hatred he preached from the pulpit. There was laughter as they talked about the ways they would try to avoid their father's wrath and of the few fleeting moments of joy they had as children. I have no idea how many hours of footage we left with when we headed back to Kansas, but I do know that the stories we captured on film ... the stories of three of the strongest, most courageous people I've ever known ... their stories are ones that absolutely must be told.
You'd think after all the time I've spent interviewing Nate, Mark and Dortha over the last few years that I would have come to know everything there is to know about them and their stories by now, but something struck me last weekend as I listened to them discussing their childhoods once again. I've always wondered why they never told anyone about their lives at home ... why they never shared with someone what was going on in their world. And then last weekend, it hit me like a ton of bricks ... they had no one to tell. They had no one to tell about the horrible beatings they were receiving ... no one to tell about the denigrating, demoralizing, despicable verbal assaults perpetuated on them by their father. They had no one to tell. Nor did they have anyone to tell about the good things in their lives either. They were isolated from other people. They were trapped. They were on the outside looking in. They had no one to tell about the bad things, and they had no one to tell about the good things.
I know some of you know firsthand that having no one to tell about the stuff of life, both bad and good alike, is tough, perhaps even one of the toughest things we as humans can experience. We are created to be social creatures and to be in relationship with one another. The desire to be connected to other humans is woven into our DNA from the moment we are conceived. We are meant to do life together ... we need to do life together. We all need someone to tell ... someone we can trust with our deepest, darkest secrets and our most incredible joys and successes and know that those parts of us are safe with that person. I know what it feels like to have someone like that, and I know what it feels like not to. We all need someone to tell, friends ... not a single, solitary person should ever have to feel that they have no one to tell ... about the bad ... about the good ... and about everything in between. We all need someone to tell ... every single one of us needs to have someone to tell. That we do ... that we do indeed.
The reason for my visit to Phoenix last weekend wasn't because I was on a quest to check seeing cacti in their native habitat off my bucket list ... not hardly. I traveled there with my son Brad and our sound man Jason for a very special filming session for the documentary I talked about in my previous post. Our time with Nate, Mark, Dortha and Mark's beautiful family was incredible, made even more special for me personally because Mark's daughter graciously allowed me to hold her precious 3-week old baby and give him his bottle. To experience firsthand ... to see with my own eyes and feel with my own heart the abiding love that exists within this family despite the horrible circumstances they came from ... it was truly incredible.
Their visit last weekend was the first time that Nate, Mark and Dortha have all been together in many, many years, and we were beyond honored and humbled that they chose to include us (and allow us to film) their reunion. There were plenty of tears as they talked about what it was like to have Fred Phelps, Sr. for a father ... his tyrannical demands and irrational rantings ... the severe and devastating beatings he levied against his wife and children ... the doctrine of contemptible hatred he preached from the pulpit. There was laughter as they talked about the ways they would try to avoid their father's wrath and of the few fleeting moments of joy they had as children. I have no idea how many hours of footage we left with when we headed back to Kansas, but I do know that the stories we captured on film ... the stories of three of the strongest, most courageous people I've ever known ... their stories are ones that absolutely must be told.
You'd think after all the time I've spent interviewing Nate, Mark and Dortha over the last few years that I would have come to know everything there is to know about them and their stories by now, but something struck me last weekend as I listened to them discussing their childhoods once again. I've always wondered why they never told anyone about their lives at home ... why they never shared with someone what was going on in their world. And then last weekend, it hit me like a ton of bricks ... they had no one to tell. They had no one to tell about the horrible beatings they were receiving ... no one to tell about the denigrating, demoralizing, despicable verbal assaults perpetuated on them by their father. They had no one to tell. Nor did they have anyone to tell about the good things in their lives either. They were isolated from other people. They were trapped. They were on the outside looking in. They had no one to tell about the bad things, and they had no one to tell about the good things.
I know some of you know firsthand that having no one to tell about the stuff of life, both bad and good alike, is tough, perhaps even one of the toughest things we as humans can experience. We are created to be social creatures and to be in relationship with one another. The desire to be connected to other humans is woven into our DNA from the moment we are conceived. We are meant to do life together ... we need to do life together. We all need someone to tell ... someone we can trust with our deepest, darkest secrets and our most incredible joys and successes and know that those parts of us are safe with that person. I know what it feels like to have someone like that, and I know what it feels like not to. We all need someone to tell, friends ... not a single, solitary person should ever have to feel that they have no one to tell ... about the bad ... about the good ... and about everything in between. We all need someone to tell ... every single one of us needs to have someone to tell. That we do ... that we do indeed.
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