“April is the cruelest month,” began T.S. Eliot in his most famous poem, “The Waste Land.” One would be hard-pressed to disagree with his bleak pronouncement as we look out on the landscapes of Aprils past and present.
April 19, 1995, was the Oklahoma City bombing.
April 20, 1999, burned the Columbine High School murders into our memories.
And now, April 16 will be forever associated with the madness and the horror that echoed across the campus of Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, Va.
Violence and tragedy expose us to both the blessings and the darkest rudiments that make up our lives. Tragedies such as these confront us with the contrast between death and life, violence and kindness, grief and joyfulness. These tragic and searing moments capture our national attention as the horrific sights and injured victims become part of our lives.
We are all inspired through stories told by survivors of their struggles to overcome their grief and trauma. These stories change not just those trapped at the epicenter of the tragedy but all of us who now must explain the unexplainable to our children; who must re-evaluate – yet again – our sense of safety; who must grapple once more with unfamiliar emotional and physical reactions.
Acts of mass violence have changed our behavior as individuals and have affected our national esteem. And as we try to move beyond this latest devastating event, many of us are left emotionally dangling, trying to understand what it all means. Few of us have the ability to change the circumstances that cause such tremendous sorrow, but our lives can be enriched by searching for a more complete understanding of the emotional characters and themes in our nation’s modern, pain-filled biographical sketch.
Speaking at a career day last week at a local middle school, I was astounded that only a handful of students knew anything about the Oklahoma City bombing or the subsequent trials hosted in our city. The 1995 bombing supposedly changed our very core as individuals and as a nation. As a result of the tragedy, we committed ourselves to embracing a new perspective and understanding, one blessed with patience for one another and impatience for justice denied; one laced with sympathy, forgiveness, and tolerance; one that would permit us to wonder at our human resilience and rejoice in our amazement at our most human connection.
And yet, my experience with the students last week demonstrates that our lessons, our commitments have not pierced our children’s consciousness. How can we pass along critical lessons of compassion, of neighborly engagement, of purposeful living, of carpe diem if our history is lost on our children?
Of course, my first question begs the second: If our children knew more about the details of Oklahoma City, of Columbine, now of Virginia Tech, would it make a difference?
I fear not.
Perhaps we should designate the third week in April as a period of national reflection, a week in which we reflect on how we live with one another and how we survive one another. Perhaps we should even designate a week of reflection that focuses upon one clear statement: “Hate doesn’t get the last word here.”
In the meantime, there is a valuable story that should be shared about what unimaginable grief can come from hate. It is a story of personal survival and triumph of the spirit. It is the important story of how our nation has been changed by acts of unspeakable violence and of the unforeseen gifts that come from tragedy.
Maybe it’s not important that our children remember every detail of every horrific crime, but rather that we proclaim through our behavior and actions: “Kindness and compassion get the last word in our community.”
Robin Fudge Finegan is a victim services consultant and co-author of “Tragedy to Triumph: Lessons of Recovery and Hope” (Prairie View Publishing, Nov. 2004).
