"Once Upon a Time" and the Bombing of Boston

We are, all of us, weaned on stories. Through them we learn where we are from and who we are. As we grow, the 'reality' of those stories becomes either discarded or reinforced by experience. When I was very little I thought a giant ran the local grocery store. Rumplestiltskin himself bent in the golden light of his electric sewing machine to mend our clothes. With age, I found that the maker of miracle cures down the street was not Merlin, but Sid the pharmacist. And the little tailor with the magical sewing machine had numbers tattooed on his forearm that told a far sadder story. 

Of course, when a new series embraced this very concept decades later, I was hooked (so to speak). Television, even with the rise of the internet, is still my storyteller of choice and "Once Upon A Time" has proven itself a worthy companion and often welcome distraction. I needed just such a remedy over this past couple weeks. First for the sheer dogged drudgery of finishing up my taxes. Then as a panacea to divert thoughts from the spectacle and aftermath of the marathon bombings. 

But when the last Boston terrorist was about to be caught, we couldn't help but leave the tv news on as we hoped that he would indeed be caught or killed. Trouble was the culprit had the face of a teenager. His name may have been foreign but his life sounded, for the most part, like an American one. No matter what his crimes, I realized that his actions were the result of the stories that he had been taught by others. He suddenly became just a trapped, frightened, injured boy. A desperate soul too dangerous to be afforded mercy. Nevertheless, a boy quite likely about to pay a terrible price for his choices. I couldn't help it, I felt sorry for him. Then I was reminded of those he conspired to kill or maim, which made me feel guilty for feeling sorry for him. My Gram, who would not willingly deign to judge anyone, not even Hitler, might have replied "hate the sin, not the sinner." Something I may admire in theory but often find hard to put into practice. 

Conflicted, my thoughts retreated to Storybrooke. But there, too, I found the same conundrum. I'd already been guilty of being as in love as Belle herself with the joie de vive with which Robert Carlyle enlivens his sympathetic villain. I was quite willing, in fact, to overlook the monster in favor of the man --to blame the curse, not the cursed. Thanks to OUAT's writers, compassion had come as a consequence of understanding evil as being "made not born." Like so many others, I have wickedly delighted in Queen Lana Parrilla's every zestful, lovelorn attempt at revenge or redress. But truth be told, most fantasy victims lack such means. Like soldiers to the ogre wars or the tradesman turned into a snail and crushed underfoot --they are (so far) forgotten. 

Back to reality...

In real life, at least as told by cable news and the internet, the Boston story began as that of the fallen. Where they were in their lives. Who they were to the people who loved them. That is as it should be. Perhaps that is how in real life, as in its fantastical reflection, retribution will not leave all eventually blind and toothless. Unfortunately, not every resentment or hate-filled scenario will end in failure as a cautionary tale. But good stories, like the good works of a well-lived life, will always triumph regardless of how they're ended. ...So long as they continue to be told.

A Different Kid with a Gun

Many parents are trying to read their children's minds right now. They are wondering how their kids are dealing with the violence let alone the concept of death that the Sandy Hook School massacre represents. For parents of so-called "different" kids it is yet one more added concern. Theirs are the children who now may be mistrusted as well as being excluded from play. They are the ones most likely to be bullied as they face learning and/or social challenges few "normal" people can even conceive of. Many, many years ago, I was one of those children. I share this excerpt from a soon-to-be published memoir in hopes of shedding some light on why guns are thought of as such a beloved solution to life’s problems. And to offer this hope to the neuro-diverse:  What seems like a curse today can and will turn out to be your greatest gift tomorrow....

I was four years old going on five when we first visited a popular multi-themed park called “Storytown” near Lake George, New York. Its claim to fame was an entire ‘authentic’ western village called “Ghost Town.” Of course, I wandered off as usual, wanting to see what was beyond the general store and saloon. There was always a new discovery to be made, down an alleyway or around a corner. This time would be no exception! 

I found myself face to face with an entire gang of outlaws on horseback! 

The huge horses snorted their disapproval, but I stood my ground. 

I was all there was between them and the innocent townsfolk. I knew exactly what to do.  

“You’re the bad guys. You’re under cit, citi... I’m taking you to the sheriff! ” I exclaimed in my most authoritative voice. The big, stubble-faced, nasty-looking men blinked and looked at each other.  “We’re gonna miss our cue,” one said. “We’ve gotta get up to the crag in 2 minutes,” said another.  

I continued to stand my ground.

A spokesman was chosen by a quick vote of nods. He was a handsome fellow, all in black; “Ah, Little Lady? We can’t be here right now.”

Well, that made a whole lot of sense.  I wasn’t budging. 

An idea flashed across the man’s face. “Ah, why don’t you go tell the sheriff you saw us. He ought’a be at the saloon right now!”

And let them get away?  Never.

“Come on, we gotta go.” one whispered. 

“You, you, just wait right there. You’ll see us again real soon.” The leader gently kicked at the flanks of his horse, gingerly guiding it around me. I looked up to see girth, boots, spurs and a surprising anatomy lesson as he rode past. It was a boy horse, he was just like HT underneath. We had hid at the top of my bedroom stairs and looked to see whether we were really that different from one another under our clothes. We were.

The rest of the gang followed suit one by one. The outlaws left me, literally, in their dust, red-faced and stifling back tears of indignation. I could hear their laughter as they disappeared. I raced back onto the street and into the saloon. Breaking through a forest of adult legs and wading into a group of kids my own size and smaller. “SHERIFF!  SHERIFF!”   

I came to a stop against him, breathless.  

“Whoa there, what’s the matter?”  

“The, the bad guys.  I saw ‘em.”  

The lawman absent-mindedly looked at his pocket watch and raised an eye brow.

“They were out by the barn!” I sputtered. 

He wasn’t moving.  

I actually got to say those immortal words, “THEY WENT THAT A WAY!” 

He still wasn’t moving. 

The man glanced at the other children around him and looked at his watch again. The wide-brim of his hat came to rest on the top of my head as he whispered, “Why don’t we just wait a moment, I’m sure we’ll see ‘em come back up over the crag any time now.”  

How did he know they were coming back, or where they would be?  I pulled back from his encircling arm unable to hide my doubt and confusion. Was he in cahoots?  No. He was the good guy. That was Unthinkable. Then how did he know? What was he waiting for?!

The sheriff furrowed his brow. Then a small half-smile slid up one side of his face as he addressed the crowd: “I do believe this lil’ missy has seen our desperadoes on the move...” 

But HE still wasn’t moving!

“For being So observant.” He fished a small star from his vest, “I hereby deputize her my deputy.  Here ya go.” He handed me the badge. 

Oh, a present!  I beamed.

“Come ‘on, deputy. You stick with me.” Everyone piled outside after us. Just as we emerged, the outlaws appeared majestically on the rise overlooking the main street. How did the sheriff know? They drew their guns and charged down the hill, firing as they went. 

“Everybody take cover!! It’s Black Bart and his gang!” the sheriff yelled, depositing me safely against the wall behind him.  Suddenly there was a dizzying flurry of gunfire coming from everywhere. A man fell from his horse, then another and another.  One came out a window trailing a lace curtain as he went. He rolled down and off a porch roof to the ground.  Still another careened from a rooftop. 

Soon, all the outlaws had bit the dust in whole mouthfuls. The street, now littered with lifeless bodies, swirled with sulfur smoke and rising dust devils.  The horses, who seemed peculiarly unconcerned, were led away out of sight. 

The outlaw leader lay at the feet of the sheriff. The triumphant lawman absent-mindedly blew across the barrel of his six-shooter and holstered the weapon with an expert twirl. He ambled out into the street to address the crowd: “Well, that about does it folks. Hope you enjoyed the show!”

I wasn’t paying any attention any longer. I squatted down on my haunches, resting my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. The outlaw I had just been talking to lay very still, face down, in the dirt before me.  At first, I was only curious at how his silver-studded black hat had managed to stay on, but then the concept of ‘dead’ being good or bad became the consideration.  It’s bad to get killed, but if you’re bad, than it’s good. 

Can that be right? 

If only they’d have let me arrest them like I wanted, they’d all be safely in jail now. If I had a gun like the sheriff’s, they’d have paid attention to me. Yes, I’ve gotta have a gun like the sheriff’s just in case this happens again.

The hat moved!  

An eye opened underneath it, saw me and instantly shut again.  A big exhale of dust issued out to the side as the man’s face hit the ground again --making a loud, exasperated, whiney sound. This got the sheriff’s attention.“UhhOHH, HEY, Deputy?” 

As I rose, I saw motion down the street and turned to look. All the dead were getting up, dusting themselves off, or walking away!  My eyes widened to saucers and I felt my mouth drop open. The sheriff tried to turn my attention away. “Deputy? Deputy. Ummm, Deputy?” He was obviously trying not to laugh. At that, Black Bart got up on all fours grinning from ear to ear. Half his face, including teeth and around one eye, sparkled with grit. “Oh, don’t!” exclaimed the sheriff, laughing helplessly. Bart ignored him. He touched his hat brim in grand fashion, nodded at me, sprang up to his feet and quickly walked away as if nothing had happened. 

I looked up at the sheriff in total, abject bewilderment and watched him fight off a cascade of high-pitched giggles until tears began to form. “I...”  “You...” “Awww...” “You see, this...” “Ah...” 
The crowd had re-gathered to watch the new entertainment.  “Oh, shei...” he said under his breath. The sheriff flagged down a passing wagon.  “Deputy, ahem, Deputy, I need you to ride shotgun for me on this here fire wagon. Where are your parents? Oh, yes, there you are folks.”  In a single motion he swung me up high into the seat next to the driver.  “Tom, giv’er your helmet?” There was a pleading sound in his voice. The driver took it off his own head and began balancing it precariously on mine.  

“You can even wear the honorary hat!” This successfully changed the subject, but the Sheriff wasn’t going to take any chances.  “Hey, Daddy, why not take a picture! ...BYE NOW!” Before I could figure out why, since I was an only child, someone else but me would call my father ‘daddy,’ the lawman had skeedadled, pronto.

My parents could not make it past the gift shop that day without buying me a shiny, silver-plated, pearl-handled, six-shooter-style cap gun. The management had thoughtfully made it impossible to leave the theme park without making one’s way past all their souvenirs. I thought my gun a most beautiful object and a fascinating mechanism. I loved making little explosions at will and even liked the way the caps smelled after it had fired.  The next time we went to Ghost Town I was prepared ...badge and gun at the ready. And when friends Joey and Michael came to visit, my gun did fine service in every imaginable shoot-’em-up game. I prided myself on being shot dead convincingly. And, like Black Bart, getting back up again with a smile.

A year after this triumphant turn as a gunslinging cowgirl, I was seated in a second grade classroom at School #4 when an announcement by the principal stunned everyone into silence. We were told to go home, but somehow no one, not even the teacher, knew what to do. I got up, wandered over and looked out the window. The world didn't look any different. Accept across the street and on the same floor as mine, at a Roman Catholic school called Vincentian, I saw for the first time an identical classroom. It was filled with second graders, too. 

Why had I never noticed that before?  

There was another girl my own age standing there in her Catholic-school plaid uniform. She, too, stood alone at one of her classroom’s windows and looked back out at me. How strange. We didn’t smile, or wave. We just noticed that we were the only two looking out at one another at that moment --the day our president was shot.

The sound of real gunfire replayed over and over on the television news after I got home. Our president was dead for real. He would never get back up again, or smile. Then we saw his murderer shot and killed right there before the nation’s unblinking camera eye, just as it was happening.  Both the good guy and the bad guy were dead for real. Nothing, nothing had ever felt so wrong. On the day of John F. Kennedy’s funeral, I buried my pretty gun in the backyard and never played dead again.