Their Children, And Mine

My son crammed the cupcake full-on into his gob so hard I was worried he was going to suffocate himself.  That's how Jewish fathers think.  I guess maybe we shouldn't have gotten him a cupcake that was approximately the same diameter as his head.  My daughter wouldn't touch the thing, at least, not with her hands.  She held them up high at a dainty angle and licked her cupcake to a long, slow, moist death-- her tiny, flicking tongue the snake-like weapon in this dirty masquerade.

I told the story of my children eating their first cupcakes to approximately six different coworkers, at different times of the day, on Monday.  By the third retelling, the third "That's so CUTE!", I silently prayed the floor would open me up and I'd be sucking on Hades's dick with my hair and skin on fire by lunchtime.  

On Friday, twenty children fell to the ground-- their clocks stopped forever-- in a mindless, senseless, brutal and hateful act.  The next day, my two children turned one.  My wife said she was sad that their birthday will be forever linked to the calamity at Sandy Hook Elementary School, and it wasn't something I had thought about until she mentioned it.  Maybe it will be, maybe not.  I don't know.  I'm like you in that, after Friday, I don't know anything anymore.

And I don't much want to.

I don't want to talk about it anymore than I want to talk about my children's birthday.  It happened.  Everything that can be said's been said.  It's been said on Facebook and on Twitter, from behind lecterns and on pulpits, on television and on the radio.  It's been said by the copy machine and at tables and on chairs, some that swivel, some that used to.  I've said everything that can be said about my twins' birthday.  I don't want to talk about it anymore.

You understand.

I don't want to go on Facebook-- ever again.  Some people are trite, some are sincere, but I hate them either way.  Some won't leave it alone, some post pictures of candles and say dumb things.  One idiot my wife went to school with said her cat "sensed something was wrong in Connecticut".  If you want to open up a discussion about mental health in this country-- start with her.  I want to delete my account entirely, but what about all the pictures?  Of my children and my wife and my life, and how will I ever secretly ogle the inaccessible girls I went to high school with?

Well, it used to be a secret.  Actually, probably not.

I guess I'm not very good at expectations.  I'm expected to talk about the shooting as much as I'm expected to talk about my children, but I resist.  I squirm.  I'm petulant and vague, always holding back.  Talking about the shooting makes me ill and talking about my children makes me uncomfortable.  I feel idiotic and small, silly and vain.  When I am badgered at work into showing pictures of them on my cellphone I get sweaty and hot-- it's not an enjoyable experience and, the louder the cooing, the more fervently I pray for that hole to open up below my shoes.

"You know," I said to the only real friend at work I'll ever have, "I really miss the time here when I was new and no one talked to me, and I just came in with my head down, did my job, and left unnoticed."

Now I'm expected to talk-- about... I don't know what.  People places and things.  About whatever.  And I can banter and make jokes and hold a conversation.  I can do that.  I'm just dying inside, or wishing I was.

I like to think I'm the kind of man who says what he thinks, who tells it like it is, who owns up to how he really feels, but I'm not.  I'm not that at all.  My father is, because he doesn't give a shit about what anybody has to say in return.  I'm obsessed with it.  I don't know how you get what you get from your father or your mother that way, but I don't think I got much from him except his body hair and his brown eyes.

I have things to say-- about their children, and mine-- but I don't know where to begin, or why I would.  I don't know who would care, and I don't know if I'd respect them very much if I found they did.  I have some things to say about the 2nd Amendment and mental health and masculinity and security and this country and our mentality and our tragic flaws and statistics and prejudices and I have some things to say about the new thing my son did today, or how my daughter looked in her gray hoodie, or the lump in my throat at this moment or that, about thus and so.  I have a song to sing, O.

But I don't remember the words.

Denied

Remember Charla Nash?

She's the woman who got attacked in horrific fashion by a chimp named Travis last year. Travis, who went completely bullshit, as wild animals sometimes do, ripped Nash's hands off, and her lips, eyelids and nose.

If you've seen the episodes of "The Today Show" or "Oprah" in which Nash appears, you can maybe partially understand the absolute horror of that event. Maybe. No offense is meant to Nash, but she now resembles something concocted by a Hollywood special effects department, and her physical and emotional health has been seriously compromised by the attack.

It's very difficult to look at Charla Nash but, when you do, it's very easy to understand how she has been traumatized. If you look at Frank Chiafari, you wouldn't be able to tell.

Frank Chiafari was one of the Stamford, Connecticut police officers who responded to the call for help at Nash's moronic friend's house that day. Travis went right for Chiafari, while he was still in his police car. The leviathan ripped the rearview mirror off the driver's side door, tore the door open and lunged at Chiafari. The officer managed to unholster his weapon and shoot the blood-soaked chimp, ending the maniacal rampage. Chiafari filed a worker's compensation claim, stating that he suffers from PTSD following the incident-- that he has difficulty sleeping, experiences flashbacks, anxiety attacks, night terrors.

The claim? Denied.

Why? Because, in Connecticut, only police officers who shoot people can suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.

That's the rule. Sorry, Frank. I guess 200-pound Travis, covered in Charla Nash's lips and blood ripping open the door of your patrol car and coming within inches of eating your face just isn't scary enough to warrant your psychiatrist bills being covered by the state of Connecticut. I guess the message that Connecticut is sending with this law is that they acknowledge that shooting a person can be an upsetting event for even the most manly cop-- but you've got to be a real fucking pussy to get all blubbery and anxious after shooting a rabid dog lunging at your jugular vein, or a goddamn chimpanzee trying to nibble your nuts.

This not only blows for cops, it's a blow to cops. For decades and decades in this country, the stereotype of the police officer was macho-macho-man. They were expected to be the tough of the tough, to not take any shit from anybody, and to not be affected by anything, no matter how brutal or cruel, and police officers are often forced to witness some absolutely terrible things.

There was a time where a police officer could easily lose his job if he sought counseling from a mental health professional, and there's a generation of cops in America who would never dream of going to a shrink's office. There is a stigma that surrounds cops who seek counseling, and that's a terrible thing. Only very, very recently are officers being encouraged to talk openly about stressful situations they encounter, and are beginning to feel like their jobs will not be jeopardized if they do so.

Now, with its patently ridiculous decision in the Frank Chiafari case, the state of Connecticut is reverting back to the old way of doing things: take a brave police officer who was truly engaged in a fight for his life, and embarrass him, belittle him, pretend that his mental anguish after shooting a chimp isn't as great as it might have been if he'd shot a person.

According to an article I read about the case, "Ann Marie Mones, the city's risk manager, declined comment yesterday."

Well, I have a comment for you, Ann Marie:

Why don't we put you inside a car, give you a gun, and then sic a goddamn psychotic animal on you that is twice your size and has just already obliterated somebody else's face and body. Okay? Now, it tears your car door apart, it's gotten it open and it's comin' right at you, covered in blood. First, let's see if you even have the goddamn presence-of-mind, not to mention the balls to shoot it, and then, if you do, let's see if you can freshen up, comb your hair, brush your teeth, and report for work at 8:00 o'clock the next morning, making small-talk by the copy machine.