Newtown

I have been silent this week, unable to write a blog post or muster more than the occasional thought on Facebook, fearing, knowing my words would seem trite amid the magnitude of all we are experiencing. What hasn’t already been said by the hundreds of newscasters who line the narrow sidewalks, who lurk outside of stores, timidly asking passersby, “May I talk to you”? What hasn’t been said in thousands upon thousands of blog posts and tweets? I have no new perspective, no insight, no healing gift. I have nothing but my own paralysis: a tightness in every fiber of my body and the knowledge that I must keep moving but I cannot.

Last night, for the first time, there was no solid line of traffic through Sandy Hook Center, so I finally parked my car and walked through the intersection I have been driving through to get to funerals, shivas and run basic errands, returning home through the same intersection each night, bathed in lights from the Christmas decorations, overwhelmed by those of the huge memorials and news crews, lined with cars from places that most likely had never heard of Sandy Hook before last Friday. Case in point: The badge I wear to work says I live in Sandy Hook, NJ. It doesn’t matter that every form I filled out for that job states that I live in Sandy Hook, CT. Who ever heard of Sandy Hook, CT? I am torn between being grateful for the love pouring in to our community from all over the world and the desire for them to stop clogging this narrow intersection that was not meant for such volume.

I am a little freaked out by all the money being raised. I just got “friended” on Facebook by someone from Alberta Canada who wants me to be his “Point Person” for money he has been raising for one of the families I know who have been directly affected. I gave him the websites of two funds that I am aware of that will benefit this family. But why would he contact me? Why would he want to send money to me via Western Union? My defense mechanism against scam-artists is on high alert. These families have lost a child, not a home. Funeral Directors from far and wide have come to Newtown and donated their services. The funerals have been paid for. A cadre of chefs has set up camp in Edmond Town Hall and have been cooking and donating food for all the services. Yes, we will need money for the school itself, or whatever it is to become. But how else will money change what has happened here? The survivors of Super-Storm Sandy need homes, clothes, everything. Here in Newtown, no amount of money will replace these lost children and teachers. Someone explain this to me for my brain has stopped working. I don’t understand and I am frightened.

Sandy Hook School

I hear the constant drone of helicopters overhead. Twenty-six hours after the madman stormed into Sandy Hook Elementary School and brought grief to the face of our sleepy town, helicopters loom over our normally peaceful woods, news trucks and satellite dishes from every network and many foreign countries line our roads. Reporters and producers and cameramen cram into our cafes and restaurants. Director's chairs line the sidewalk, waiting to make their next report. Traffic, normally nonexistent in Sandy Hook Center, is backed up the hill and past the I.84 intersection. Those of us who know the back roads can avoid these intersections but the back roads pose other situations. One of the two town parks, normally deserted once the pool closes or unless there is a soccer game, is also filled to overflowing with news trucks and people. There are too many houses in mourning, notable because of the number of cars on driveways and parked along the sides of roads that really have no place for them. All this death has gripped a single neighborhood. Our friends are planning a funeral for their six year old son. He was not sick. There was no warning, no preparation. There is only shock. I would normally be annoyed by any impediment to my being able to scoot around town but I am grateful for the crowds. I am grateful for the international attention and the equipment and the strangers blasting out story after story. This is important. To have less than this would belittle this loss, this crime, this crime against humanity. Police now say they have begun to piece together a motive, as if any of this will ever make sense.

I was just folding some laundry; a t-shirt I acquired on April 9th, 1996, opening day at Yankee Stadium. I will always remember that day. I gave my nine-year old son a rare day-off. He wasn't usually good with rapid change so we made an adventure of it: a morning tour of what would be his new school when we moved to Newtown in May, followed by tickets to the home opener in the Bronx. It was cold for April with snow in the forecast.  We turned into the long driveway and watched as the single-story school appeared before us. Red brick, a welcoming entrance... my skeptical son looked around and said, "Okay, I'll go here." We were taken to what would be his classroom where he was welcomed by his teacher and future classmates. He was the flavor of the month. Bolstered by the warmth and enthusiasm with which he had been greeted, we left for the Bronx where we huddled in sleeping bags for the snowy opener and watched another newcomer warmly welcomed, for that was the day Tino Martinez took over at first base for Don Mattingly. My son was happy. The fear and apprehension about moving to a new place and starting in a new school had seemingly been dissipated. He would be welcomed. He would be safe.