Living Mitakuye Oyasin

A true story.   

At the turn of the 21st Century, I received my Social Security Disability which allowed me to stop living on the streets and get a place. I found a furnished room with bath and carport (I had no car), in the Casa Grande no-tell Motel on Rte 66 (Watson Rd.) in suburban St. Louis. It wasn’t the Days Inn, but it was out of the weather. The rules didn’t allow cooking in the rooms, so I got a small grill and put it in the carport, there to enjoy my grande cuisine; also got a microwave and small coffee pot.

The motel still exists; it’s on a business strip, heavily trafficked with a small creek and wooded area in the rear; probably more like a drainage ditch. I suspected there were raccoons and possum back there, so, rather than throw away foods I couldn’t eat, I would place it in a small dish I secured on a low tree limb. It worked; miraculously, every night, the food disappeared. Lol.

What I also began to notice was raccoon paw prints in my carport, so I got dry dog food and a couple of plastic bowls from the dollar store and put it out there and the miracle of miracles, every night the food disappeared All that remained was soggy crumbs in the water bowl.

Slowly, as the raccoons and I got accustomed to each other, I would leave my room door open while sitting just inside; there to watch the action. To say the least, it got interesting. I had eight regular visitors and a couple of party crashers. I tried getting them to wear name tags, but they refused to be labeled.

On the perimeter of my carport was a concrete curb. The side away from my door had bushes where the raccoons had blazed a trail to the food dishes. Almost as soon as the sun started going down, they would appear; most heading towards the food but one occasionally marching right into my door and checking things out. Then one night, she sat at the top of the curb trying to climb down, but her front paws weren’t working.

As I watched her struggle, she would look at me cautiously as if to say, “Will you harm me?” Using my walking stick, I put some food on the end and slowly pushed it her way. She was hungry but couldn’t feed herself. It was then that I noticed that both of her front arms were broken so I walked closer and put food within her reach.

In the morning, I called a friend who worked with wild animals and told her the story. That afternoon, she brought over a trap, and we set it up. The next morning, there was my little friend waiting patiently, as if to say, “About damn time you got up!”

We took her to the rescue center vet who operated, repairing both arms. The vet stated it appeared she had attempted to climb into a dumpster when the heavy open top flew over and smashed her arms before she could avoid it. I think the operation took about six hours. When done, the vet said he wasn’t sure it was going to work, but hoped so.  He kept her for a few days of observation then released her to my friend who would nurse her. She also paid the $ 6,000.00 vet bill.

Following about four weeks of recovery, she was fit enough to leave so we took her back home and released her. She stayed close then one night didn’t come. She was gone for maybe four weeks when she suddenly reappeared at my door with four little ones in tow. They walked up to me as if to say “Hi, gramps, we’re home.” No fear, no anger just as if they always belonged.

It was a reminder that Mitakuye Oyasin is real.

No Price on Humanity

Recently, I met a young person who is going through a very traumatic period of life that is quite similar to what I endured for a number of years. I do not want to embarrassed or cause any further issues so I will simply call refer to this person as DC.

While growing up, DC was subjected to a pretty rigid life in a controlled religious environs that stifled creativity and individual thinking. When my friend was able to escape the situation, DC was preyed upon by sexual predators and cast off like a used paper towel to end up living in a vehicle, rather than a home with love and caring.

One day, DC met someone who offered a place to stay in return for physical activities, none of which are important to this paper. I only mention them to set the proper tone. Desperately in need, DC agreed to the terms, a mistake soon regretted. However, not to be defeated, DC endured while establishing a community presence and finding work. All the while with the specter of home life demands weighing heavily. Predictably, those demands erupted into a very bad situation placing DC at risk for injury or worse, and once again homeless.

In the short time I have known DC, I’ve discovered a very sensitive and remarkably intelligent human being who has made some bad mistakes, none of which cannot be overcome. The problem now being an overabundance of advice confusing issues!

Yes, I said advice; DC is getting a lot of conflicting advice which is having a dramatically negative effect. It would be horrible for someone not in such a critical situation but is even worse for DC.

Who to trust?

Who to believe?

Who to turn to for help?

To the best of my knowledge, no one in DC’s group of friends has offered more than temporary assistance. It’s tragic, but true of human nature. Can I blame them? No, of course not, they think they are acting in DC’s best interests when in actuality, they are acting in their own by thinking theirs are the only answers to the problems.

This is the current state of many “humanitarian efforts” these days.

I think it great that people sympathize and are willing to help but unless they’ve walked the path, they can never empathize. To push someone such as DC to make life changing decisions at this time is almost an assault on emotions however necessary it may be. That may only be accomplished by one who has walked in DC’s shoes.

As I have done before with others I have promised DC housing, sustenance, help getting into college and whatever other things I can do to make life easier and more successful without unwelcome stipulations. DC alone must make the decision to accept or not. Whatever that decision is, I will not abandon DC as I was once abandoned by my family.

The problems being:

Who can DC trust?

Who can DC believe?

Who can DC turn to?

People who know me say Nyk, you’ve been crapped on before by people you’ve helped, why continue?

My answer is because I’m me.

I believe that if we do not try to help those in desperate need, we not only work against them, we may even be defeating ourselves. Imagine, perhaps DC might go on to create a cure for hunger or cancer; may become a great world leader or even possess the knowledge to end wars. We do not know, nor will we until we step up and believe in people like DC and keep our promises to help.

Hugs to all who need one today.

Papa Nyk

Humanity or Insanity?

The Choice is Ours.

Is American becoming, or has it always been, the land of hypocrisy?

“If the state will not trust its citizens to act temperately and sanely without restrictive legislation, let the state use its laws to enforce temperance and sanity. If the state will not allow the conscience to function, let the commands of conscience be unheeded, and commands of state are enforced-if possible. The state has arrogated to itself the power of defining goodness; let it now do its utmost to make its definition felt. If the power of defining goodness is substituted, let the enforcing agency of goodness be substituted, too; i.e., let the police, and not the conscience, make men good. “It is true,” in effect say the mass of people to the state, “we shall render your silly laws lip-service, for you are powerful, and such oral obeisance is expedient-and cheap. But further than that we will assume no responsibility; yours is the law-yours too is the duty of enforcing it.” So, the game begins. Men gravely nod their approval of paternalism when uncompromising zealots are present but thumb their noses and drain their cups when only laughing companions are near to see. Even what sincere observers of Prohibition there are violate with impunity other laws the rationality of which is certainly more evident.” (Ruddy, 1929)

“Hypocrisy is the art of affecting qualities for the purpose of pretending to an undeserved virtue. Because individuals and institutions and societies most often live down to the suspicions about them, hypocrisy and its accompanying equivocations underpin the conduct of life. Imagine how frightful truth unvarnished would be.” [Benjamin F. Martin, “France in 1938,” 2005] (Online Etymology Dictionary: “hypocrisy”, n.d.)

“John Stuart Mill when he observed:

The disposition of mankind, whether as rulers or as fellow-citizens, to impose their own opinions and inclinations as a rule of conduct on others, is so energetically supported by some of the best and by some of the worst feelings incident to human nature, that it is hardly ever kept under restraint by anything but want of power. On Liberty 28 (1885).” (Furman v. Georgia – MR. JUSTICE BRENNAN, concurring., n.d.) (Furman v. Georgia – MR. JUSTICE BRENNAN, concurring., n.d.)

Today, in our Congress, those we elected, pay, and deserve respect from are working long hours on two major concerns in America:

  1. How to keep out borders open, eliminate all our national security and introduce a neo-Socialism.
  2. How to legalize infanticide.

Am I the only one to see the hypocrisy?

To attain these goals, the people who allegedly work for all Americans, are busy concealing facts, disregarding witnesses and ignoring experts in both the national security sectors and medical fields.

Those we trusted to protect us, are playing political games with the lives of every American citizen.

            How, in the name of all that is sacred to our country and society are they getting away with this?

            They can do it because American voters have surrendered to false promises and hypocrisy of radical Socialist agendas.

            Here is a list of Federal Laws Providing for the Death Penalty.

                        18 U.S.C.  23326        Murder involving torture.

                        18 U.A.C.   1958         Murder for hire.

                        18 U.S.C.     111         First Degree Murder.

                        18 U.S.C.   1091         Genocide.

                        18 U.S.C.   241, 242, 248, 247 Civil Rights violations resulting in death.

My questions regarding this are:

Which, if any, Federal Laws would be broken by the recent enactment of the New York state Abortion law allowing for full-term abortions?

If a Planned Parenthood clinic receiving taxpayer money (Federal funds) to operate performed abortions which, if any of these Federal Laws would they have broken?

            If a doctor working in a facility that received Federal Funding, which, if any of these laws would he or she have broken by leaving a delivered, full-term infant then setting it aside to die because the mother didn’t want it.

            The same questions must be asked of the clinic staff and of midwives.

            I, for one, feel that the use of taxpayer funds murder innocent children is a Federal Crime and should be treated as such.

Bibliography

Federal Laws Providing for the Death Penalty. (n.d.). Retrieved 2 1, 2019, from https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/federal-laws-providing-death-penalty

Furman v. Georgia – MR. JUSTICE BRENNAN, concurring. (n.d.). Retrieved 2 1, 2019, from law.cornell.edu: https://www.law.cornell.edu/supremecourt/text/408/238#writing-USSC_CR_0408_0238_ZC1

Online Etymology Dictionary: “hypocrisy.” (n.d.). Retrieved 2 1, 2019, from Etymonline.com: http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=hypocrisy

Ruddy, C. J. (1929). Hypocrisy–A By-Product of Paternalism. Notre Dame Law Review, 4(6), 374. Retrieved 2 1, 2019, from http://scholarship.law.nd.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=4403&context=ndlr

Civilized?

Read an article this morning about those states that are passing legislation to allow the murder of innocent children under the guise of a woman’s right to choose. In essence, what this appears to mean is that a woman can go out, have unprotected sex, get pregnant then has nine months to decide the fate of that that innocent child.

The most grotesque part about this is there appears to be no limit in the number of times a woman can do this.

THAT IS NOT CIVILIZED. Fact of the matter is, that is beyond the comprehension of the average person. It is making an innocent child the sacrificial victim of an out of control society.

While I acknowledge that there are exceptions to everything, I personally feel that any woman who demands the murder of an innocent child because she failed to protect against creating an innocent child should be sterilized.

These woman who demand we respect their decisions because it’s their body, should not be allowed to use it as an execution chamber. I also feel that any man who fathers a child because he also was too self-absorbed to prevent creating a new life should held accountable for the future of that child and, allowed a presence and voice in that child’s future.

It is long past time we stop making others pay for out irresponsible actions.

“Dear Papa Nyk, why should I have to give up eighteen or more years of my life because I made a mistake and got pregnant?”

Dear Ms. ****, Why should an innocent child give up his or her life because you made a mistake and got pregnant?

When did Women decide they are God?

As an ex-paramedic, my memory is filled with stories of human cruelty to other humans, but nothing in all those years compares to what is happening in our country today.

I’ve assisted with emergency childbirth on a number of occasions and actually assisted with a couple of Cesarean Sections in the operating room.

Of the twenty-three deliveries I’ve been involved with, two, both of which occurred in rural Minnesota, stand out as clear as if it were yesterday.

The first one involved a young married woman having her first child. She and her husband had a small farm about twelve miles from town. Now, if you are familiar with winter weather in Minnesota, you know it can change in a heartbeat and most weather forecasters, at least at the time, were not experts.

Very early one morning, we received a call for a woman in labor with special instructions from the doctor. Those instructions stated that we should attempt an on-site delivery, but should simply bring the woman to the hospital He actually stated that he was sure it was going to be a still-born. Aside from this slight detail, the only problem we faced was about thirty-seven inches of snow and winds were making drifts over the roads.

The road we had to take to get to the farm, was a county one and we needed help to get through. Luckily for us, the state had two large graders working the area and they volunteered them to go ahead of us and open the road. There was also a state highway patrol unit escorting us but still took almost three hours to go the 12 miles, and one grader in a ditch to do it.

When we arrived at the farm, a very nervous young father-to-be met us and led the way into the house where the mother (his wife) was laying in bed. Her water had broken and she was in full labor but contractions were not very frequent yet. I examined her doing the normal vitals (pulse, respiration and blood pressure) then I did the abdominal exam to see if I could determine the position of the fetus. While doing this, I was listening for fetal heart tones with a pediatric stethoscope and wouldn’t you, I heard that little ticker (fetal heart) pounding away like a jackhammer.

As we didn’t have any of the new communications devices, I had to run back out into the snow to radio what I had found to the doctor who was in the hospital.

I told the doctor I felt we had a viable fetus and that I planned not trying to deliver it at home. The ambulance was better equipped to handle a birth if we had to. The doctor was pretty negative stating he felt it would be a still-birth. Without saying it, I got the impression he didn’t think me qualified to determine, but I said we’re coming in fast and there was nothing we could do about it.

With the help of the highway patrolman and the road crew, we got momma bundled up and loaded for a fast ride to the hospital. Just before we pulled out, I checked for dilation and she was at an estimated seven centimeters, so things were starting to move.

We got her to the hospital in about thirty minutes, and about forty-five minutes later, she had a beautiful, healthy little boy. I got a hug from Momma, and a hug from Papa and, to my surprise, a well done from the doctor.

The other case was more tragic. It happened in another small town nine miles from the hospital. A call came in for an unknown issue. As was the policy then, the dispatcher notified the local constable (yep, the town was that small) who was sent to the scene.

On arrival we found the constable standing outside with an elderly woman. When asked what the emergency was, we were directed to an attic room in an old two story house where we found a young mentally challenged girl covered in blood. When we asked what happen, she simply screamed and pointed to a bloody towel on the floor.

On examination, I found a newborn fetus in respiratory distress. Immediately, I began infant CPR and told my partner to get help to take the girl out as I was going to rush the fetus to the hospital in with the constable in his squad car.

When I got outside, I grabbed the constable and ordered him to rush me, and the fetus to the hospital and to radio ahead.

“The radio doesn’t work.” was his reply.

OK, let’s get going – turn on your lights and siren this is critical!

“The siren doesn’t work.”

Get in the damn car, turn on your lights and let’s go.

After a twenty minute, scary ass drive with the constable, we made it to the hospital and, luckily, there was a doctor immediately available, but it was too late. The fetus had bled out.

The story was, the mentally challenged girl was raped by her uncle and the family decided to keep it a secret.

When the girl woke up the morning of the incident, she apparently had some cramps and her water broke. From what we could ascertain, the fetus had already started to deliver but was in a footling breech position. When the girl reached down between her legs, she took hold of the fetus’s leg (a girl) and traumatically extracted it causing severe tearing from the anus to an inch or so in front of the vagina.

There was nothing anyone could have done to save this infant. To see her lying all twisted and bloody on the gurney made me cry.

Now, when I read about how women are demanding the right to murder, yes, I call it murder, innocent fetuses, I remember that innocent child on the gurney and want to scream.

Yes, I agree that women should have the right to say what happens to their bodies, but that right should not include the right to determine who lives or dies. Once it is known that there is a life form (or more than one) growing within the woman’s womb, she is no longer making decisions only for herself. In the case of abortion, the woman is making decisions concerning the life or death of another person who, at the time, is not able to speak for his or herself. Allowing women to be judge, jury, and executioner is giving her the authority to be God over another human being.

I’m neither a Christian, Jew, Muslim or follower of any other formal religion. I’m simply a man who believes there is a power greater than any of us that allows us to think for ourselves. When we can’t, that power steps in to help. I believe that power stepped in to save one baby and allow another to pass out of this realm with only the love and compassion of those who cared for her in the end.

I believe that our court systems have gone too far with the insanity of infanticide caused by the Roe v Wade ruling. In essence, it has given women the right to play God and murder an innocent (or more) to assuage their guilt for not being responsible for their actions.

Infanticide is not the answer!

Repost! Columbine Essay

06-21-15

Second Repost:  This was done for my first Psychology Class

PLEASE NOTE: At the present time this program will not let me insert the actual autopsy reports mentioned in my essay. If you feel them important, please contact me and I will provide the link to them.

Nov. 17, 2014

“Columbine”

An Amateur Psychological Autopsy of Co-dependent murderers.

At 11:19 a.m. (UTC-6), April 20, 1999 Eric Harris and his friend Dylan Klebold brought hell to the small, suburban town of Littleton, Colorado when they walked through the doors of Columbine High School. By 12:08 p.m. they, along with twelve students and one teacher were dead and twenty-four others were injured (twenty-one by gunshot).

When assigned to read “Columbine”, David Cullen, 2009, Twelve, Hatchette Book Group for our final essay, we were directed to choose either Dylan Klebold or Eric Harris to complete what I refer to as an Amateur Psychological Autopsy of our choice. When I read this in our instructions the very first thing that occurred to me was, sorry professor no can do.

Between 1966 and 2014 there have been eleven major mass murders committed in the United States, each involving guns and having ten or more innocent deaths. The significant variable in those cases is only one event involved more than one proactive killer and that was Columbine, where two, perhaps even three disturbed young men went on a rampage.

I believe Columbine had three killers – Dylan, Eric and Kle-arris, the psychological malevolency created by their co-dependent relationship.

In comments from Susan Klebold’s (Dylan’s mother) essay published in the November 2009 issue of “O”, The Oprah Magazine, she references a theft committed by Dylan and Eric:

“Their theft had shown that under each other’s influence they could be impulsive and unscrupulous. Could they also—no matter how unbelievable it seemed—be violent?”

            This one statement raised a lot of questions for me.

Then Mrs. Klebold went on to say:

“No matter what he (Dylan) did, he was driven to win—and was very hard on himself when he lost.”

“His adolescence was less joyful than his childhood. As he grew, he became extremely shy and uncomfortable when he was the center of attention, and would hide or act silly if we tried to take his picture. By junior high, it was evident that he no longer liked school; worse, his passion for learning was gone.”

“He was quiet. He grew irritated when we critiqued his driving, asked him to help around the house, or suggested that he get a haircut. In the last few months of senior year, he was pensive, as if he were thinking about the challenges of growing older. One day in April I said, “”You seem so quiet lately—are you okay?” He said he was “just tired.” Another time I asked if he wanted to talk about going away to college. I told him that if he didn’t feel ready, he could stay home and go to a community college. He said, “”I definitely want to go away.”” If that was a reference to anything more than leaving home for college, it never occurred to me.”

What Ms. Klebold did not appear to realize, or perhaps failed to recognize was that over time, most probably beginning in early puberty, Dylan was displaying classic symptoms of an early onset dysthemic disorder in the form of chronic depression with suicidal tendencies. (Here too, a question arises, were Dylan’s symptoms exacerbated when he and Eric Harris became friends?)

“”At Columbine High School, Dylan Klebold envied the social successes of the school’s athletes. In his journal, he wrote, “I see jocks having fun, friends, and women.” In another entry he wrote, “I hated the happiness that they [jocks] have.” In contrast, he wrote about himself as being so different from everyone else that he seemed to believe he was not truly human or capable of functioning like a human being.”  Murderous Envy, What is the role of envy in school shootings?” Published on May 27, 2009 by Peter Langman, Ph.D. in Keeping Kids Safe.

Eric Harris, on the other hand was the direct opposite of Dylan. An extrovert on the surface, Eric was charismatic, clever, exceptionally intelligent, and very adept at hiding his true self. He appears to have learned at a young age how to manipulative people to attain his goals. He had talents and skills that might have made him a success in life but his was a tragic path – why?

Unlike Dylan’s parents, Wayne and Kathy Harris, the parents of Eric have not been as forthcoming in their comments about their son. Mr. Harris was a career Air Force pilot who retired when Eric was twelve and the family moved to Littleton, CO. Up until this time, Eric was thought to be a normal kid, doing normal kid stuff like playing soccer and wearing in-style preppy clothes, but that began to change when he met Dylan.

Was it love or evil at first sight?

Excerpt from Dave Cullen’s Blog, FEBRUARY 25, 2010 7:06PM

“Meeting the Mauser’s:  Why did Harris’s take Eric to psychologist?

Were there no psychologists at the “juvenile diversion program”? “Wayne was mystified by his son.[1] Wayne and Kathy accepted that Eric was a psychopath. Where that came from, they didn’t know. But he fooled them, utterly.”

““He’d also fooled a slew of professionals. Wayne and Kathy clearly felt misled by the psychologist they sent him to. The doctor had brushed off Eric’s trademark duster as “only a coat.” He saw Eric’s problems as rather routine. At least that’s the impression he gave Wayne and Kathy.”  They shared that perception with the Mausers. “Other than the van break-in, Eric had never been in serious trouble”, they said. He and Dylan were arrested in January 1998 and charged with three felonies. They eventually entered a juvenile diversion program, which involved close monitoring and various forms of restitution.””

“”Eric rarely seemed angry”, his parents said. “There was one odd incident where he slammed his fist into a brick wall and scraped his knuckles. That was startling, but kids do weird things. It seemed like an aberration, not a pattern to be worried about.””

“Wayne and Kathy knew Eric had a Web site, but that didn’t seem odd. They never went online to look at it. “I found them kind of incurious,” Linda said.””

One might come to wonder if they were wearing blinders or were simply oblivious to what Eric was really like and really doing.

It is said that opposites attract; that may be true on the surface however I believe that commonalities are the adhesives that bond people. In the case of Eric and Dylan the commonality was Kle-arris, the malevolent, unseen cancer created by their disturbed minds. I believe there may have been clues.

Dylan Kle-Arris Eric
Depressive Disorder, DSM-V -296.34 Severe With Psychotic Features Extremely volatile combination. Antisocial Personality Disorder, DSM-V Antisocial/Psychopathic
Avoidant Confrontational
Introvert Apathetic Extrovert
Quiet Vocal
Rage Dangerous Volatile
Pensive Apathetic Unreflective
Uncomfortable with attention Apathetic Wanted the attention
Lost interest in school Strong student
Anger issues – No DSM Major Anger Issues Anger issues – No DSM
Inferior Confusion Superior
Paranoid Apathetic Ruthless
Anxiety prone Cold blooded
Major depression issues Suicidal Depression
Feelings of rejection Amplified emotions Feelings of rejection
Feelings of entitlement
Autopsy Toxicology screen negative for drugs. Fluvoxamine has been known to induce violent behavior in some patients Autopsy Toxicology screen positive for fluvoxamine (Rx) Luvox[2]
Submissive/Beta Threatening Dominant/Sadistic
Self-effacing Self-centered Narcissistic
MIDC Scale 7: Reticent Pattern MIDC Scale 1A: Dominant Pattern
MIDC Scale 5B: Contentious Pattern MIDC Scale 2: Ambitious Pattern
MIDC Scale 1B: The Dauntless Pattern
MIDC Scale 9: The Distrusting Pattern MIDC Scale 9: The Distrusting Pattern MIDC Scale 9: The Distrusting Pattern
Dependent upon Eric  Co-Dependent Killer Dependent upon Dylan

I believe that both Klebold and Harris suffered from congenital neurobiological disorders which, had they never met may have taken them on much different paths in life. Admittedly, Eric’s path may not have been radically different than Columbine but that is something we will never know because they did meet either in the seventh or eighth grade and, hypothetically the seed of Kle-arris was planted.

During the years prior to the Columbine attack is can easily be argued that Eric was the dominant leader however Dylan, via his more reticent nature was also a force to be reckoned with. Dylan had unpredictable fits of rage that may have fed Eric’s dominant/sadistic nature adding to his own rage at the inferior world. I believe this may be seen in the types of wounds inflicted on their victims with the high percentage of head and neck wounds as though they’re saying you are not beautiful like us.

Much has been said about the victims and how they died but little has really been said about the deaths of Dylan, Eric and Kle-arris. They died, kneeling together on the floor of the Columbine High School library of self-inflicted gunshot wounds the nature of which suggests to me, one final act of defiance.

“Final Anatomic Diagnosis” of post mortem examinations.

On reading Dr. Galloway’s report, it struck me that Eric knew long before he committed suicide how he had to do it to prove to the world that he was “The Man!” He was in control right up to the end when he placed the muzzle of the shotgun into his mouth, positioned it to do the most damage and pulled the trigger. ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47Wf_RfRJTI ) Warning, graphic.

NOTE: These are footnotes:

I do not believe Eric wanted anyone to get into his mind while he was alive or dead. Dylan, on the other hand used a large caliber handgun which he placed against his left temple and fired. It is quite possible he chose this manner to preserve his face so that in death at least he might be handsome.

Dr. Galloway’s report on Dylan mentions aspiration of blood. This is only possible if the respiratory system is functioning, ergo Dylan did not die immediately as Eric did. Did he know what he’d done, did he feel any remorse, and did he finally find peace from his torment? I sincerely hope they both did.

[1] I can’t help but wonder if Mr. Harris was afraid of his son as well as mystified.

Closing:

I chose to write my essay on Eric Harris, the psychopathic murderer who led his best friend, Dylan Klebold into a web of deceit, terror and mass murder. In writing this essay I discovered Eric Harris, a troubled young man with an intense anti-social personality disorder that appears to have doomed him almost from birth. Despite what anyone, even Eric might think he was not in control of his actions because he saw no need to be. He was not in control of his feelings because he didn’t have any. He was not in control of his future because he saw none.

Had Eric not met Dylan when he did, would things have turned out differently? Maybe, but then our world is filled with chronically depressed Dylans, Eric may have found another or simply acted alone. In any event, I feel that Eric was born without a conscience and he died without one.

Were Dylan and Eric also victims? There is only one logical answer – Yes.

As sure as some children are born with congenital malformations of their organs, Dylan and Eric were born with congenital malformations of their minds.

Mother’s Day

I was asked to repost this and another paper I wrote during my first year in college.

Sunday, three A.M. a full moon illuminates a forest alive with night creatures. Their eyes aglow as if in wonderment as our emergency beacons pierced their world. Only the sounds of our engine broke the silence as we raced through the night. No need for the siren. We were ten miles from the nearest major road, fifteen from any community and hadn’t seen another vehicle since leaving the hospital garage.

My partner, a trainee, scanned the road ahead for a sign of our contact while I wondered what we were rushing into.  Our only information was a call received by the dispatcher requesting an ambulance to an isolated rural area. The caller did not reveal the nature of the emergency and his location directions were vague. He said someone would meet us on the main highway. That made me nervous! I decided to radio the dispatcher for police assist. Unfortunately for us, that meant a town constable at home in bed twenty miles away. On the plus side, the dispatcher at the time was my wife.  As she still liked me back then, she decided to request assistance from the Sheriff’s office and two other police departments from adjacent jurisdictions.

Suddenly, headlights flashed in front of us. A large, dark car pulled out from the shoulder of the road, its driver waving frantically as he turned onto a narrow, gravel township road forming a dust cloud between us.

Maintaining a safe distance back, we followed the dust cloud at a slower speed allowing my partner time to note any landmarks he could radio to the dispatcher.

Abruptly, the dust dissipated revealing the dark car with its mysterious driver stopped next to an open grassy area.  A dirt drive wound its way up to what appeared to be an old basement dwelling set good eighty yards from the main road.  We stopped a few feet behind him.  As I exited our rig in an attempt to approach and question the driver he silently pointed toward the dwelling then sped off down the gravel road.

My attention turned to the house. It was built on a low knoll, had large front windows and, thankfully, was well lit both inside and out.

“Something is missing!” I whispered. “No vehicles, people, dogs or movement.”

Slowly we inched our way up the drive. When almost parallel to the dwelling, it made a sharp right to an exterior wood frame, enclosed stairway atop the knoll. There, in the glare of our floodlights lay the body of a woman. Dressed in a blood-stained, pale green nightgown, her head turned away from us; she appeared to be sleeping,  but it was an illusion. An obvious gunshot entry wound to the back of her head told a different story.

Immediately, my instincts and training took control.

“Shut off all our lights, give me the radio and get your ass out of this rig now!” I yelled to my partner. “Hide in the woods beyond the tree line!” Next thing I knew he was running fast and low towards a large pine tree.

I radioed the dispatcher, “We have a D.O.A with G.S.W.!  We need help fast!”  *

Now, what do I do?  Sitting in a darkened ambulance, on a small rise next to an illuminated earth home, I was a sitting duck. If the shooter was still there, one well-aimed bullet could have hit me or the large oxygen tank and I am history.

What if there are more victims inside? What if they are still alive? Call it brave or insane; I had to know. It was my job to save lives.

Flashlight in hand, I made my way through the shadows to the stairwell. Standing to one side, I held it high above my head to disguise my position and exact size as I peered through the door. Looking down inside, I saw a single, bare bulb ceiling light, a child’s bicycle in a corner and a second body at the foot of the stairs. As the woman’s, it was face down in a pool of dark, clotted blood. It was a man with a gunshot exit wound in the back of his head.

The bicycle – is there a child here?

Against all policy, I descended the stairs, stepped over the man’s body and entered the living room to a scene of rage and anger. Furniture overturned, appliances were broken, dishes shattered and personal items everywhere but no child.

Cautiously I searched the remaining rooms. I saw a lifestyle of modest income and means but no child or other bodies. I was relieved.

Retracing my path, I exited the house to call in what I’d seen. As I reached the radio to give the dispatcher update, the dark car returned. As if in slow motion, it appeared on the gravel road and turned onto the grassy area in front of the dwelling.

Cutting my report short, I waited and watched. The car stopped, and the headlights went dark. The only light was from the house and beautiful, setting full moon.

I could hear the radio in the ambulance as the dispatcher is telling me the closest police unit it still fifteen minutes from our location.

Estimating the distance from my position to the car at forty yards, I realized I did not have many options.

I saw one person, the driver sitting behind the wheel staring at the house seemingly ignoring me.

Was this a neighbor, friend, relative, curiosity seeker or…?

I had to know! I could not be out here in the middle of the wilderness trapped by my fears.

Heart in throat, I walked to the car while keeping my flashlight trained directly on his face.  I got within ten feet when he suddenly turned on the interior dome light and looked at me. He was young, late teens, early twenties, long black hair, average size and scruffy appearing. He had a strange, peaceful look on his face, a calm as though his burdens were gone.

As I attempted to talk to him, I visually searched the interior of the car with my flashlight. He had no less than eight guns and what appeared to be hundreds of rounds of ammunition scattered over the seats.

He asked me, “Are they dead?”

I believe so.” I replied.

“Good!” he yelled as he slammed his foot onto the gas pedal and sped through the grass to disappear down the gravel road.

There was a return to silence as a soft glow in the east announce\d the rising of the sun.

It was going to be a beautiful Mother’s Day – for most.

G.S.W. = Gunshot Wound

D.O.A. = Dead on arrival