by Tom Shafer
October 17, 2019
So, I recently interviewed to be a speechwriter for Mayor Pete Buttigieg and his presidential bid. As a finalist, I had to provide a position paper (green energy and the climate crisis) before being Skypeviewed by a team of people, including his campaign manager and another writer. I had hoped Pete would be part of the process (I was told he might be), but he was busy back in his hometown of South Bend. Though I was not offered the job, I was told that I had held my own against seven other more experienced (and certainly more credentialed) candidates. I mean, my résumé touts being a retired teacher and underemployed freelance writer. That doesn’t necessarily scream “Hire me!”
Some of you may be wondering why I am supporting the virtually unknown mayor of a medium-sized town in Indiana. I have to admit that I am not “all-in” on Mayor Pete, but I am intrigued by his combination of intellect, common sense, and ability to think on his feet. The moment doesn’t seem to be too big for him (after all, he has completed a military tour in Afghanistan), and I would love to see him debate our American carnage president!
During my interview (which covered an interesting range of domestic and international issues), I was asked about nationalism across the world, and in particular the growing problem with white nationalists. As I was explaining the proliferation of hate groups on the internet, including Dark Web sites like 8chan and TorLinks, I said, “Because of the spoken – and written – word, people can do unspeakable things.” Multiple head nods and uh huhs suggested that I had struck a very positive chord with the team. They pressed me to expound more on the statement, so I discussed the idea of influence with “leaders” like Ivan the Terrible, Adolf Hitler, Charles Manson – and followers like those at the Peoples Temple (Jim Jones) and the shooters in El Paso and Dayton. I explained that when people are looking for acceptance through traditional avenues (family, friendships, workplace, religion) – and not getting it, some will seek it elsewhere, and sometimes that elsewhere may take them to dark, even evil, places. Such is the strong desire for acceptance. I furthered that depression is an additional component to this increasingly complex problem, and posited there will be no easy solutions.
The interviewers liked my answer and discourse, but as I thought about it later, I found it hollow – and quite discouraging. As a middle and high school teacher, I touched many different young lives, from high achieving scholars to gifted athletes to creative artists and musicians to innocuous class clowns to engaging average students to disruptive miscreants and yes, to quiet loners. I never worried much about most of these kids – many were levelheaded and would land on their feet eventually – but I did think often about the ne’er-do-wells, rascals, and loners. What were they going to make of their lives?
At this point in my retirement from teaching, I have taught five kids who went on to be killers, including a “very nice young man” who assassinated (single bullet to the back of the head) a gagged and bound store manager of a gas station minimart when he was eighteen years old. My suburban school district is not a violent place, and this number (5) is not at all indicative of the kids I taught. I thoroughly enjoyed the thirty years I spent teaching, and given different circumstances might still be working today.
But what I observed then still holds today. I didn’t witness much in the way of bullying, just typical immature middle and high school behavior that bordered on heartlessness. However, and to me more disturbing, I saw lots of kids who were overlooked, disregarded, and discounted. In staff meetings and within my department, I often referred to them as “the ignored.” As a general rule, I found that many of my colleagues had soft spots for these students (as I did), and made efforts to reach out to them, to make them feel more included in our school culture. But I don’t think that ever made up for lack of acceptance from their peers. Sometimes, these kids would find one another (frequently orchestrated by teachers) and create their own peer group – and ultimately they would navigate high school waters more easily and happily.
But others were not so lucky. They would come to school every day, ignored by the other students, sitting alone with their thoughts, and return home without ever engaging their contemporaries. Every day. Every single day.
I remember one such student in my English 10 class many years ago. “Brian” was big for a sophomore, and on the first day of school, I always had my students introduce themselves and express something they wanted me (and us) to know about them. Of course, some kids were better at this than others, and I always helped my more reticent ones. But when I called Brian’s name, he just looked at me with intense dark eyes that I read quickly, so hastily I added, “But I’ll get back to him after I tell you my favorite joke. What’s the difference between an orange? Anyone? Anyone? Two telephone poles because motorcycles don’t have doors. Ba dump dump!” Of course, there was outrage at this nonsense joke, with students demanding that I explain it to them. The distraction worked perfectly, and Brian was spared from his introduction. At the end of the period and after everyone had vacated my room, one last student approached me and explained that Brian didn’t talk, that he had been in the district for a couple of years and no one had ever heard him speak.
Of course, I was shocked, and posed questions to his guidance counselor and an assistant principal. They were aware of Brian and his nonspeaking ways, but both had found little to no help with calls home to his parents. I tried to contact them myself, but all attempts went unanswered. I had never experienced a nonverbal student (or any human for that matter) and had so many questions. Can he physically speak at all, or is this a choice? How is it that he has gone two or three years without speaking, and why haven’t we intervened with more urgency? Ultimately, I felt it was my responsibility to help Brian as best I could.
So, during class and especially during lecture, I would include him as much as possible. As I walked around the room guiding discussion, I would frequently stop next to his desk when making a dramatic point and say, “And I know Brian would agree with me” – or something similar to that. If I told a stupid joke (as I was known to do), I would always add, “I knew Brian would like that.” At the beginning, I’m sure he was mortified at hearing his name during discussion, but eventually he got used to it and would frequently smile when I did it.
The curriculum for English 10 was broken down into three equal components: reading comprehension, writing with purpose, and public speaking. I knew this last skill was going to be difficult for Brian to complete, so I explained that I couldn’t excuse him from the varied speaking assignments, but that as long as he worked hard at all other aspects of the class, he could pass and maybe even achieve a C. He nodded that he understood, and I added one last caveat: should he want to deliver any of the speeches, I would allow him to do it with me alone after school.
Unfortunately, Brian didn’t participate in the first four speaking units, but he was doing quite well on all other coursework and was easily on his way to achieving a C. The last of the public speaking assignments was a demonstration speech where students were expected to “demonstrate” how to do something, like throw a football or milk a cow. This was supposed to be a fun activity, somewhat designed to allow students to show off a particular skill or hobby. After explaining the unit to my class, many enthusiastic voices were already announcing their demonstrations to the ether – and starting to pack up in anticipation of the day coming to an end. From the back of the room, I could see Brian slowly ambling toward my throne at the front – and all of the other students were watching because this was unusual behavior for him. The room was almost still as Brian, unaware, in a deep, resonant voice, asked, “Mr. Shafer, can I show everyone how to play a guitar?” He smiled as I told him that was a perfect topic for a demonstration speech, and I added that I looked forward to seeing him play his guitar. As he walked back to his desk, I could see that a couple of my more sensitive girls were quietly weeping and smiling, while a couple of other students chimed in about playing guitar, questioning him about songs he might play and what guitarists were his favorites. As he slowly but confidently answered their queries, I stood in awe of the compassion and care his classmates showed him. Their explosion of – dare I say it – love was a long time coming. They clearly had been waiting for this moment, to finally hear Brian’s voice!
I won’t go into great detail about his demonstration speech, except to say that with my prompting he did quite well at explaining how to play a few chords, then he demonstrated his considerable skill. He even played with a little band in our talent show the following year (which I assembled and directed), and he continued to reveal more and more of himself. He was still quite shy, but he popped into my room several times during his junior year to check up on me. His family moved during the summer before his senior year, so of course I lost touch with him, but I felt confident that he would be okay, that his nonverbal days were over. And in high school, “okay” is just fine.
I think about Brian from time-to-time, especially after a mass shooting perpetrated by a “loner.” I’m not suggesting at all that Brian could have been a killer. But so many of these mass murderers were not bullied so much as they were ignored. I’m not sure what had happened in Brian’s world before he appeared in my class and why he had chosen a nonverbal life – if it was a choice. Perhaps he had been ignored for so long that it simply became his normal. And maybe that’s what happens with mass murderers. Being overlooked, disregarded, and ignored becomes normal, so they retreat into their own little worlds – for some the internet – and seek acceptance from someone or something. Over time, their rejection feeds disillusionment and anger, and their isolation fosters rumination over thoughts that become dark and disturbing. At some point, a simple trigger event leads to a mass murder event.
I’m no social scientist and may be completely wrong about all of this. But I sometimes wonder about the circumstances behind a mass killing, whether an intervention of concern – of love – could have prevented it. My English 10 class was an inadvertent intervention in Brian’s life, and as we ponder different ways to preclude these horrific events, this lesson might prove instructive. Yes, we need to tighten up gun regulations, as I have written about too many times, but we do need to consider the human element as well. Teachers of mass killers often relate that they are not completely surprised, that warning signs had presented themselves along the way, easily brushed aside as teen angst or teenage growing pains. Perhaps we should pay more attention to these kids, the loners, the ignored. Maybe this is where we can truly make a difference, one that we may never understand or realize.
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