BCE Blogs: The Surreal City

BC to Big J: Not in our house

I spent some time in the courtroom today observing a portion of the closing arguments in the trial of the killer of Kieaunta Ward. I looked at the clean-cut Calhoun County folks on my right, and I looked at the Detroit guy known as "Jack" or "Big J" and I knew that if the prosecution had put the facts together, the jury wouldn't hesitate to convict. After just 40 minutes of deliberation, the jury slam-dunked a guilty verdict into the prosecutors' hands.
Count this one not only as a victory for justice and for a criminal justice system that works, but also for the persistence of Kay Pierce, Kieaunta's mother, who never let up on the Battle Creek Police Department to keep investigating and the Calhoun County Prosecutor's office to keep working the case to its conclusion.
And credit Kevin Kendall, who threw the first punch in the fight outside Green's Tavern that night and then, three years later, remembered the guy he'd hit -- who didn't remember him -- and found a way to make him say, with another witness present, that he "took care of business" in the 2002 shooting of Ward.
I visited Ward's grave this evening -- Kay Pierce was one of the most down-to-earth, no-bull-talking sources in my violence package last year -- just for a little mental closure on that case. I was happy for his mom, glad to see justice done, proud of the police and prosecutors again, and glad the jury saw through the maze of statements from convicts to see that a murder had occurred, and that the chain of stories connected Michael Thompson to the 40-caliber gunshots that took Kay Pierce's beloved Kie-Kie in the early morning hours of July 22, 2002.

Oh you $#^#^%$ StoryChatters!

I tend to stay away from the places where the evenings end with brawls in the parking lots.

Testosterone is about as helpful in civil discourse as jet fuel is in extinguishing car fires.

I never really figured that I'd be hanging out regularly in a place where all that "Not only am I right but you're an idiot" talk was just part of the daily ritual, but here I am. Pop into any of the StoryChat discussions and you'll see anonymous Battle Creekers woofing at each other with the kind of respect that U.S. Rep. Henry Hyde and President Bill Clinton saved for each other in the later years of their morally challenged terms in office.

Democrats belittle Republicans; hawks verbally abuse doves. Global warming believers mock skeptics; those who believe police are too tough on criminals trade vicious insults with others who believe crime suspects deserve every bruise they get and more.

And we all know why that is: It's because you can remain anonymous in StoryChat. For me, I wish it weren't so. I'd rather see civil discussions of the facts of the matter, and for respectful people to learn from one another about the facts of the topics they discuss. So I wish you had to register as yourself to join the discussion.

How often does someone enter StoryChat to post a comment with an open mind, seeking guidance from the group? Far less often than they make the most strident, forceful argument they can. The predictable response: Simple refutation. Like a schoolyard argument, it's usually "Is so." "Is not!" "Is so, jerkface!"

This isn't your Jerry Springer moment, folks. This is intended to be the most intelligent place on the planet to discuss issues of importance to the Battle Creek area. Dragging it down with personal attacks, simple refutation, goading, cheap shots and the same old tattered lines out of the 2004 national political party playbooks is no path to enlightenment.

Here's a bit of advice for those of you whose posting totals are up over, oh, let's say, 100. Maybe you find yourself posting the same message more than once, and you've picked out a few chatters with whom you have a beef and on whom you rail mercilessly.

Try the All-Bran this morning. Take a nice walk around the neighborhood. Admire the signs of spring. Grab a little cat-nap mid-morning. Immerse yourself in your work. Double-check your NCAA basketball bracket. Are you sure Creighton's going to beat Nevada? Whatever you do, stay off StoryChat. Just this once. Please.

And before you go back on, think it over. Does it really feel good to snipe back and forth at the same folks, over and over? You're Creighton; they're Nevada. Creighton. Nevada. Nevada. Creighton. Wow. How exciting, for you and everyone else.

Of course, none of this goes for Danimal and Warthogg, who used to fight like little brothers to the point of being entertaining, but now make me sick with their syrupy sweet moments of agreement.

CRANKY BOB

While I'm at it, I might as well get back into the swing of things and have a go straight at the very worst of StoryChat — or at least the most revealing. For in that anonymity, we've seen pure, straightforward homophobic comments and the most bitterly white-against-black racist statements I've read in the North since the 1960s. It was all stunning stuff, and I haven't forgotten the names of the posters and the contexts in which they posted. But don't get me wrong: They are us, and we have a long way to go together to get to where we all want to be.

The crankiness factor

I have to say, with all that's happened in my life, I'm not sure when I'll be pulling out my Cranky Bob persona. There's plenty to be cranky about, of course. It's just that I'm a little out of touch with that side of my personality right now. Grieving will do that to you, I guess. Give me a little time, please. I know it's in there. When it's back, you'll be the first to know.
Bob

Life, from beginning to end

Here's my Sunday column:

Twice in my life I've seen things that forever changed the way I thought about myself, the world around me, the way I relate to my family and how I fit into it all.

One was the first glimpse of my daughter's head as she was born on a rainy January night in Bloomington, Ind.

The other was holding my mother's hand as she fought for one last gasp of air, and then another, and another, and another, a week ago last Thursday in Bronson Methodist Hospital in Kalamazoo.

I never talked to anyone, not even my wife, about how the sense of impending responsibility for a human life transformed so viscerally into reality when my daughter, Kate, was born. So real that I suddenly had an umbilical cord to cut — a grand opening for the life of a human being who could rise to the pinnacles of success or wind up a homeless crack whore, dead on the streets, thanks to our parenting.

And then, 27 years later, I knelt beside the woman who wouldn't let me fail to use my gifts, though so many obstacles stood in my way. A couple of days earlier, before the pneumonia that so quickly ravaged what was left of her emphysema-damaged lungs had run its course, I was able to tell her something I'd never shared before: That I knew that my creative talents, my way with the language and my vocabulary, certainly had come straight from her.

She tried to shrug it off at first, but in the end, she accepted the praise, along with the knowledge that I also picked up her quirky ways of busting out into song and turning what had been a normal conversation into a Monty Python-esque word-twisting exercise.

Many people have talked to me since my mom died about what it had meant to them to lose their moms. Among them, it was the loss of a friend, a consoler, a processor of life events, a chatting partner, a simple comfort, and in one case, a burden.

My dad died nine years ago, and both of my parents were only children, so this is a generational loss. The oldest person in my family now is my sister, who's 52.

The essence of family is shared experience. My sisters and I have been more of a family these past two weeks as we've talked about life events than we had been in the past two decades. If my big sister brings up how she loved the sound of the old neighbor men playing horseshoes in the backyard, my little sister instantly imitates our old next-door neighbor's hilarious way of laughing. As we snort and giggle over it all, I'm thinking about how that same old guy used to invite me over to help him make a big barrel of pickles, and then, when they were ready, would let me sample the first one.

Those shared experiences with my mom have no echo now. Remember when I was on your shoulders and you touched John Kennedy? Nothing. Remember when I used to shoot off the green cannon on the Fourth of July? Silence.

Part of what I was letting go as my mother's breathing grew shallower and her hands went cooler was a renewed bond between us that stretched back to a crisis a decade ago.

After an extended period of isolating herself from her children, I suddenly got a call from my dad that she was headed to the hospital by ambulance. She was coughing up blood.

It seemed nasty as the nurses shoved a tube down her throat and pumped brown crud out of her stomach.

It was more than nasty. I just didn't get it.

A nurse helped me with the reality of what I was seeing.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters in town?" she asked.

"Yes, two sisters," I replied.

"Call them," she said. "Get them here right away."

And so I called my sisters. "Come quick. Mom's in the emergency room. And she might die."

That was the day that we finally set a place at the table for the member of the family that had been locked in the basement for 20 years.

Alcohol had been my mother's escape from the insufferably insecure and often verbally abusive ways of my father. We all knew too much, but no one did enough before it was too late.

To her credit, my mother quit smoking and drinking cold turkey right then and there.

The alternative, pretty much, was dying right then and there.

My mom's extended hospital stay back then coincided with the start of a two-week vacation for me, so I spent all of every day and much of each night there with her. She told stories, she sang, she caught up on my life.

And as I helped her through the toughest time of her life, we bonded as never before.

At first, the doctors gave her little chance of survival. She'd arrived with the worst complications of liver failure, and her emphysema was severe and advanced.

Later, I looked up the statistics. She'd had a 20 percent chance of surviving 6 months with her liver condition, and a 20 percent chance of surviving 18 months with her lung condition.

We considered every day after she got out of the hospital as bonus time. We'd make her happy, not trouble her with the medical stuff unless she expressed an interest, do things she liked to do, enjoy her while we could.

So there we were, more than 10 years later. Heather had flown up from New Mexico on Wednesday, my Mom's 84th birthday.

Early that Thursday morning, I'd been alone at her side, with Heather and Laurie in the hallway, when her breathing became quite labored. It continued for quite a while. I called out in a deep loud voice so my sister could hear me though the door was nearly closed.

"Heather! Heather!"

The second time I called her name, my mom's eyes fluttered open.

She looked over at me, and when my sisters walked into the room, she looked up at them and smiled.

The doctor had already told us that she would not live another day, so we knew we had been given a moment of grace.

We told her we loved her, and that we would not leave her side, and that everything was OK, and that she could let go. She tried to talk, but couldn't. She seemed frustrated, and eventually just closed her eyes and resumed her restless breathing.

From my side of the bed, though, I got the message the only way she could send it.

"Mom, I see that little tear, and I know what it means, and we want you to know that we all love you too."

For all of you who have lost your moms, I am beginning to understand just what it really means.

And if your mom is still with you, please, give her a hug. Tell her it's from me.