Just a Statistic
David Van Horn
“The death of one man is a tragedy.
The death of millions is a statistic.
Joseph Stalin
I learned early on that the farther I was from my parents, the less likely they would find out about my adventures or misadventures to hear them tell it. It worked most of the time. This was the last time it didn’t.
I don’t remember all the things that got me punished as a child. Some of those I do recall were clearly wrong; even then, others completely baffled me. In any case, my punishment was never more than an occasional grounding or the loss of my toys for a short period.
I grew up in a average middle class family. My parents, myself, and my little sister. Two kids was the average statistic for families back then. Statistics mattered more to my parents than they would ever admit. They call it “appearances”. Appearances meant my mom sat on local charitable committees and my father rubbed shoulders with the local and state political figures who were grooming him for a career in Washington, DC.
Appearances mattered.
We lived in your garden variety middle class neighborhood. White picket fences, boxed in sycamore trees that brought the same clean linen smell each spring they blossomed. Neatly trimmed lawns were divided by small walkways that gave way to front porches with cheerful messages awaiting the next visitor, was a suburban paradise. A picture perfect stepping stone in the next class of living.
I never questioned any of it. Why should I? It’s what I had been taught was right all my life.
* * * * *
The summer I turned 12 years old was going great. I was hanging out with my best friend Joey having a great time. Joey and I were two nuts from the same tree. On top of that, his family was identical to mine. We often joked we could switch places and our families wouldn’t notice.
My mom was holding a luncheon for one of her many committees and we were sent off to ride our bikes and to stay out of trouble. It was pretty warm so we made our way to the community swimming pool, at our local high school. We could have gone to Joey’s, we both had pools, but it annoyed our parents to hear of us associating with “less fortunate” kids. We paid our admission and went into the main pool area. It was packed with younger kids, not many kids 12 and older go to public pools. I still remember the smell of the over-chlorinated water and the stinging eyes I always went home with. We swam, splashed and raced around the pool. We were the kings of the pool. After an hour we began to tire ourselves out and I began to grow bored. Unfortunately, mom didn’t want me home before 3:00 PM and it was only 1:30 PM.
We put our heads together, Joey and I, and we came up with a game. We decided to get some of the younger kids together and playa game of tag. We found some willing and bullied a couple of the not so willing ones into the game. Of course the game was rigged for us to win. In order to “tag” someone you had to dunk or pull someone completely under the water. There aren’t many 8 or 9 year olds that can dunk a 12 year old, but after a short time I was tagged it by Joey, and he thought it was hoot.
I didn’t.
I looked around and found one of the unwilling players, clinging to the side of the pool. He must have been 8 or 9, and only half my weight.
He was an easy tag to make. I turned towards him and slipped under the water. Swimming at my full speed, I came up behind him. Pushing my feet off the floor of the pool I rocketed out of the water, and pushed him down with the weight of my descent.
They say the boy never had a chance. His head slammed into the pool on his way down. Out cold, his body tried to breathe in, and filled his lungs with water.
He drowned. They tried saving him, but it was to late.
My parents were called down and the boys family was notified including his favorite uncle, the state senator. I was in deep trouble. There would be no trivial grounding this time. After the police declared it an accident, I was a little less scared. How foolish was I?
Remember what I said about my parents and “appearances”? Well, in the days following, a twelve-year-old murderer was a real negative one and that state senator was making real waves in my parent’s social circle.
Who cares? I’m their son, right? Blood is thicker than water and all that? I guess not.
You see, that senator was suffering, and where suffering happens, punishment soon follows. “Punishment” is what revenge calls itself, creating a clear conscience for others.
The State Senator and my parents came to an understanding. My parents would turn me over to the state as an uncontrollable child, and all would be as it was before. They would enjoy their influence and prestige, and my sister would never want for anything. The senator called it Justice.
My parents called it a good deal.
I don’t have to tell you what the next six years were like, bouncing from foster home to foster home, labeled a child murderer.
You’ve seen the news stories; statistics really do matter.
That’s who I am.
Foster statistic #6451
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