"How could this happen? Who would do this?"

There is no excuse for tragedy. What happened at Virginia Tech is simply devastating. The lost of lives. Family and friends forced to face their loss. Death can certainly be heart-wrenching for many it leaves in its wake. And then to die, by the hand of some stranger, without forewarning, the body bullied into trauma before taking its last breath, is truly an unfortunate way to leave this life.

But I'm inclined to say this: America can not continue to live under the fantasy that bad things can never happen to them. Because bad things will happen. And for our country's top news anchors to moan the mantra, "How could this happen? Who would do this?" is a bit unrealistic. And dare I say, archaic.

We are living in a time where even the weather is showing its unpredictable fury; where our young men are being sent to the Middle East, some returning home dismembered, or dead. We are living in a world where AIDS is killing continents; where urban warfare is destroying the lives of the poor or black, or poor and black; where oil may not be the endangered specie, but water. We are sharing space on this earth with dictators, global economies that profit from misogyny and violence. Where mental health issues are so apparent, we've had to find new distractions to avoid dealing with them. And the kicker is: because of the internet and streaming video and the globalization of the world, we all can read, see, hear about every nook and crannie from Madagascar to Java to Blacksburg, Virginia, whenever we want.

How could this happen? Who would do this?

I can't imagine what those Virginia Tech students are experiencing. Their families. The administration and the faculty. I've certainly lost friends and family to death. Sometimes because of old age, sometimes early age. Drugs, alcohol, suicide, murder, and the biggest killer: stress. But I've never lost anyone to grand-scale rampage. And I wish the faces of Virginia Tech every bit of strength to endure the aftermath of this thing. Because I've learned, with death, one needs endurance more than anything. Not prayer to wish it away, but endurance to navigate the reality of life.

Which brings me to this: Cho Seung-Hui. The media has posted his plays; they've called him mentally ill and creepy. I even heard a woman on CNN tag his writing as immoral and then connected that with his alleged repressed same-sex desires. He was even deemed anti-religion and anti-rich, in other words, Anti-American.

What happens when a young boy from South Korea arrives in this country, without language or cultural skill to help him through the rough-terrain of Americanizing the Foreigner? What happens when this boy quickly learns that there's a certain aesthetic and image that's rewarded in this country, and if you don't fit the bill you may not reap the benefits of friendship or inclusion? What happens when there's not enough self-esteem to pull him through those initial bumps of his Americanizing? [Not to mention what's going on at home with his family]. What happens when he walks through campus, shares a suite with five others, obviously disturbed, obviously lonely, and no one notices? No one seems to care? No one is equipped to hear the cry for help? When there is no protocol for seriously saving his life before he takes the lives of 32 others?

Two of his suitemates called the police. Nikki Giovanni questioned his meanness and informed the administration; the administration informed the counseling sector who said there was no protocol for something as urgent as a budding homicial, suicidal mind.

Wow.

I guess it IS a very interesting question. How could this happen? Who would do this?

Until next time,

Keith

Over the weekend, I saw an amazing film—KILLER OF SHEEP by Charles Burnett.

I've been a deep-rocked fan of Burnett since seeing TO SLEEP WITH ANGER. His simplicity, magic, his willingness to probe deep into the black emotional sea called life touched me in a way that was reminiscent of Toni Morrison's fiction. But this feat, this jewel called KILLER OF SHEEP was something different. Allegedly Burnett's first film, KILLER OF SHEEP is so full of visual texture and emotional width and depth that at times I ached. Not from the painful beauty of the film—its poetry and structured rawness—but from wishing everything in life was like this. At times so brilliant it made you cry; at times so mundane it made you wonder if you were really living.

What a film. What a piece of art. I am now, and forever... a deep-rocked lover of all films by Charles Burnett.

Until next time,

Keith