Pssst ~ Can We Pause for a Sec to Talk About the F-Word?

FUNNY. That’s the F-word I usually focus on in my monthly blog post. But this month, on my way to writing something funny, I hit a detour—a detour named Rice, who was in the midst of shredding old files we’ve hung on to for far too long. He came across a piece I’d published in The Atlanta Journal/The Atlanta Constitution—long ago, back in the days when the paper ran morning and afternoon editions. He suggested I share it in a 2024 blog, as he still found it eerily timely. It’s about FEAR.

Before I share more, let me give you some context: I originally wrote this piece in the year Ariana Grande and Pete Davidson were born, the same year Bill Clinton got sworn into office after his first run. Jurassic Park, The Firm, and The Fugitive sold out at the box office, where tickets ran $4.14 a pop. Only 32 percent of the population owned cell phones then—the kind that had to be flipped open to use.

My kids attended elementary school when I wrote this, one and a half years before the Oklahoma City bombing, five years before the Columbine shooting. It was 1993, eight years before the terror of 9/11, twenty-eight years before the march on the capital of January 6th.

The piece first ran in the Op-Ed section of The Atlanta Journal / The Atlanta Constitution on Wednesday, October 20, 1993. I’d be honored if you’d check it out today.

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LIVING WITH FEAR ~ THE ULTIMATE PARENTAL HORROR

In Atlanta and its suburbs, the fear of random violence striking down children is causing parents to question their own lifestyles and beliefs.

10/20/93 ~ My sister teaches pre-primary “at-risk” kids at an inner-city school. She’s been kicked and hit and called names that would make our mother blush. Their mothers? They’re rarely seen at the school. It’s located across from an alleged crack house, and occasionally sounds of gunshots echo through her classroom. I ask if she’s afraid. She says she doesn’t think about it much.

I think of her when I visit my children’s school. It’s shiny and new, located on a big chunk of suburbia. The kids are clean and well-fed. Parents are present, helping in classrooms, the media center, the school store. Test scores are high. Field trips are plentiful. We parents grouse about fundraisers and requests for money. We do our part, though. No one asks if we’re afraid.

Most of the schoolkids live in our subdivision. It’s a well-groomed “country-club community.” We have homeowners’ guidelines regarding when to put our trash out and providing us two color choices for storm doors. Overall, it’s a nice place to live. We chose it carefully. We felt our kids would be safe here.

Yet fear abounds.

A mother at the bus stop is concerned. A second-grader is harassing her kindergartner. Someone suggests she help her child learn to handle the situation himself. Yet considering recent news stories of violence in schools, she’s uneasy.

A neighbor tells of a visit to the nearby Kroger. She and her nine-year-old witness a man stealing a carton of cigarettes. The child wants to report this to store management. Mother, however, is anxious. The thief has seen them. He may find a way to retaliate.

Statistics tell us that anger and violence are increasing in the suburbs. Theories thrive as to why. Television. Overcrowding. Deteriorating family values.

Some say it’s a mere swing of the pendulum, pointing to eras such as the 1920s, when violence prevailed. They say the apprehension sensed by suburbanites stems partially from the erratic way in which violence strikes. A mass murderer hits a fast-food restaurant. A student is slain in a school cafeteria over a personality clash.

I share the fear of random violence that could touch my children. It’s perhaps the ultimate parental horror. Yet I carry another worry, less hair-raising, certainly, but still strong. It boils down to this: Will I deny my children, and myself, access to experiences where I cannot be in complete control? My answer, like that of most parents, lies one situation at a time.

Recently, after shopping, I found a note on my windshield. It said I was stupid, idiotic, and dangerous. What prompted this? My bumper sticker, supporting one of the candidates from the last presidential election. I found the note irritating and irrational.

I chalked It up to the heat, but my husband voiced concern. Perhaps I should remove the sticker. The next person taking offense might be carrying something more lethal than a pencil.

I considered whether he may be right. Perhaps I should refrain from commentary on my beliefs—all to keep my children “safe.” Yet it occurred to me that then I’d then be bowing to the ghastliest fear of all. The fear of living.

It’s a consternation I’m trying to learn to live without.

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Jan again, in the here and now: Thanks for reading this blast from the past. Not sure about you, but it made me think. Funny how the more things change, the more they stay the same.

That said, I usually aim for another kind of FUNNY for my blog posts. I’ll try to get back to the business of being less serious soon. Promise. I’ll try.