Can We Do Better?

Utah Firing Squad Executes Convicted Killer

As reported by Associated Press

“Draper Utah- A death row inmate who had used a gun to fatally shoot two men suffered the same fate Friday Morning as he was executed by a team of marksmen- the first time Utah used the firing squad to carry out a death sentence in 14 years.

            A barrage of bullets tore into Ronnie Lee Gardner’s chest where a target was pinned over his heart. Two minutes later an ashen Gardner, blood pooling in his dark blue jumpsuit, was pronounced dead at 12:17 a.m....

            The five executioners, certified police officers who volunteered for the task and remain anonymous, stood about 25 feet away, behind a wall cut with a gunport, and were armed with matching .30 caliber Winchester rifles. One was loaded with a blank so no one knows who fired the fatal shot. Sandbags stacked behind Gardner’s chair kept the bullets from ricocheting around the cinderblock room.

            Utah Dept. of Corrections Director Thomas Patterson said the countdown cadence went “5-4-3...” with the shooters starting to fire at the count of 2.

            Gardner’s arm tensed and jerked back when he was hit. As the medical examiner checked for vital signs the hood was pulled back, revealing that Gardner’s head was tilted back and to the right, his mouth slightly open...”

            The atrocity here is so obvious, it is impossible to put it in words. I let the description speak for itself. I am tempted to wish all those who would justify our communal acts of violence and wrath could witness firsthand such brutality. I imagine that at least some would hesitate in the future before being an armchair god of life and death if we were all there in that room as this man was executed, together.

            And yet I know the anger I feel at this moment is just as insidious in hardening the heart and building barriers between me and my world, and others and their worlds. It is a raw energy that needs direction so the acts that follow bring positive consequences rather than perpetuating violence and fear. I wish for people like Gandhi to be among us, to help us, our world, but in my wishing I sense there are the seeds of many Gandhi’s among us, right now. If we cultivate the soil for these seeds, they can grow. And if we trust the practice of nurturing goodness, goodness can manifest. For some of us the fields we cultivate will be small, and for some they will be large.

            So, I ask these questions. How can this kind of punishment not rank equal to the very acts of violence that we hold criminal and abhor? What do we achieve by it? Justice? Does it deter other murders? Is our world now safer, kinder, or healthier? Does anyone even really feel better for it? I put these thoughts out there with my hope for a healing world; for us, for our children, and for their children.

Thank you.

Singing

            Dedication: To all of us who can’t sing, write, lead, love, hammer a nail, or talk to God, I tell this story, one that has been told countless times for ages and ages. It is true and I know it doesn’t stand alone, neither in my life or yours. I dedicate it with prayers for our well-being.

            I was in the seventh grade and had grown up in a family that did not sing. It was assumed that we could not carry a tune. Up to this time I don’t recall even trying very hard, definitely at no more than a whisper or as a pantomime. No exceptions, not even ‘Happy Birthday’ was safe. I lamented this and deeply felt the lack in my life. I wanted to sing songs like other people. It did not seem to be too much to ask for.

            I enrolled into chorus at school. After a couple of classes the teacher took me aside to tell me that she did not think I could “fit in.” I could not carry a tune. I would be a burden on everyone else. Seventh grade chorus obviously was for young people who could sing and not for those who aspired to find their voice. Whispers became silence and pantomime a stone face. The only exception was many years later when I had children of my own. I would sing ‘Happy Birthday’ just loud enough.

            My story jumps almost forty years. Forty years! That’s a lot of time and a big piece of a lifetime! I had bought a cheap guitar and was playing with a friend of mine. We strummed chords and he sang folk songs. His voice was not particularly strong or melodic, but we had fun. After a while though, he became frustrated by my not singing and delivered the ultimatum to sing or he was not interested in us playing together any longer. Now, we were close friends and neither of us had large social worlds. We were important to each other. I knew he would not stand in judgment. He could care less about the quality of my voice. In hindsight I would say it was a matter of tough love. Whatever his intention, I had to confront all those people who told the child I was that he could not sing. It was a showdown with no escape, no whispering a tune or mouthing words. The more voices that emerged from my past, my fears of being inadequate, from other vulnerabilities; of being a fat kid with a hair-lip or a Jew or being shy, the more they shouted the more important it became to sing a fucking song! So simple, yet so hard. You know what I mean? I could not carry the weight of all those voices anymore. Now was the time. Now is always the time.

            I am not going to lament those forty years it took for me to learn how to sing. That’s just what it took. I am grateful that it didn’t take longer.

“I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,


When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,


When he beats his bars and would be free;

It is not a carol of joy or glee,


But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,


But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings –

I know why the caged bird sings.”

            Paul Laurence Dunbar from his poem: Sympathy