I had planned to talk about a television show tonight, one called Parenthood. And I still will, but its relevance and significance takes on new meaning on this December 14, 2012. When I opened a browser this morning to search for something innocuous, I was confronted with a red breaking news banner that told of a shooting at an elementary school in Connecticut. As the events unfolded, and as I turned on the news to listen, I was shocked. The news was devastating; the feelings overwhelming. As a parent, I was almost literally sick. As a human being, I was ashamed.
This shooting seemed different somehow, more visceral, more devastating. This is not to diminish any of the other shootings that have happened in our history, and especially of late. Oregon, Wisconsin, Colorado, Arizona. They are all heinous; horrific. Devastating for the families and for our nation. But this one ate at the country’s collective soul, gnawing on it like a dog that won’t relinquish a bone. 20 children dead, most of them kindergartners. Teachers, a principal; others. Stories of bravery amidst tales of horror. I was transfixed. I was mortified. I was so very sad.
I am a parent and while Justin is now nearly 22, I remember all too clearly when he was an innocent little redhead of 5 or 6, happily talking about Disney movies and what he wanted Santa to bring for Christmas. I remember the wonder of him, the purity of his thoughts and love. My heart breaks for the parents tonight who are trying to deal with the unspeakable. Can you deal with it? I don’t know, and I wouldn’t know how. I am ashamed and tired and horrified and sick and saddened and and and.
I am a fan of the show Parenthood. There aren’t many of us; we are rather a cult. But we are faithful and devoted to a show about parenting, the pain and joy of it, the irritation and chaos, the fear, the truth, the realness of it. The show follows four grown siblings and their lives and children; their parenting. They are the Bravermans and they are all in their mid-30s to mid-40s, all with children, all trying to navigate the un-navigatable waters known as parenting. At the head of the large brood are the grandparents, who were, once upon a time, parents to the four who are now immersed in parenthood themselves.
Whether you’re young starting out or grandparents watching your own kids have kids, this show rings true like few shows I’ve ever seen, certainly more than the so-called reality shows which bear no resemblance to any reality I know.
It’s based, loosely, on the movie of so many years ago that was directed by Ron Howard and starred Steve Martin and Mary Steenburgen, Dianne Weist and a young Keanu Reeves and even younger Martha Plimpton. It was good; but I didn’t love it. I don’t know why. Perhaps because I wasn’t yet a parent and couldn’t relate.
Over the years, the networks have tried to reproduce the film and all have failed. This most current incarnation is succeeding, albeit barely. It is in its fourth season and there are hints that it may be back for a fifth. It is undoubtedly inexpensive to produce, and aside from salaries, probably has very little excessive cost.
It encapsulates what it means to be a parent in today’s age. Drug and alcohol use by teens, underage sex, a bi-racial child and what that means for him and his parents, adoption, health issues, job issues, wanting to do more for your children than you’ll ever be able to do financially and even emotionally. Like sending a child – Haddie – to Cornell University in New York and having no idea how it will be paid for, and at first saying no, but then figuring out a way. It can drain the soul, as when Amber, a troublemaking teen who has since blossomed into a lovely young woman, ran away and her frantic mother searched everywhere only to finally find her in the town where they used to live, alone in a diner in the rain.
The rain was an apt metaphor. It was cold and dismal and seemed hopeless but it was also cleansing, ridding Amber of the past and of her problems. I am not naïve enough to think that rain can ever heal what happened today in Connecticut. I can’t imagine the sheer terror of the parents, nor of the children. My heart is broken. I wept. As a parent, you are not supposed to get a phone call saying there has been an incident; you are not supposed to race to the school where your kindergartner should be happily finger-painting to make Christmas ornaments to see if he’s alive. You are not supposed to lose your child to the whims of a gun-wielding maniac.
You are not supposed to be gunned down by your child either, like the teacher whose son was responsible for the murder of at least 27 individuals, 20 of them young children.
You are not supposed to. He was not supposed to. We are not supposed to.
How would they handle something like this on Parenthood, the exquisite drama that graces NBC each Tuesday night? I honestly have no idea, because it’s too real to imagine. It would be too heartbreaking to watch.
Perhaps they’d have a way of making it all make sense. I suspect that they wouldn’t, though. They would let us into the drama, the tears, the anger, the wrenching emotion that is too overwhelming to imagine, and they would let us become part of it. That’s what happened today. We became, sadly, part of it all. And we are poorer for the experience. I find nothing to celebrate in that, other than to wish we could all raise our voices so that perhaps we are finally, finally, FINALLY heard. This gun violence must stop. As a parent, I hear that call clearly. I will shout it myself; I will live this pain and fear and horror and hope for change out loud. Finally.
Dog bless.