April 24, 2013
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“It’s Not My Sons Who Killed”
I hear that message so many times when we are watching news about gang killings when evening news comes on, and, sadly, in America, it is usually a poor mother whose child has had little education and certainly has not traveled the world. The police will have found the guns which may have gone through a home closed up for the night; and we have all witnessed as the police are being filmed measuring off the murder sites. A person had to shoot to be initiated, or a young man — Most often, young men — has to get back for an opposing gang member had their eye on his honey of the day, and as unbelievable as that sounds, it happens in almost every American city where it is though a good year keeps it below that hundred mark of dead. I have seen drugged out mothers weaving and weeping, “Oh my baby is not guilty,” and the people around her cry loudly, shout at police — Not always without cause, but there are too many times when they have shot, a neighborhood child is killed, a baby, a beautiful girl, and not even a mom who is a junkie wants to hear that her child has killed and lost the rest of his manhood to federal or state prisons where they adapt and life lives which are always dangerous, always without, and they will never really grow a lot in their minds beyond what years they got to be young.
I can feel them, for I had three boys,y and I love each of them to the point I would give my life, for we all would do just that, all of us who got the death warning first; We would want it to be us and not our child. I believe the junkie mama, and I believe the mother who worked all day, and came home to a fatherless house made dinner, then endeavors to help what she can to find school clothes for tomorrow. ” God, ” Do you hear me, for I want you to know that we are mourning every son and daughter whether lost as American Warriors on foreign soil, and we grieve for those children who felt so desperate that they take their own lives and, only if you are lucky, do they leave you a note about what drove them to that point. I do not want to give up my grown up sons, my daughters, my grandchildren. Some, I may think needs a few hours with my Dad to do one day of work with him to just imagine the cost of why they are so lucky, but mothers will not turn the hungry child away, and the one who thirst is welcomed back in if there is a way to resolve the thirst. We are mammals, and we nurse our young when possible. We react when a little sniveling brut endeavors to hurt them. One Halloween when some brat kids below us on the hill pushed my Matthew and his friend down and hurt them as well as their candy was all taken, so I loaded the kids up in my VW bug at the time, and I was so incensed that Halloween candy would be taken from five year olds, and I was so tired after doing a double shift at the hospital that I was going after those little bastards who made our baby’s bleed, and when the boys asked me what I was going to do when I found them, I said, “I am going to run over them!” “God spoke,” the children in the back seat at least, and I was told, “Mama, you can’t run over those big boys, and then I figured it would be alright just to find them and pick up one big stick and whack them across the rear a few times, but again, “God called,” Mama those boys could have knives, we’ve got some candy at home. We start early endeavoring to rescue our children, we mothers, and for some the rescue will not me made.
The neighbors got the news, so dear Mary Beasley went around and by the time we got home two new sacks of candy appeared, and through the years, there did remain that the Heintz house always has food, but if you are going to try to steal something; “Mrs. Heintz might make you loathe the day you were born.” I just so adamantly have feelings about what is wrong and what is right, and I endeavored to use everything from the poets to scripture to give our children a wonderful life, but I got cut down really hard, for one of my boys got into drugs beginning with a 30 year old tramp who rewarded growing boys with what they discover better than any bag of candy. She was using kids to support her own habit, and I will say that at a critical moment, she helped us find a missing child. He would grow older, keep screwing up, and one day we would go in and the family therapist sent him out of the room and gave us this news, “Mr. and Mrs. Heintz, your child is a moderate to severe drug addict, and you need to get him in in patient care before it is fully too late. “You have got to be kidding, our son on drugs; No, not our son,” said I, and in those days we took inheritance money and sent him to Minnesota to the Wilson Center where he would later brag that he got better drugs. and he came out worse than he went in. There is a happy end to this story, for when he wound up with a daughter — His life took a sudden turn, and from then to now, he is one of my lawyers sons, a shining light in his community, and his home and his wife are wonderful places to be. It was my child though, the one I was in disbelief, but it would take another five years for it all to work through the horrors, and my heart felt like stone every day. How very full of myself I was to believe that I raised all perfect children. But the denial I had was no less than every Mom I think of who has gone through broken times.
“Good sense,” Can we look today at a woman whose son is living in The United States and who has a 19 year old boy at Beth-Israel Hospital in Boston if I remember correctly, and today she was coming to be at the bedside of her boy who 8 months ago was a wonderful student, but something terrible happened. He had an older brother who obviously had gone back to Russia and had come back with news for his little brother, that showed us to be at war with Islam, we Americans, the Infidel to all that is Holy to so many different tribes of Islam. In their heads, we are there to kill the law of Mohammed and all of the governing law of the Quran, and far more in the culture this boy comes from is the construct elders have in power over their children, so a 26 year old man decided to destroy his brother, to make him a martyr, and he knew the promise from his elders that then with his brother they would be in Heaven, virgins and bliss, peace from this earthly life, and probably picturing proud parents that they would die from such a cause of punishing America once more by taking down another symbol of something which seemed pleasant, simple, for the wounded, for the rich, and for the poor, all people along a 26 mile stretch of Boston would have the wind, their joy, three lives, plus another critically wounded from home made bombs — Just like the ones which have maimed our service men and women so severely and The Boston Marathon would never be without a need for remembering those who died from here after in a war on our streets.
I see the picture of that boy still living,, and I know that is life is in as much as over, for some living find comfort in this — That he may never talk again, that he will never be a good student again, that falling in love is useless for him, and he will certainly not get extra cosmetic surgery to build a new esophagus, for people will want to see wounds. I am aware that most of you see him as only a free will activist for a sorry Imman who taught a miserable message of hate, but I have been sick, watching much TV, far more than I usually watch, but I felt a familiar pain today and tonight. A beautiful mother in a scarf so brilliant that I could not define if it was yellow or golden, but it looked like it was spun by moon Gods. She walked along, the reporters chasing her, and she answers over and over again, “I am Mother, and a Mother knows,” these are not my sons!”
I wanted the reporters to get away from her while she believes, “These are not my sons,” and she will be chased every where she goes for every detail about how she raised such monsters. On arrival in America, she will see her baby boy who can no longer speak, and the body of her other son will not give her the peace of a Holy Burial, for the time has paced, and every mark on him will be there for the parents to identify, and then, only then will she break and fall, weep the mourning which is a wail, a cry for mercy for her one living boy; and she will say, “You have killed my sons,” and the hate will be intensified by every member of her family still in their village — “Those dogs, the Americans have killed our good boys,” and then vengeance will be sought; we know not where or when. I wish that I could ease this mother’s pain, for it will not make sense when she sees that one child died, and the other was a follower of his brother, so hate it plants its seeds. They ruminate, and there springs forth the line of death. Vengance and violence will go to ever warren where those who believe we are the Infidel walks. It is over their heads and in their minds, and I feel like laying a memorial somewhere to a foolish child who was taken over by his brother, a boy who once loved school, and he would have been an exemplary student had not all of this happened.
Time, and the families of the people who died and who are wounded will watch the law try this boy who was a foolish follower. I just wonder when are we going to start our fighting in another way. I thought the mother was beautiful, and she was well spoken, so who will comfort her. Could she be treated as humanely as any other broken hearted mother; And can we show the world that we are somehow better than people who must hide behind secret codes and home made bombs. Can we feel sorrow that she will finally have to admit that her sons are now both, as much as dead. I think the day is coming when we, of our own free will are going to need to show that we know this woman raised sons to do better things, to become productive people, so I will pray for her family, though so many would say that I am committing a horrible deed. I see the little 8 year old boy who died, the fresh faced beautiful women who had to be laid to their rest, and for all of those with shratnel wounds over their bodies, I want to love and bless them. I will send to The Red Cross, but I think we may be on to something if the women who are Muslim begin to help cross a bridge no man or men can build.
“I am mother,” she said, so could we please know that she hurts like the poor women of Oakland and Chicago where gangs are rampant. It is time to meet the women, even the Muslim women in our own communities. I am confessing here on Xanga, that I feel anxious around Muslims in groups, and I have a very difficult time just saying, “Hello.” It all sounds as if I want to play nice on the play ground, but this is not play ground, for we are trying our showing our Warrior Spirit, and some will remain on the sands of deserts where there was little that remained — So places of burial are sacred, and we feel humbled as we lay flowers for the warriors. I just think that this woman, the mother of the two bombers deserves compassion — And we need to let that compassion begin to take root and to spread the news to the killers that their Mothers, and it may not be a birth mother, and it may only be a father, but if evil is to leave our land of plenty, that we have a golden opportunity to show that we are not blood thirsty Viillans . Please let President Obama meet this woman and give her his condolences, for we have used the guns and bombs, so it is time to let the women know the American Spirit. I long for the day when you, like me can look out over this land of ours and live the incredible moments when soldiers are state side, helping to save cities which are flooding and going in to gang land as adjunct to our needy police forces.
I am so sorry for you, the mother who will see her wounded child and lay her head on his chest where she will hear the same heart beat which she heard before he was born. Just leave her alone our American press corps. Leave her alone you who are so angry, and let her deal with the pain of lost children, for she is simply their, “Mother,” and one whose life has changed forever. We have no reason to punish her. “Take care of all who grieve Dear Lord,” and let us begin chipping away the mountain of hate. I beg for such grace.” Barbara Everett Heintz, Author of, ‘Pinkhoneysuckle,” See reviews on Amazon, and thank you for stopping by this day.
