Is this hate mail sent from a community representative, or one person's armchair opinion? If it's the former, I'll leave and you can all feel better, if it's the latter, then please speak up.
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Date: |
Fri, 6 Jun 2008 15:18:09 -0500 |
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From: |
"Mike's Writers Network"
<noreply@kickapps.com> [if gte vml 1]> |
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To: |
smurfybench@yahoo.com |
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[if !supportEmptyParas] [endif] Subject: |
Dogmatic Dog Trainer from Mike's Writers Network |
Oworthyone from Mike's Writers Network sent you this message:
Oworthyone wrote:
Well, well. I didn't take part in your human experiment, so I have no personal stake in commenting on your cruelty. My own informal, armchair opinion of you is that you are judgemental, (*judgmental?*) controlling, arrogant and mean-sprited (*spirited?*) . Maybe you should ask yourself why you feel the need to set people up in such a private way only to ultimately humiliate them? Intent should be contemplated before taking action. If your intent is entertainment and to prove your own agenda through such convoluted means, you should be deeply ashamed.
My reply:
To : Oworthyone
Sent : 3 minutes ago
Subject : Re: Dogmatic Dog Trainer
Message :
To my armchair critic,
I laid all my cards on the table with complete honesty. I opened myself up to the judgment and opinions of others, my friendly neighborhood critic . It was 6 years ago and yes indeed I felt more than shame, I felt suicidal if that eases your sense of sanctimonious indignation. Oh! the things people do in the name of a college Thesis paper! Risking the hatred of this community, I bared my soul and used my ultimate shame as an example to others so that they should be careful online--that was my intent. Thank you for taking the time to assure me that my risk was meaningless and gave no more purpose than to be your personal, self-righteous dartboard and to be shunned from this community for my honesty. Is it rude to call an unknown woman demeaning names because you feel morally superior when she openly admits a fault? My own informal, armchair opinion of you is that you should take the plank out of your own eye before you point out the splinter in mine . Thank you for taking the time and effort to type out this hate mail to me. Although my efforts were wasted in showing others the importance of online safety, I will attempt (Mike being the moderator here) to share your hate mail that shows the community how you told off this 'judgmental, controlling, arrogant, mean-spirited' woman. Do you speak as a representative of the community majority or is this a self-imposed remonstration?
From the honest woman who was foolish enough to share her mistakes with others.
p.s. Have you ever heard the song, 'Missing Person,' by Michael W. Smith? I'm listening to it right now. Good Song.
How I Killed O.J…If I Did
A retired prosecutor looking through a scope and down the barrel of a Remington M40 with intended prey in sight. That was me just a few weeks ago. If you had asked me, even one year before, if it were possible, I would have laughed out loud. Twenty years in law enforcement had left me a hard core law and order guy. But there I was, in Miami, Florida, preparing to kill a person, quickly and coldly, at a distance and with no warning whatsoever. I adjusted the cheek piece on the rifle stock and, through the scope, I intentionally focused on his throat instead of his chest. The situation was, in part, the result of my medical diagnosis six short months earlier.
Dr. Ernie King, my oncologist, didn’t mince words with me. He knew that I tolerated no deviation when it came to dealing with my illness. “Just tell it like it is” was the agreed-upon motto and Ernie respected that. “Jim, you have six months to live and maybe just a little longer. You won’t make it through to the New Year”, he intoned. My thinning legs dangled over the end of the examining table as his words banged around hard in my head. I answered slowly but straightforwardly in the way that friends do. The good doctor and I had that kind of relationship. “’Sounds strange at a time like this to say ‘thanks’, Ernie but I mean it sincerely. I can’t begin to tell you how much unfinished business needs doing before I’m through with this life.” He fiddled with his hanging stethoscope as I went on. “I will live each remaining moment with a certain satisfaction, thanks to your honest advice.” I meant every word of it.
Thanks to good drugs and doctoring, it had been a tolerable six months. All the things that needed doing were done. The things that needed saying had been said. My pain had been minimal until now but a new threshold was being met daily. Nevertheless, as I attempted lounging in leather in front of the TV one evening, any pain was quickly forgotten as I listened intently to the Dish Network news out of New York. Bill , the newscaster whose last name always escaped me, told millions of viewers, “O.J. Simpson has written a book titled ‘If I Did It.’, described by his publisher, Judith Regan, as a ‘tell all’ version of the murder of his wife, Nicole, and her friend, Ron Goldman. Simpson will be interviewed about the book on Fox News this Thursday night, according to sources at Fox.” The news announcer’s twisted face and raised brow said it all. When he finished with the bizarre piece, he just shook his head from side to side. His sidekicks, the weather guy and the sports announcer, followed suit. Bill quickly signed off for the evening.
I began a rant. “That no good son of a bitch,” I shouted. “The butcher takes the life of his childrens’ mother and her friend, is acquitted by an excuse for a jury with the vision of Mr. Magoo and now wants to write a ‘confession’!” All of the dreaded damage to victims and their families that I had shared in my many years as a prosecutor seemed to hit me at once. Over the ten plus years since the O.J. verdict, I had seethed whenever the subject of the trial was broached. “That bastard has done more than any other single person to damage the criminal justice system in the U.S.A.”, I would respond. “And that lying fool-of-a-cop, Mark Furman, has left good juries wondering now whether they should believe decent cops’ testimony. It had always been the other way around before. Cops had nearly always been presumed to be telling the truth” , I would go on…and on. But in my chair, following the news that night, I became quiet and pensive. After a review of all of the gory evidence in my mind and finishing the last taste of Gentlemen Jack on the rocks, I made my most difficult decision ever. I would kill the heartless, shameless butcher myself. At this stage in my ebbing life, how much difference would it make? Instead of my legacy being that of a single plodding prosecutor, I would be remembered as the one person who brought “real justice” to bear in the case; not the joke of a dream team and certainly not Judge Lance Ito! Those who had watched the killer’s antics over the past ten years, mugging for cameras, golfing with the rich and famous, and not paying a dime of the $33,000,000 judgment in favor of Ron Goldman’s parents would laud my contribution. In the words of Goldman’s father, Fred, that I had only recently read somewhere, “I can’t stand to see Simpson around….he makes my skin crawl.” Well, worry no longer, Fred, I mused. I’m gonna take care of business. Postgraduate work for the prosecutor.
The next day I began planning my hunt. The internet was full of helpful morsels. By the end of the day I knew where he lived, most of his daily schedule and even the brand of vodka that he had been chugging down straight morning and night. As might be expected, the golf course was the key. He lived right next to the course whose members had banned him several years before for “undignified behavior.” However, it was reported that he would chip balls toward the course from the confines of his own back yard. My scheming went something like this: Instead of O.J. being out on the course and targeted there in the open, I would be on the course and target him on his own property! And why in hell did he own a multi-million dollar property anyway while still owing one his victim’s family thirty three million dollars on the judgment? My anticipation was growing.
Thanks to my late father, I had inherited an M40 Remington rifle with scope. The way he explained it, it was the least the Marine Corps could do for him after two miserable years in Korea. He had somehow smuggled it back home and it sat, untouched, for the next fifty years in his dusty garage attic. My sister had no interest in it when we emptied his home so I inherited by default. I had heard stories from Dad that the rifle was accurate at 800 yards but that was about all he ever said about it. I would find out for myself. Unlocking my bodega, I pulled the rifle off its wall rack by the sling and threw it in the car. Over the next three days I honed my skills in the Sierra Madre and discovered that Dad may have even been a little conservative in his assessment of the rifle’s accuracy. But how would I ever get it to Miami? Certainly not on a commercial flight!
That Monday morning and I was off for Miami. I bought a cheap Shasta RV from a friend in Chapala but I was confident, with only 44,000 miles on the odometer, that it would make it to Florida. There were no plans to bring it back. I shoved the Remington and the box of 7.62x51mm NATO rounds under the bed at the back of the RV and headed out of Jalisco. Fortunately, the waving immigration guys in Laredo never even peeked inside. I had been willing to take that chance. Arriving in Miami, I spent the weekend at the Mission Inn, about two miles from Simpson’s house. It would all go down on Monday, the quietest time on the golf course. I spent the weekend just driving around the neighborhood and setting up my itinerary for Monday morning. The plan was to go out to the putting range with only my putter and a full bag of Remington, covered with a golf sock, and just wander off from there into the woods across from the tenth green, about two hundred yards from Simpson’s back yard. And so, on a damp, humid Monday morning, my wet golf cleats digging into the pine needles that adjoined the rough, I arrived there, as planned.
I spent about an hour putzing around, trying to look busy for the benefit of the occasional foursomes passing by, before he appeared. True to reported form, he ambled out into his yard with a chipping iron and ball in hand. He was dressed in white shorts and sneakers and wore no shirt. He was still a muscled, light-skinned monster of a figure. I unsocked the Remington and pulled it out of my golf bag like a big three wood. My right eye met the scope as I carefully took in the periphery to limit risk of witnesses to the fury of justice at its purest. It was “The Juice” alright and I was anxious, to the point of shaking, to spill him. His throat was as clear through my scope as those Budweiser cans had been during my practice rounds in the Mexican mountains. Wasting no time at all, I rapidly squeezed off one round. That’s all it took. As the sound of the report rang in my ears, I saw Simpson grab at his throat and, flailing, fly backwards off his feet. Finally..Justice! No jury foreperson’s “guilty” had ever pushed the adrenaline through my veins like that. As I hastily dragged my golf cart away, I was euphoric. Oh, the killer would never play golf again with his celebrity buddies under the sunny skies of Jamaica. And he wouldn’t give Fred Goldman the creeps again either. My mouth was filled with a strange sweetness; the taste of the successful kill? My disease had been in apparent remission for days and not a thought of pain had entered my consciousness. I had been centered on a supreme vengeance. My old RV was on sale on consignment in Miami, Dad’s Winchester would go to the nearest swamp today and my plane ticket to Guadalajara was on the night table at the Mission Inn. There was no police chase. I slowly drove the rental car out in the boonies to dump the rifle and then drove on to my hotel without incident.
No, I didn’t awake in my leather chair in front of the TV. It wasn’t a dream; an expected conclusion to this kind of tale. Instead, I stood in Ajijic’s warm morning sun, just outside my bedroom door, and wondered aloud, Did I really do it? Is it possible that my giant step in the law really occurred just yesterday in the throes of my “retirement”? There was no trace of an airline ticket stub that I usually left in the kitchen and my luggage wasn’t still out in the living room. Everything was in its usual state except for the droning voice coming from the TV room. The only words that I could hear clearly over the neighbor’s weed wacker were “O.J. Simpson.” I hurried into the room to learn more………..
Ernie listened carefully to my story and considered referring me to a shrink, Dr. Goudet. The above version is the one that I related to Ernie during my visit. I ended it by telling him, “Doc, That’s how I killed O.J. Simpson, If I Did.” Ernie’s face broke the trace of a smile. He knew better than anyone that my death was imminent. “Jim,” he said quietly. “You just have to be hallucinating. There’s no other logical explanation.” Now it was a smirk. “This is what friends are for.” He handed me a script for Haldol and sent the Old Warrior for Justice on his way.
How I Killed O.J…If I Did
A retired prosecutor looking through a scope and down the barrel of a Remington M40 with intended prey in sight. That was me just a few weeks ago. If you had asked me, even one year before, if it were possible, I would have laughed out loud. Twenty years in law enforcement had left me a hard core law and order guy. But there I was, in Miami, Florida, preparing to kill a person, quickly and coldly, at a distance and with no warning whatsoever. I adjusted the cheek piece on the rifle stock and, through the scope, I intentionally focused on his throat instead of his chest. The situation was, in part, the result of my medical diagnosis six short months earlier.
Dr. Ernie King, my oncologist, didn’t mince words with me. He knew that I tolerated no deviation when it came to dealing with my illness. “Just tell it like it is” was the agreed-upon motto and Ernie respected that. “Jim, you have six months to live and maybe just a little longer. You won’t make it through to the New Year”, he intoned. My thinning legs dangled over the end of the examining table as his words banged around hard in my head. I answered slowly but straightforwardly in the way that friends do. The good doctor and I had that kind of relationship. “’Sounds strange at a time like this to say ‘thanks’, Ernie but I mean it sincerely. I can’t begin to tell you how much unfinished business needs doing before I’m through with this life.” He fiddled with his hanging stethoscope as I went on. “I will live each remaining moment with a certain satisfaction, thanks to your honest advice.” I meant every word of it.
Thanks to good drugs and doctoring, it had been a tolerable six months. All the things that needed doing were done. The things that needed saying had been said. My pain had been minimal until now but a new threshold was being met daily. Nevertheless, as I attempted lounging in leather in front of the TV one evening, any pain was quickly forgotten as I listened intently to the Dish Network news out of New York. Bill , the newscaster whose last name always escaped me, told millions of viewers, “O.J. Simpson has written a book titled ‘If I Did It.’, described by his publisher, Judith Regan, as a ‘tell all’ version of the murder of his wife, Nicole, and her friend, Ron Goldman. Simpson will be interviewed about the book on Fox News this Thursday night, according to sources at Fox.” The news announcer’s twisted face and raised brow said it all. When he finished with the bizarre piece, he just shook his head from side to side. His sidekicks, the weather guy and the sports announcer, followed suit. Bill quickly signed off for the evening.
I began a rant. “That no good son of a bitch,” I shouted. “The butcher takes the life of his childrens’ mother and her friend, is acquitted by an excuse for a jury with the vision of Mr. Magoo and now wants to write a ‘confession’!” All of the dreaded damage to victims and their families that I had shared in my many years as a prosecutor seemed to hit me at once. Over the ten plus years since the O.J. verdict, I had seethed whenever the subject of the trial was broached. “That bastard has done more than any other single person to damage the criminal justice system in the U.S.A.”, I would respond. “And that lying fool-of-a-cop, Mark Furman, has left good juries wondering now whether they should believe decent cops’ testimony. It had always been the other way around before. Cops had nearly always been presumed to be telling the truth” , I would go on…and on. But in my chair, following the news that night, I became quiet and pensive. After a review of all of the gory evidence in my mind and finishing the last taste of Gentlemen Jack on the rocks, I made my most difficult decision ever. I would kill the heartless, shameless butcher myself. At this stage in my ebbing life, how much difference would it make? Instead of my legacy being that of a single plodding prosecutor, I would be remembered as the one person who brought “real justice” to bear in the case; not the joke of a dream team and certainly not Judge Lance Ito! Those who had watched the killer’s antics over the past ten years, mugging for cameras, golfing with the rich and famous, and not paying a dime of the $33,000,000 judgment in favor of Ron Goldman’s parents would laud my contribution. In the words of Goldman’s father, Fred, that I had only recently read somewhere, “I can’t stand to see Simpson around….he makes my skin crawl.” Well, worry no longer, Fred, I mused. I’m gonna take care of business. Postgraduate work for the prosecutor.
The next day I began planning my hunt. The internet was full of helpful morsels. By the end of the day I knew where he lived, most of his daily schedule and even the brand of vodka that he had been chugging down straight morning and night. As might be expected, the golf course was the key. He lived right next to the course whose members had banned him several years before for “undignified behavior.” However, it was reported that he would chip balls toward the course from the confines of his own back yard. My scheming went something like this: Instead of O.J. being out on the course and targeted there in the open, I would be on the course and target him on his own property! And why in hell did he own a multi-million dollar property anyway while still owing one his victim’s family thirty three million dollars on the judgment? My anticipation was growing.
Thanks to my late father, I had inherited an M40 Remington rifle with scope. The way he explained it, it was the least the Marine Corps could do for him after two miserable years in Korea. He had somehow smuggled it back home and it sat, untouched, for the next fifty years in his dusty garage attic. My sister had no interest in it when we emptied his home so I inherited by default. I had heard stories from Dad that the rifle was accurate at 800 yards but that was about all he ever said about it. I would find out for myself. Unlocking my bodega, I pulled the rifle off its wall rack by the sling and threw it in the car. Over the next three days I honed my skills in the Sierra Madre and discovered that Dad may have even been a little conservative in his assessment of the rifle’s accuracy. But how would I ever get it to Miami? Certainly not on a commercial flight!
That Monday morning and I was off for Miami. I bought a cheap Shasta RV from a friend in Chapala but I was confident, with only 44,000 miles on the odometer, that it would make it to Florida. There were no plans to bring it back. I shoved the Remington and the box of 7.62x51mm NATO rounds under the bed at the back of the RV and headed out of Jalisco. Fortunately, the waving immigration guys in Laredo never even peeked inside. I had been willing to take that chance. Arriving in Miami, I spent the weekend at the Mission Inn, about two miles from Simpson’s house. It would all go down on Monday, the quietest time on the golf course. I spent the weekend just driving around the neighborhood and setting up my itinerary for Monday morning. The plan was to go out to the putting range with only my putter and a full bag of Remington, covered with a golf sock, and just wander off from there into the woods across from the tenth green, about two hundred yards from Simpson’s back yard. And so, on a damp, humid Monday morning, my wet golf cleats digging into the pine needles that adjoined the rough, I arrived there, as planned.
I spent about an hour putzing around, trying to look busy for the benefit of the occasional foursomes passing by, before he appeared. True to reported form, he ambled out into his yard with a chipping iron and ball in hand. He was dressed in white shorts and sneakers and wore no shirt. He was still a muscled, light-skinned monster of a figure. I unsocked the Remington and pulled it out of my golf bag like a big three wood. My right eye met the scope as I carefully took in the periphery to limit risk of witnesses to the fury of justice at its purest. It was “The Juice” alright and I was anxious, to the point of shaking, to spill him. His throat was as clear through my scope as those Budweiser cans had been during my practice rounds in the Mexican mountains. Wasting no time at all, I rapidly squeezed off one round. That’s all it took. As the sound of the report rang in my ears, I saw Simpson grab at his throat and, flailing, fly backwards off his feet. Finally..Justice! No jury foreperson’s “guilty” had ever pushed the adrenaline through my veins like that. As I hastily dragged my golf cart away, I was euphoric. Oh, the killer would never play golf again with his celebrity buddies under the sunny skies of Jamaica. And he wouldn’t give Fred Goldman the creeps again either. My mouth was filled with a strange sweetness; the taste of the successful kill? My disease had been in apparent remission for days and not a thought of pain had entered my consciousness. I had been centered on a supreme vengeance. My old RV was on sale on consignment in Miami, Dad’s Winchester would go to the nearest swamp today and my plane ticket to Guadalajara was on the night table at the Mission Inn. There was no police chase. I slowly drove the rental car out in the boonies to dump the rifle and then drove on to my hotel without incident.
No, I didn’t awake in my leather chair in front of the TV. It wasn’t a dream; an expected conclusion to this kind of tale. Instead, I stood in Ajijic’s warm morning sun, just outside my bedroom door, and wondered aloud, Did I really do it? Is it possible that my giant step in the law really occurred just yesterday in the throes of my “retirement”? There was no trace of an airline ticket stub that I usually left in the kitchen and my luggage wasn’t still out in the living room. Everything was in its usual state except for the droning voice coming from the TV room. The only words that I could hear clearly over the neighbor’s weed wacker were “O.J. Simpson.” I hurried into the room to learn more………..
Ernie listened carefully to my story and considered referring me to a shrink, Dr. Goudet. The above version is the one that I related to Ernie during my visit. I ended it by telling him, “Doc, That’s how I killed O.J. Simpson, If I Did.” Ernie’s face broke the trace of a smile. He knew better than anyone that my death was imminent. “Jim,” he said quietly. “You just have to be hallucinating. There’s no other logical explanation.” Now it was a smirk. “This is what friends are for.” He handed me a script for Haldol and sent the Old Warrior for Justice on his way.
v
I Am Sarah
It’s all like a bad dream; really a nightmare. I’m here, hunched before my computer screen, wondering how I could have been so stupid and immature. When you’ve heard me out, you’ll think of other, more descriptive adjectives for my sad self. Crying into my lap doesn’t help at all and I can’t tell my parents, who don’t want to discuss any of my teen woes. And so I’m left alone, with my keyboard and a hope, or dream, maybe, that just one person out there somewhere will answer this prayer for understanding. Condemnation is justified and inevitable, I know, but right now, I can’t bear the thought of it. The only way out may be another lost life; perhaps my own?
You have no doubt seen all of the TV coverage of the raid on the “Yearning for Zion” ranch here in El Dorado, Texas. Like most others that the news anchors addressed their comments to, you probably think that the ‘State of Texas has taken an ugly bull by the horns; that the raid and the resulting capture of four hundred sixteen children from their parents was justified. There’s a song from Porgy and Bess that comes to my mind now. Its title is “It Ain’t Necessarily o”. Well, I guarantee you that the raid should have never happened. And it’s all my fault. That’s the God’s honest truth.
My name is Pattie Hanks and I’m a fifteen year old student at the Sam Houston Junior High. I am no deprived child myself. I have my own room, this computer, two well-meaning parents and a life that most girls my age would envy. I get B’s in almost all of my ninth grade classes and, up till now, I have always felt real good about myself. However, because of what I have done, things are now entirely different; for the last two days I have avoided the mirror. I’ll tell you why.
On April Fool’s Day I was bored. Most of my friends had decided to attend a cook out that night over to Archie Willis’ place. ‘Cause I was the only one in my group who didn’t like Archie, I decided to stay home. Me and Archie had problems that a cook out wouldn’t ever solve. Anyway, I was up in my room and decided to play a prank. Maybe it was to cure a case of loneliness; maybe it was because I thought I was a smartass young gal but it was a terrible, terrible mistake. I made that call that haunts me today.
I called the family shelter hotline and the bad joke began. I told them that my name was Sarah and that I was a member of the Fundamentalist Church of the Latter day Saints. (FCL ) I gave the woman who answered the hotline that name and said that I was sixteen years old and living on the Zion Ranch. Being a social worker, she was immediately interested and sympathetic. She listened to my story that I had been married to a 51 year old man and that I had a young child. I also lied that I was pregnant again and that my husband had physically abused me, breaking my ribs once. The whole story was whispered in low and serious tones. I had starred in our sixth grade play in the role of a woman so I was able to lay it on thick. The social worker insisted that I immediately meet her somewhere so that she could help me. I only started to feel bad about my stunt when the lady choked up and had difficulty speaking to me. She might have even been crying. I hung up the phone quickly, believing that the whole thing was over. I hadn’t meant to hurt anyone’s feelings.
Two days later, as my Dad would say, the crap hit the fan. Police cars, satellite TV trucks and ambulance sirens blared as they raced through dusty El Dorado and out to the ranch. The whole town was on the streets, wondering what was going on. My worst suspicions were confirmed when Mrs.Shelby, in a crowd of women, could be heard above the rest. “They say that a young girl called up and they think she been raped.” The other women moaned together at the news, most agreeing that the call was not unexpected. My heart raced, my mouth went dry and I felt dirty all over. Standing back away from the women now, I felt like I was gonna faint with fear. It could only get worse and it soon did.
At the dinner table that night, Mom and Dad could talk of nothin’ else. Dad told us that 416 children were taken away and would be housed in the coliseum over on Antonio treet. He recounted the events in Utah in the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s, when children were seized from Mormons. Then he went to the subject of the raid at Waco where 74 men, women and children were killed by the government. “I guess that our neighbors at the Zion Ranch had a damn good reason for their paranoia,” he muttered, biting down on a chicken wing. “They’s always talkin’ about terrorists in this country now but I’m beginning to wonder who the real terrorists are,” he went on. Mom just nodded ‘cause that’s what she always did when Daddy started gettin’ serious. I was stiff in my wooden chair, like I imagined a dead body would be. I can’t remember even tasting that chicken, my head was spinning so fast.
It’s been over a month and things are no better. Judge Barbara Walther has already tried to hold a hearing in San Angelo with over 400 lawyers involved. It was pure chaos, as expected. My grades are dropping at school because I can’t think straight no more. Everybody’s wondering who Sarah is; the poor young girl who made the call. Many experts have been brought into town by the state to support their action. One named Marci Hamilton, a professor from New York, of course, has criticized the women from Zion, saying that “they’re doing everything they can to create sympathy. If they can sway the public, then that puts pressure on the prosecutors.” I’m guessin’ that Ms.Hamilton doesn’t have any children! Mr. Parker, the lawyer for the folks at Zion angrily denounced the State, saying that “They know that there’s no arah. She was just their foot in the door.”
Well, Mr. Parker, you’re wrong. I am arah. I am unable to sleep, eat or do much of anything else nowadays. Should I have known that the police in my home State would act like the Nazis? Could I have anticipated physicals for all the women, DNA tests and total separation from their own beloved children? Should I have known that nearly every child advocate in the country would be in town damning the Zion folks? I just read the ranch’s website at captivefldschildren.org where it is said that the State’s standard of proof about alleged abuse is low, not proof beyond a reasonable doubt; just a simple balancing test.
I pray that my God will judge me some day with only one test: “Did she mean for all of this to happen?”
Sarah
I Am Sarah
You have no doubt seen all of the TV coverage of the raid on the “Yearning for Zion” ranch here in El Dorado, Texas. Like most others that the news anchors addressed their comments to, you probably think that the ‘State of Texas has taken an ugly bull by the horns; that the raid and the resulting capture of four hundred sixteen children from their parents was justified. There’s a song from Porgy and Bess that comes to my mind now. Its title is “It Ain’t Necessarily o”. Well, I guarantee you that the raid should have never happened. And it’s all my fault. That’s the God’s honest truth.
My name is Pattie Hanks and I’m a fifteen year old student at the Sam Houston Junior High. I am no deprived child myself. I have my own room, this computer, two well-meaning parents and a life that most girls my age would envy. I get B’s in almost all of my ninth grade classes and, up till now, I have always felt real good about myself. However, because of what I have done, things are now entirely different; for the last two days I have avoided the mirror. I’ll tell you why.
On April Fool’s Day I was bored. Most of my friends had decided to attend a cook out that night over to Archie Willis’ place. ‘Cause I was the only one in my group who didn’t like Archie, I decided to stay home. Me and Archie had problems that a cook out wouldn’t ever solve. Anyway, I was up in my room and decided to play a prank. Maybe it was to cure a case of loneliness; maybe it was because I thought I was a smartass young gal but it was a terrible, terrible mistake. I made that call that haunts me today.
I called the family shelter hotline and the bad joke began. I told them that my name was Sarah and that I was a member of the Fundamentalist Church of the Latter day Saints. (FCL ) I gave the woman who answered the hotline that name and said that I was sixteen years old and living on the Zion Ranch. Being a social worker, she was immediately interested and sympathetic. She listened to my story that I had been married to a 51 year old man and that I had a young child. I also lied that I was pregnant again and that my husband had physically abused me, breaking my ribs once. The whole story was whispered in low and serious tones. I had starred in our sixth grade play in the role of a woman so I was able to lay it on thick. The social worker insisted that I immediately meet her somewhere so that she could help me. I only started to feel bad about my stunt when the lady choked up and had difficulty speaking to me. She might have even been crying. I hung up the phone quickly, believing that the whole thing was over. I hadn’t meant to hurt anyone’s feelings.
Two days later, as my Dad would say, the crap hit the fan. Police cars, satellite TV trucks and ambulance sirens blared as they raced through dusty El Dorado and out to the ranch. The whole town was on the streets, wondering what was going on. My worst suspicions were confirmed when Mrs.Shelby, in a crowd of women, could be heard above the rest. “They say that a young girl called up and they think she been raped.” The other women moaned together at the news, most agreeing that the call was not unexpected. My heart raced, my mouth went dry and I felt dirty all over. Standing back away from the women now, I felt like I was gonna faint with fear. It could only get worse and it soon did.
At the dinner table that night, Mom and Dad could talk of nothin’ else. Dad told us that 416 children were taken away and would be housed in the coliseum over on Antonio treet. He recounted the events in Utah in the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s, when children were seized from Mormons. Then he went to the subject of the raid at Waco where 74 men, women and children were killed by the government. “I guess that our neighbors at the Zion Ranch had a damn good reason for their paranoia,” he muttered, biting down on a chicken wing. “They’s always talkin’ about terrorists in this country now but I’m beginning to wonder who the real terrorists are,” he went on. Mom just nodded ‘cause that’s what she always did when Daddy started gettin’ serious. I was stiff in my wooden chair, like I imagined a dead body would be. I can’t remember even tasting that chicken, my head was spinning so fast.
It’s been over a month and things are no better. Judge Barbara Walther has already tried to hold a hearing in San Angelo with over 400 lawyers involved. It was pure chaos, as expected. My grades are dropping at school because I can’t think straight no more. Everybody’s wondering who Sarah is; the poor young girl who made the call. Many experts have been brought into town by the state to support their action. One named Marci Hamilton, a professor from New York, of course, has criticized the women from Zion, saying that “they’re doing everything they can to create sympathy. If they can sway the public, then that puts pressure on the prosecutors.” I’m guessin’ that Ms.Hamilton doesn’t have any children! Mr. Parker, the lawyer for the folks at Zion angrily denounced the State, saying that “They know that there’s no arah. She was just their foot in the door.”
Well, Mr. Parker, you’re wrong. I am arah. I am unable to sleep, eat or do much of anything else nowadays. Should I have known that the police in my home State would act like the Nazis? Could I have anticipated physicals for all the women, DNA tests and total separation from their own beloved children? Should I have known that nearly every child advocate in the country would be in town damning the Zion folks? I just read the ranch’s website at captivefldschildren.org where it is said that the State’s standard of proof about alleged abuse is low, not proof beyond a reasonable doubt; just a simple balancing test.
I pray that my God will judge me some day with only one test: “Did she mean for all of this to happen?”
Sarah
