The recent tragedy of the school yard shootings in Arkansas has lead me to think about criminal acts in our society. After all, what characteristics make one a criminal? Are the two boys accused of killing five members of their school community killers or are they children who expressed their anger in the most negative of ways?
While pondering the case of the Arkansas boys, I recently was given an odd opportunity to explore this issue in greater depth. While at home over break, I was exiting from my car (passenger side) just as Amy Grossberg exited her car (driver's side). [For those unfamiliar with the case, Grossberg is accused of (and currently waiting to begin trial) murdering her newborn son shortly after delivery while away at college in Delaware. The trial is scheduled to proceed this May.] We were undoubtedly face-to-face in the parking lot of our Temple. Only the tint of the windows blocked us from one another. She and her mother attend Friday Night Services weekly while her mother generally sits in the back of the sanctuary sobbing. When I looked into Amy's face I realized that I was in a very uncomfortable situation. I had to say something to her as a courtesy and I felt that my silence would be more of a negative statement than anything else. But what could I possibly say to this young woman? As my palms and the arches of my feet began to sweat profusely I realized that I would start by introducing myself.
Although we live just a few blocks away from one another we had never met before. I began with my name, and I shook her delicate hand. I wondered as I peered into her eyes how this woman could possibly be on trial for murder. I reached for the hand of her mother, and I immediately saw the desperation in her eyes. She took my hand gently, and I introduced myself, but she continued to hold it tightly, almost as if she did not want to let go of it. Eventually we parted as I walked to the entrance to the Temple with Amy by my side. We made small talk, something that should normally be easy for a talker like myself.
And yet as we spoke of the mild weather and my trip to Miami over break, and while I wondered if I should mention college or vacation or my friends, given her bleak future I struggled to control the pitch of my voice which I feared would soon crack.
But she took it all in stride, even offering me some insight into her own daily life. As we entered the Temple, I rejoined my mother in silence, and I watched as Amy and her mother quickly disappeared into the unusually large crowd of people. I looked at mom, and she knew my thoughts. I was shaking. How could a person appear so normal, like so many other college students I have met in the past four years, and yet be on trial for murder?
These thoughts brought me back to the Arkansas case. The Arkansas boys and Amy Grossberg have something in common. Beyond the magnitude of their crimes, beyond the evidence presented by their big shot attorneys and forensic evidence, beyond the truth that we will never really know, there is one essential underlying aspect to them all: humanity. I met Amy Grossberg and I know that she is not a monster or a freak or an animal. And yet she stands trial for the murder of her own child. I guess she is a criminal.
But when I looked at Amy, I saw a young woman who looked not much differently than I, her brown hair hanging around her round face, her lavender shirt clinging to her body, her tight black pants tugging at her hips and thighs, her perfume lingering in the light evening breeze. And beside her stood her mother, a woman desperately wanting to protect her daughter from the future she has created for herself and those that surround her.
The mother's eyes pleading for understanding and forgiveness as her expression-filled face acted as a prompter for her daughter's remote stare that night. Her daughter the criminal and her daughter once an innocent baby girl. That night in Temple when our Rabbi asked us to remember those killed, wounded and affected by the Arkansas killings, I wondered if he should have mentioned saying a prayer for Amy and her family too.
