THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1997, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, February 4, 1997 TAG: 9702040025
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Elizabeth Simpson
LENGTH: 69 lines
TAYLOR RICKS. Tim Wheaton. Ennis Cosby.
They are three people who probably never met one another but who share a common ending: death by gunfire.
They have also shared space in this newspaper during the last few weeks. There's been trial coverage of a suspect in the death of 3-year-old Taylor Ricks, who was killed while standing at her bedroom window. Stories about arrests in the murder of Tim Wheaton, gunned down while talking to friends on a street corner. And follow-ups to the death of Ennis Cosby, who was killed in the prime of life while changing a flat tire.
In ways, these victims are very different. A 3-year-old who barely had time to begin a life. A teen-ager who was a devoted soccer player and good friend to many. And a young adult who had already begun to make his mark on the world with his work in special education.
One white, two black. One from a rich neighborhood, another from a poor one, a third from the middle class. Female and male. A son of a celebrity and children of not-so-famous parents.
But they had this in common: They made me feel vulnerable. Their deaths touched that space in my heart that's like the soft spot on a infant's head where the bone has not yet fused. A place where I know I am not safe, where there is little barrier between me and tragedy.
I try to immediately draw a line between those people who have bad things happen to them, and my own family. My child would not be in that neighborhood. My child wouldn't be out that time of night. My child wouldn't be doing that kind of activity in that kind of place.
But in all of these examples, I cannot find a line to draw that will separate them from me.
I can, rather, imagine my children in their bedroom, looking out the window like Taylor did. I can see my children, older of course, talking outside with friends at 7 in the evening like Tim did. I can see them as young adults, like Ennis, having car trouble on a highway without their father or me there to swoop down and rescue them.
These deaths make me realize that keeping children safe isn't a matter of keeping them inside. Or making enough money to live in the safest of places. Or keeping them so involved in activities that they ``don't have time to get in trouble.''
Sure, all those things help. But they are not bullet-proof. Taylor and Tim and Ennis remind us that trouble comes looking for us sometimes. Trouble and violence and people for whom morality is just another word in the dictionary.
It is a vulnerability we have to live with, and the news stories remind us so relentlessly.
So for a while I will look at a teen-ager eating a Blizzard in the DQ and wonder if he could do harm to me or my children if we say the wrong thing. I will make sure my cell phone is charged up in case I have car trouble. I will walk through my children's bedroom and remember how the most innocent of acts - looking out a window - can end in tragedy.
For a while I will rant about gun control and why there isn't more of it. I will wonder why so many people go through life without a sense of right or wrong, and try to figure out a way to change that. I will consider again midnight basketball, TV ratings, character education - something, anything - that will somehow turn the tide.
But soon I will forget and go back to life as I know it, life on this side of the line, life that, thankfully, is the norm for most of us.
I will do that until the next child dies, and touches that soft spot in my heart, and tugs at the line I draw between them and me.
A line I know cannot be drawn in indelible ink. ILLUSTRATION: Color photo
[Taylor Ricks, 3, was shot and killed while standing at her bedroom
window.]