Don't look back in anger...
The end is certainly a relative thing. As far as the "story" goes from a media perspective, the Steven Green story is coming to an end. Which is convenient and allows us to glance at the story before we check our e-mail and our Twitter and move on with our day. But from the perspective of Steven Green, I imagine that this feels like anything but "the end".
My perspective regarding Steven is certainly an odd one. Steven is a relative of my family's close friends. Steven is a killer. Steven was a soldier. Steven was a boy. Steven sat next to me at Thanksgiving dinner for several years as a boy--someone much different than the convicted murderer pictured above. Right? Right?
March, 2006. Steven Green was a soldier in Iraq. He and three other war weary soldiers entered the home of a 14 year old Iraqi girl. Steven proceeded to shoot and kill the girl's mother, father, and sister--all before being the third of the soldiers to rape the young girl before shooting her in the face and then burning the body.
Typing the words makes me feel like I'm writing a story about someone I don't even know. And really, I don't know Steven that well. I only knew a skinny west Texas kid with a thick accent who I ate Thanksgiving dinner with for years. Watched the Cowboy game with. Made casual conversation with. It would have been hard to imagine this little hick kid doing anything so heinous. But he did. He doesn't deny it. And I suppose that's the point. If we truly believe in the human capacity to do great things, we must also acknowledge the human capacity to do the most terrible of things. Youth can disappear in a flash--and re-emerge into something darker than any of us could have possibly fathomed.
I first heard of the events of March 2006 a while back and became physically ill. Last week, some sort of resolution came as I browsed through the AP top stories to see that Steven's punishment phase had come to its conclusion. I ran across this story and proceeded to contact my mother for more details. Her best friend, Steven's aunt, had traveled to the trial to plead for Steven's life--an account of which is detailed here. Because the events had come to light after Steven was discharged from the military, he was tried in civilian court (I'm certainly not an expert in the dynamics of when an individual is tried in a military court versus civilian). One of the more disturbing aspects of the case is the relatively light sentencing that Steven's co-conspirators received in military court.
For those of us who believe in hell, it would be hard to imagine that Steven isn't heading there. Steven was spared the death penalty, but it's hard to think of that as any real consolation for anyone involved--even Steven. But only Steven knows how he feels about that. I feel no sympathy whatsoever for Steven. I feel for his victims. I feel for Steven's family--at least the part that cared about him and didn't contribute to the pattern of abuse and neglect that may have shaped Steven into the dark soul he is now. I don't write this with any sort of angle regarding what war does to someone. What the hell could I possibly know other than what I've been told by those who've been there? War tugs at the darkest parts of men's hearts as I've learned from my father. But 99% of soldiers never do what Steven did. I don't write this with any angle regarding the death penalty. I'm a liberal who has had a hundred opinions on the death penalty--none of them that really satisfy the web of morality I've woven over the years through upbringing, religion, or experience. Once a situation in life presents itself where the death penalty question has to be asked, tragedy has already occurred anyway. So the "right" answer to the question isn't righting the original wrong no matter which course is taken.
Soldiers can be good. Soldiers can be bad. People can be good. People can be bad. Steven deserves to die. Steven deserves to live. And to be thus haunted by the demons bred from his actions. All of us should be acutely aware of our shortcomings. All of us should grasp our humanity a little tighter with the understanding that it can be lost much more easily than we'd care to admit. The story probably doesn't end for a twenty four year old anytime soon as much as we'd like to forget it--as much as I'd like to forget it.
We are not insulated. Sometimes we are as close as a table setting to a potential time bomb who given the wrong combination of circumstances, environment, and access can turn into Steven Green. I should hope that the recognition of such things gives me appropriate pause. A kind word, an encouragement, some time spent--maybe more of these things would have created a drastically different person. The ironic thing about our kindness is that we almost never know how it works to avert this kind of disaster in a person. But when someone ends up like Steven, you almost never have to look too far back to find the lack of caring and kindness in their lives. I've spent a lot of time leading up to my 30th birthday reflecting on my life as it has been and currently is. Up until the time I read the "resolution" to the Steven Green story, most of it had been the usual self-centered and self-indulgent and shallow and cliche "oh shit, I'm turning 30" stuff. Now, I've decided that the best thing I can do to add some relevance into my life is to find a way to contribute to someone else's welfare on a more consistent basis. I'll begin volunteering at a local high school this fall to help students with their college search and application process. But I'm not doing it to be a good guy and I'm not noble or any of that bullshit. Steven helped me to realize that fate can be turned dramatically with just a few key different decisions and opportunities. So maybe, just maybe if I am able to help someone a little bit, another soul might not get lost. Am I in the business of redemption? No. Maybe I just don't want to be the victim someday of someone like Steven. You could argue that I've been "scared" into action. And I'd argue that the reasons why don't really matter. I barely knew Steven. But I knew him well enough to see a clear picture of how it can all fall apart. Which means I am better for having known, prayed with, dined with, and socialized with a killer. I now cherish the part of the soul I naively believed could never be lost much, much more. And I will fight to the death to keep it. Even if only out of a sense of self-preservation.
My perspective regarding Steven is certainly an odd one. Steven is a relative of my family's close friends. Steven is a killer. Steven was a soldier. Steven was a boy. Steven sat next to me at Thanksgiving dinner for several years as a boy--someone much different than the convicted murderer pictured above. Right? Right?
March, 2006. Steven Green was a soldier in Iraq. He and three other war weary soldiers entered the home of a 14 year old Iraqi girl. Steven proceeded to shoot and kill the girl's mother, father, and sister--all before being the third of the soldiers to rape the young girl before shooting her in the face and then burning the body.
Typing the words makes me feel like I'm writing a story about someone I don't even know. And really, I don't know Steven that well. I only knew a skinny west Texas kid with a thick accent who I ate Thanksgiving dinner with for years. Watched the Cowboy game with. Made casual conversation with. It would have been hard to imagine this little hick kid doing anything so heinous. But he did. He doesn't deny it. And I suppose that's the point. If we truly believe in the human capacity to do great things, we must also acknowledge the human capacity to do the most terrible of things. Youth can disappear in a flash--and re-emerge into something darker than any of us could have possibly fathomed.
I first heard of the events of March 2006 a while back and became physically ill. Last week, some sort of resolution came as I browsed through the AP top stories to see that Steven's punishment phase had come to its conclusion. I ran across this story and proceeded to contact my mother for more details. Her best friend, Steven's aunt, had traveled to the trial to plead for Steven's life--an account of which is detailed here. Because the events had come to light after Steven was discharged from the military, he was tried in civilian court (I'm certainly not an expert in the dynamics of when an individual is tried in a military court versus civilian). One of the more disturbing aspects of the case is the relatively light sentencing that Steven's co-conspirators received in military court.
For those of us who believe in hell, it would be hard to imagine that Steven isn't heading there. Steven was spared the death penalty, but it's hard to think of that as any real consolation for anyone involved--even Steven. But only Steven knows how he feels about that. I feel no sympathy whatsoever for Steven. I feel for his victims. I feel for Steven's family--at least the part that cared about him and didn't contribute to the pattern of abuse and neglect that may have shaped Steven into the dark soul he is now. I don't write this with any sort of angle regarding what war does to someone. What the hell could I possibly know other than what I've been told by those who've been there? War tugs at the darkest parts of men's hearts as I've learned from my father. But 99% of soldiers never do what Steven did. I don't write this with any angle regarding the death penalty. I'm a liberal who has had a hundred opinions on the death penalty--none of them that really satisfy the web of morality I've woven over the years through upbringing, religion, or experience. Once a situation in life presents itself where the death penalty question has to be asked, tragedy has already occurred anyway. So the "right" answer to the question isn't righting the original wrong no matter which course is taken.
Soldiers can be good. Soldiers can be bad. People can be good. People can be bad. Steven deserves to die. Steven deserves to live. And to be thus haunted by the demons bred from his actions. All of us should be acutely aware of our shortcomings. All of us should grasp our humanity a little tighter with the understanding that it can be lost much more easily than we'd care to admit. The story probably doesn't end for a twenty four year old anytime soon as much as we'd like to forget it--as much as I'd like to forget it.
We are not insulated. Sometimes we are as close as a table setting to a potential time bomb who given the wrong combination of circumstances, environment, and access can turn into Steven Green. I should hope that the recognition of such things gives me appropriate pause. A kind word, an encouragement, some time spent--maybe more of these things would have created a drastically different person. The ironic thing about our kindness is that we almost never know how it works to avert this kind of disaster in a person. But when someone ends up like Steven, you almost never have to look too far back to find the lack of caring and kindness in their lives. I've spent a lot of time leading up to my 30th birthday reflecting on my life as it has been and currently is. Up until the time I read the "resolution" to the Steven Green story, most of it had been the usual self-centered and self-indulgent and shallow and cliche "oh shit, I'm turning 30" stuff. Now, I've decided that the best thing I can do to add some relevance into my life is to find a way to contribute to someone else's welfare on a more consistent basis. I'll begin volunteering at a local high school this fall to help students with their college search and application process. But I'm not doing it to be a good guy and I'm not noble or any of that bullshit. Steven helped me to realize that fate can be turned dramatically with just a few key different decisions and opportunities. So maybe, just maybe if I am able to help someone a little bit, another soul might not get lost. Am I in the business of redemption? No. Maybe I just don't want to be the victim someday of someone like Steven. You could argue that I've been "scared" into action. And I'd argue that the reasons why don't really matter. I barely knew Steven. But I knew him well enough to see a clear picture of how it can all fall apart. Which means I am better for having known, prayed with, dined with, and socialized with a killer. I now cherish the part of the soul I naively believed could never be lost much, much more. And I will fight to the death to keep it. Even if only out of a sense of self-preservation.
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2 comments:
your aquaintance with a killer is still so unbelievable to me ... but i've been in a similar position, only i hadn't known the individual as long or in depth as it appears you did steven. while this story is by no means uplifting, i really enjoyed reading a more serious introspective from you. you're such a great writer, so it's nice to read something a little more intense from time to time.
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