Quid Est Veritas? (What Is Truth?)

This is the predominant image of Trayvon Martin.

***Just after I wrote this post, Trayvon’s mother spoke to the media regarding her belief that the shooting was an accident.***

It’s the question Pilate asked of Jesus, even though he didn’t wait for an answer, and it’s the question a lot of folks seem to be asking in regards to the Trayvon Martin shooting: what is truth?

Even with the aid of a million journalistic pieces, countless talk radio ruminations, endless Facebook posts, and a seemingly infinite number of water cooler conversations, we may never know exactly what happened the night Trayvon Martin was shot by George Zimmerman. And the sad fact of the matter is, that seems to be the way some people want it.

I read the CNN story this morning on Zimmerman’s second-degree murder charge, as well as a story on Yahoo!, and the AJC. And in the interest of local voices, I read Brian Crawford’s open letter to Zimmerman too.

The story is messy. It’s polarizing. It raises questions about America’s continued issues with race, violence, guns, and justice. It is, to be perfectly honest, the kind of story that makes me want to stick my head in the sand and just read a couple more blogs about the Braves horrific start.

But while I was reading these stories this morning, I noticed that none of the pictures of Trayvon seem to match the story. I keep reading that he was an innocent 17 year old, and I don’t dispute that; but what flummoxes me is the fact that most of the pictures that accompany these stories are of Trayvon when he was considerably younger. In fact, this gallery on Yahoo! has pictures of Trayvon that seem to be at least five years old (Yahoo! cautiously notes that the pictures are “undated”). So I’m reading a story about a 17 year old but looking at pictures of a 12 year old?

Naturally, I started asking myself why?

Why not show Trayvon at the age he was killed? Why keep showing people photos that are clearly outdated?

The answers are as confusing as they are useless: maybe there weren’t any current photos of Trayvon. Maybe the current photos of Trayvon would portray him negatively. Maybe the media wants a better story, and what’s more juicy than a fresh-faced kid being shot by a scruffy looking old guy? Maybe it’s a conspiracy to foster racial warfare.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that there is no way to get the straight story. There is no way to get an honest account of the facts of that night because of the people who know the facts, one is dead and the other is apparently withdrawing into himself.

Quid est veritas? What is truth? Do we even know anymore? The cynic in me wants to scream at the top of his lungs that we are surrounded by a manipulative culture that wants a controlled narrative to better control the people. The idealist in me wants to argue for restrained observation, to see how it plays out and to trust that in the end all of the facts will come out. I want to believe that the truth will win, but the cynic seems to be gaining ground.

And in the midst of it all is the fact that I’m writing a blog about the issue, adding to the noise as it were, without offering anything but more conjecture and speculation.

I’m going to be honest: the fact that news outlets aren’t running pictures of Trayvon that are closer to his age (heck, I’d be happy seeing him at 15) makes me skeptical about Trayvon’s character. I have no right or reason to be skeptical, but the apparent desire to portray him as an innocent child just pushes me in that direction. And I’d feel the same way if you reversed the races. This skepticism is further heightened by the story that NBC ran an edited version of the 9-1-1 call that Zimmerman made the night of the shooting, a version that made Zimmerman seem racist.

I’m equally as skeptical of the people who are shouting that Zimmerman is a hero, and Trayvon was a hulking, snarling thug who deserved to be shot.

I guess the bottom line is I’m skeptical because I feel like someone, somewhere, isn’t telling me the truth. And that bothers me.

Maybe I’m being naive for believing that objective truth exists. Maybe I’m being a complete Pollyanna in this day and age for wanting something more than spin, opinion and hype. Maybe I’m just an idiot.

But it saddens me to know that Trayvon Martin won’t get justice, and neither will George Zimmerman, because justice is served by the truth. And it seems like no one wants the truth to be known.

Law & Order: SVU and the Power of Parenting

Stabler was a great detective but a flawed father. I hope to be great at both.

So the past few days, Ella has been complaining that she doesn’t want to go to school anymore. She doesn’t like learning. She would just rather stay at home and veg out with Mommy (as if Rachel just sits on the couch all day…). Basically, the child has been dropping hints like a Pinto drops parts: I don’t like school.

Now, she’s only dropped these hints for Rachel. She hasn’t said a word to me about school, good, bad or indifferent. But Rachel’s had it up to her ears.

“I need you to talk to her,” she said last night. “I’m going to kill her.”

So this morning, when Ella woke up at 6:00am complaining of chest tightness, a sore throat and trouble breathing, but then suddenly got better once I turned on the TV, I decided it was time to have a chat with my girl.

The problem was how.

Here’s where Law & Order: SVU comes in. I’ve watched that show for years. This season is having to win me over because NBC made the boneheaded move of low-balling Christopher Meloni on his contract, and Meloni opted to walk and seek other projects. I can’t say I blame him, but dang – the show just isn’t the same without Meloni as its emotional center. I think the new actor hired to replace Meloni (Danny Pino, seen previously in Cold Case) is a decent enough actor, but he just doesn’t have the weightiness that Meloni brings.

What does that have to do with my daughter? This:

On the show, Meloni’s character, Detective Elliot Stabler, had a daughter named Katherine. During the show’s run, we saw Katherine go from a precocious preteen to troubled teen to raging collegiate drunk to reformed, responsible young woman. And we saw this character’s journey through the eyes of her policeman father, Det. Stabler. Now Stabler had his issues (anger management being one), which made it hard for him to talk to his daughter. In fact, the majority of their onscreen conversations usually ended with Katherine yelling and Stabler getting red in the face and trying not to explode.

Contrast that with Stabler’s ability to work with difficult witnesses in his precinct’s interrogation room: here, Stabler is in control. He knows exactly what to say, when to say it, and how to say it. He knows exactly how to get the answers he needs from a person who may or may not want to talk.

Long story short – SVU showed me that it was entirely possible to be gifted at communicating with everyone else but your kid. And I want to avoid that.

So, I did the unthinkable: I approached my conversation with Ella this morning as if I were a fictional detective trying to get answers out of a child. I kept my cool. I let Ella direct the conversation, while still plying her with guided questions. I never said anything that made it sound like I didn’t believe her. And when Ella’s answers were vague or non-existent, I gently rephrased the question and prompted her to answer again.

We must’ve talked for 20 minutes. She was hesitant at first, but after a while she opened up and said that there was a boy in her class who talks all the time, is constantly in trouble, and sits right next to her. This boy allegedly gets into Ella’s personal space, making it hard for Ella to concentrate. She also alleged that the boy punched her in the neck last week.

After hearing that, I wouldn’t want to go to school either.

I gave her a hug and thanked her for telling me the truth (even though in the back of my mind I knew I would need to do a little fact-checking) and she seemed better. After talking with Rachel, we agreed that I needed to go by the school this morning and speak with the teacher about Ella’s story, just to make sure Ella was on the up and up. So I showered, got dressed, and put on my badge, uh, cell phone, and headed up to the school.

Ella’s teacher wasn’t there, but I spoke with the paraprofessional who works in the classroom. We’ll call her Ms. Doe. Ms. Doe confirmed that the boy seated next to Ella is quite chatty, and has to be removed from group work frequently, and as such does sometimes prohibit Ella from doing her best. She didn’t know anything about the alleged punch to the neck, but did say that, given the classroom’s close quarters, an accidental encounter was probable. I thanked her for her time and texted Rachel.

I’ll sit down with Ella’s teacher face to face next week during our parent-teacher conference, but for now, I feel like I have the information I need to help Ella better enjoy school. I also feel great because I was able to actually talk with my daughter this morning about a real problem, and it went well.

There are times when I wonder if I’m good at this whole fatherhood thing. Nothing terrifies me more than the idea that I’ll lose the close, loving relationship that Ella and I share; I don’t want to do anything that would jeopardize that. But I also know that if I don’t talk to her about things like this, if I don’t show her that I’m willing to listen without getting angry and find solutions without punishing her out of the gate, I’ll lose her anyway.

Walking up the hill to the bus stop this morning, I said as much.

“You can talk to me about anything. You know that right?” I said.

“Yeah, daddy. I know.”

“I won’t get angry with you. I promise. You can tell me anything, and we’ll work together to figure out what’s best.”

“Okay, daddy.” She smiled. “I like talking to you.”

“I like talking to you, too, Ella.”

She got on the bus smiling, and even waved back at me as the bus drove off. It felt good to be her dad at that moment, good to be not only a caring father but a shrewd detective.

Now, I need to head to a costume shop and get me a cool looking badge…

Insomniac’s Internet Report

Welcome back, Dave. Hal has upgraded to wifi and is waiting to show you some new tricks...

I couldn’t sleep last night, a fact you might have guessed given the blog’s suddenly new appearance (Side Note: can I help it if WordPress finally produced a free theme almost exactly like I’ve been wanting? I saw this last night and got giddy). To pass the time, and to prevent my insomnia from infecting my beloved wife, I opted to hit the couch with the old laptop and see what the internet has to offer once the midnight oil is lit.

The quick summation: Jack Squat.

In a world of supposedly 24-hour information, I just so happened to pick the world’s most boring 24-hours in which to be wide awake. Baseball is on a break until the All-Star sham starts, the NFL and NBA are both locked out and moving at pace that makes glaciers seem impatient, and Facebook offers no one with whom to banter once the clock strikes one in the morning. CNN’s lead story was about Prince William and Duchess Kate wearing cowboy gear to commemorate their historic opening of the Calgary Stampeded (Brits in boots and bolos – there’s some stunning reading!), and the folks at Fox weren’t much better (I think it was all about nine ways to bring Casey Anthony to justice, “Old West” style).

Even TMZ was DOA, and I couldn’t even bring myself to Google the words “Perez Hilton”, just out of fear that my computer would catch a digital STD. I tried reading some online books, but without the tactile sensation of a page to turn, Wuthering Heights is even more dreadful than previously imagined. I tried to keep up with Twitter, but even their feed was pathetically slow – two tweets in twenty minutes…it’s like all of the smart alecks in the world fell into a coma at the exact same time.

Hulu was hopeless (I just can’t bring myself to watch anything other than Law & Order from NBC) and YouTube gets boring after the 254,302 video of some poor father being “accidentally” hit in the groin. I tried reading some of the classier content aggregators but all I got was aggravation.

So in the end I turned on a small lamp, grabbed a Raymond Chandler story collection, and read some tales about my favorite fictional detective of all time, Philip Marlowe. My brain slowed down, I got to read some great writing, and eventually I was able to close my eyes and drift off to sleep…for ten minutes. I woke up to the sounds of my wife making coffee and my daughter flitting around the house, upset because daddy was taking up the whole couch and she wanted her seat.

Now, I’m too tired to really post anything insightful or truly hilarious, my head kind of hurts, and I have the vague sensation of needing to keel over at any moment. I can already hear my bed calling my name.

Unless aliens land or Casey Anthony suddenly elopes with OJ, I doubt there’ll be anything happening online tonight that I’ll really want to be part of. And even if aliens land, that can wait til morning.

OJ and Casey…well, who cares?