The Lamplighter Movement
Articles
An Old Fashioned Christmas
Posted by Marjorie McKinnon in Articles on December 17, 2011
When I was a child Christmas was a shining light we waited for all year long. I spent my growing up years in the Midwest: Minnesota, North Dakota and Nebraska. One thing predictable about all three states is snow and lots of it. Whether we were going to get any on Christmas was another question and our strongest wish for the season. We would look up at the sky frequently, check the temperature and lean our ears toward the radio whenever the weather report was on. Cold was good. Icicles hanging on the trees were good. Jack Frost painting pictures on our window panes was good. Removing frozen clothes from the clothes line and laying them across all the furniture was good. Having to wear several layers of clothing every time we went out was good. But nothing compared to that magical moment when you looked outside and saw snow falling. If it happened on the 24th or 25th of December it was a miracle that brought joy to our hearts.
Every year we followed the same traditions. Mom baked several loaves of fruit cake a few weeks before Christmas. They were then wrapped in heavy gauze and placed in Dad’s Marine Corp locker to be taken out on Christmas Eve. Relatives from several different states, grandparents, aunt and uncles on my mom’s side and even great aunts sent presents to be hidden on the top shelf of mom and dad’s closet. We always managed to take forbidden peaks at them when our parents left to go grocery shopping. My sister provided lookout while my brother Scott held my ankles as I stood on his shoulders in the closet, and shook each gift, then read off one by one who had sent them. My other brother Brian and my baby sister Jeanne stood near the closet with mouths gapping open with wonder. When we heard the sound of tires crunching on the driveway we swiftly left our parent’s bedroom and rushed to innocent activities, our hearts in our throats at the possibility of being caught in the act.
Christmas Eve day we drove out into the country to choose a tree. We walked thoughtfully around each one, checking it for fullness, for fragrance, for height and especially to see how many branches needed to be cut off at the bottom to make room for the gifts. Once we chose the perfect tree Dad cut it down and tied it to the top of our car. We drove home proudly, hoping all the neighbors were looking out their windows, certain that we had the best Christmas tree of all. We decorated the tree on Christmas Eve. Mom popped popcorn and made hot chocolate with marshmallows. We saved some of the popcorn to string and then wrap around the tree. Then mom brought out the much awaited loaves of fruitcake and cut slices for us. I don’t think I have ever tasted anything as good as that fruitcake. While we drank our chocolate and snacked on popcorn and fruitcake we’d stand back periodically to admire the vision of beauty we were creating. Finally, the job was completed and we all held our breaths as Mom turned out all the lights in the house and Dad plugged in the Christmas tree lights. Was there ever a more glorious moment? It roused us to ecstatic admiration, as we gazed joyfully at the tree, a vision we had created all on our own. The scent of evergreen drifted throughout the house, proof of our certainty that surely this year’s tree was the best ever. Christmas carols played on the radio as if accompanying a great pageant. Our favorite was White Christmas by Bing Crosby. Dad, who had had twelve years of piano lessons, had played piano with Bob Crosby’s orchestra during World War II on the Hawaiian Islands so that made us practically related to the singer Dad referred to as “der Bingo”.
After saying our nighttime prayers kneeling in a circle in front of mom, we went to bed to sleep for a few anxious hours until mom and dad awoke us for midnight mass. Midnight mass was enchantment all in itself. We loved the sound of the choir, the smell of the incense, the sight of all the candles, the tinkle of the bells and Father following the age old ritual of the Catholic mass. One year the electricity went out and we had Midnight Mass by candle light. Someone pumped the bellows of the organ by hand as the choir continued to sing. It was a Midnight Mass never to be forgotten.
We could hardly take our eyes off the Nativity scene near the altar. There was Mary who had just given birth to the savior of the world with her husband Joseph standing by her side. There were the angels singing of the joy of Christmas and the shepherds gathering nearby. The three Wise Men were off in the distance holding their gifts. We knew they contained Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh, but we weren’t exactly sure what that meant. Somewhere in the sky we knew there was a star shining more brightly than all the others guiding everyone to the stable where Mary had given birth. Then, mass ended and after wishing all our friends a Merry Christmas as we gathered together outside the door of the church, it was back home for a few more hours of sleep.
Christmas Day dawned. We were all wide awake at the first gleam of light, following each other out to the living room to gaze in awe at the huge pile of gifts under the tree and the stockings filled with surprises that were placed reverently at the front of the presents. Mom and Dad were already awake, fixing cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate for breakfast. The stove in the living room radiated heat throughout the house and we all stood in front of it warming our backsides through our flannel pajamas. The fragrance of the tree and the cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven tantalized our nostrils as we looked at each other with happy smiles and much anticipation. Mom popped a large ham, adorned with pineapple and cloves, into the oven next. As a result, all day long the ham fought for first place, as it competed with the pine scent of the Christmas tree and the lingering smell of cinnamon rolls.
After breakfast it was time for the main event. Opening presents on Christmas morning was always a disciplined affair where we took turns one by one so we were able to see what everyone received. It made it last longer. We dumped the contents of our Christmas stocking out; they always contained gum, lifesavers, tangerines, socks and underwear. After we cleaned up the mess Dad played Christmas carols on the piano while we five children gathered behind him to sing every Christmas carol we knew. Mom was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes, making a salad, slicing cranberry sauce, cooking green beans and gravy. The house grew with merriment as each song was added. Finally, the crowning moment arrived, a ham dinner with all the trimmings. We bowed our heads as we gave thanks to our Lord.
By the end of the dinner we were not only filled with food, we were filled with love and joy.
Please email your comments to margie@thelamplighters.org
Is the Pope Infallible?
Posted by Marjorie McKinnon in Articles on December 10, 2011
As per the following URL, in an article on December 21st, 2010 (awhile back I know, but still valid) printed in the Belfast Telegraph, Pope Benedict stated the worst public relations comment he could have dredged up, “In the 1970s, pedophilia was theorized as something fully in conformity with man and even with children.”
He went on to say, “It was maintained – even within the realm of Catholic Theology – that there is no such thing as evil in itself or good in itself. There is only a ‘better than’ and a ‘worse than’. Nothing is good or bad in itself.” (Ask a Jewish person who lived through the holocaust about this) The Pope also claimed that child pornography was increasingly considered “normal” by society.
If you read the article further you see that he tried to undo the damage by insisting that the church needed “to repair as much as possible the injustices that occurred” and to help victims heal through a better presentation of the Christian message. One wonders which one of the two faces he presents to us is the correct one. The rest of the article showed a Catholic pope saying exactly what his flock would expect from a compassionate, learned leader of the Roman Catholic Church. As per the website titled “A History Christianity”, the following paragraph illustrated the mind set regarding Roman Catholicism.
“As both its critics and its champions would probably agree, Roman Catholicism has been the decisive spiritual force in the history of Western civilization. There are more Roman Catholics in the world than there are believers of any other religious tradition–not merely more Roman Catholics than all other Christians combined, but more Roman Catholics than all Muslims or Buddhists or Hindus. The papacy is the oldest continuing absolute monarchy in the world. To millions the pope is the infallible interpreter of divine revelation and the Vicar of Christ; to others he is the fulfillment of the biblical prophecies about the coming of the Antichrist.”
Those are heavy words. After reading them, one would think that you would view the pope as the last word in what is right and correct in this world. For many years I believed this but today I call myself a “revolving door Catholic”. I was raised Catholic, then left the church for many years after a priest told me I could not practice birth control under any conditions. I had had four children in three years and the doctor said one more would kill me so I joined the legion of other Catholics who were practicing birth control and didn’t consider it a sin. Unfortunately I did, hence my first falling away. But I was still the pope’s child in my heart. I prayed the rosary, talked to the Blessed Mother whenever I needed solace and I missed my religion terribly.
I had wanted to be a nun and when I was 13 asked my father if I could go to the convent. He became enraged and gave me a resounding “no”. It turned out he had other plans for me; I was devastated. Periodically, over the next couple of decades I tried to get back into the church but I was always stopped by something or another. One time when I was in confession, the priest kept me on my knees for 45 minutes lecturing me until he finally told me he would not absolve me of my sins unless I returned to my husband who I had been married to in the Catholic Church but had divorced five years later. When I told the priest he was an alcoholic living in an alcoholic rehab and had been there for years, it mattered little to him. I finally got up, walked past my four children who were waiting behind me to go to confession and went out to the car. When they climbed in the car a few minutes later, one of them (whichever one was the smart aleck of the day) said, “Boy mom, you must have been really bad.”
A few years later I tried to get back into the church again, this time in a face to face confession at the insistence of a priest who had seen me in one of the pews talking to God. After he tried to get me to go to bed with him I once again pulled back. That was my last try for many years. Today I’m an at-peace-with-myself-and-my-God Catholic. I attend mass every Sunday, I sing in the choir, I talk to God for 30 minutes every day on my morning walk. But I believe in God’s laws and only believe in and follow the Church’s laws if they make sense. I’m big on stuff making sense. It makes me think often of the little old ladies who ate meat on Friday, then died on Saturday before they could get to confession. I guess, since that was a mortal sin back then, they are all in hell. Now that it is no longer a mortal sin, does that mean they get to come out of hell?
I feel ashamed that the pope would make such comments as the above. How can we think of him as infallible when he talks nonsense, worse than nonsense? He speaks as if he needs educating but isn’t much interested in it. If we can’t rely on our pope to always say the right thing, meaning the truth, then we must go to the original source of doing the right thing, our own personal God. Ronald Reagan, when alone, used to talk to himself a lot. When a secret service man asked him who he was talking to he said, “God”. I too talk to God a lot. I always feel him listening and sometimes I sense what he is telling me in return. But I’m still ashamed of the pope.
At a time when we need strong leadership, correct leadership, a firm hand at the tiller, a hand that is not afraid to say, “We did wrong”, we instead have someone who is afraid to let people see the weakness in the Catholic Church that has damaged forever so many people. What is it with these large organizations (Penn State) and large religions (the Catholic Church is not the only organized religion who has a problem with child sexual abuse) that think they can get away with something so evil, so horrendous, as child sexual abuse? Where is the outrage we expect from our pope? Harming the innocent is the worst sin of all. Doesn’t he get it?
Let’s sweep it under the carpet. Maybe no one will know. We’ll wait till we get caught and then deal with it. It’s really not that bad; they do it in the Appalachian District all the time.
I think I want to throw up.
Please email your comments to margie@thelamplighters.org
Talking To Your Children
Posted by Marjorie McKinnon in Articles on December 4, 2011
I receive many phone calls and emails asking for my help regarding child sexual abuse. Some of them are heartbreaking and I wonder how the person telling me the story can survive their anguish. Then I remember my own. And yet some of the stories I hear are so much worse than what I went through. Everything is relative. One person may have suffered severe child sexual abuse at the hands of their father but had a loving mother who was not aware of what they were going through. That person may have an excellent chance of recovering. Another, whose abuse was less severe but had both an abusive mother and abusive father may have a harder time. I usually recommend joining a support group, working a 12 step program or the REPAIR program, or both. I try to put into perspective all of the information they are sharing with me so that I can give them my optimum level of wisdom.
The stories that rip holes in my heart are those of children being currently abused by a parent who has been awarded custody. I hear far too many of these stories. As I listen I keep thinking to myself, there must be something they are not telling me. How is it possible that a judge would do this? It illustrates the many failings in our judicial system. Some of these failings may never be fixed or removed. Our judicial system has become so large and so complex and for the most part taken over by liberal policies that, when looked upon with common sense, the first thing you realize is missing is common sense.
What can I tell these parents, these grandparents that will ease their anguish? I especially hear from grandparents who are sitting on the sidelines watching what goes on, knowing there is nothing they can do. Sometimes they are allowed visitation rights or the parent that has the children allows them to go for the weekend with their grandparents. These children, sometimes at ages as young as three or four, talk about sexual acts and sexual parts to their bodies to their grandparents as if they were everyday words. And they don’t use the clinical terminology, they use abusive slang. Children of a young age, who come from healthy parenting, do not know these words and they especially do not know the sexual acts. Can you imagine the horror you would feel if you had your grandchildren for the weekend and heard them describing things and using words you know they could not have known unless they were being sexually abused?
When I get contacted for help with such stories the first thing I do is listen. Then I tell them about a booklet produced by the King County Sexual Assault Resource Center in Renton, WA. It is a gem of a book entitled, he told me not to tell – A parents’ guide to talking to children about sexual assault. It is the best book I’ve ever read on this subject. If you call the King County Center at 425.226.5062 they will mail you free of charge a copy of this booklet. That is a beginning. I believe it is vital that a child know that their body belongs to them, no matter what their age. They, and they alone, have the right to decide who gets to touch it and what parts, if any, they are allowed to touch. Most children, instinctively, know when something is being done to them that is not okay. They may not be able to tell you how they know this but they do know that shame creeps into their heart and their mind. They may not even be able to tell you what shame means. All they know is that something “yucky” has happened to them. Shame is a feeling of humiliation that stems from guilt. Here is an excerpt from my book REPAIR For Children:
“Hurting children feel shame, that hot rush to our body that makes us feel bad. Shame is embarrassing and we really want to hide it. We feel like we’ve done something bad or wrong. Shame hurts but with time and help, we can stop feeling shame and not hurt so much. We may be children in pain but we can take care of our own hurt – we can do something to help ourselves to feel better.”
My next recommendation is that they get a copy of REPAIR For Kids (information on how to get one can be found on my website www.thelamplighters.org) and whenever they have the children with them begin working the program with them. Let them know that if anyone touches or attempts to touch any part of their body that they don’t want touched they can call 911 or they can call the police. Anyone touching them inappropriately is doing something against the law and that person can go to jail for doing it.
Keep in mind that children develop a sense of loyalty to their parent, especially the one who has custody of them. If they are being sexually abused, while they may feel shame and emotional torment as a result of this, loyalty for that parent is so heavily braided with the shame that they are unable to separate them. In addition, if they are being instructed by that parent not to tell anyone, their confusion runs rampant. There is only so much sorting out of what is happening in their lives they are able to do.
Regardless, children should be allowed to tell the truth without someone shushing them or telling them they are making something up. Keep in mind that children who are sexually abused suffer great insecurity and have no sense of worth. To counteract what may be happening in their life be sure to praise them, to give them warmth and affection, to help them repair that damaged inner self that they have acquired through no fault of their own. Build up their confidence and their self-esteem. Most of all, give them love, acceptance and understanding.
The rest must be left up to their Higher Power and the Judicial System that is not as wise as we’d like it to be.
Please email your comments to margie@thelamplighters.org
Loneliness
Posted by Marjorie McKinnon in Articles on November 26, 2011
My husband and I are both loners with origins in our childhood. He is an only child raised on a farm in north central Texas. His mother was 30 when he was born and his father was 55 and already growing deaf. It was a lonely life for Tom with no siblings and a father who was distant but not by choice. So Tom learned to be his own best friend. He played in the barn, fighting battles and other war games that boys play. Or he played in a wardrobe in the former Brooder House where he carved words of warning on the door for others to stay out; shades of Narnia and The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. It now resides in Tom’s Woodworking Shop. I periodically nag him to let me have it but I think I’m on the losing side of that. Not knowing what I’d ever do with it, I don’t nag with much vigor. His loneliness made Tom think of possessions as friends, especially cherished toys. He still has a doll named Timmie that his favorite aunt made for him when he was five. Timmie is almost ready for Social Security but he occupies a treasured spot on a tiny chair in our Ancestor Room.
I became a loner at the age of thirteen when tragedy befell our family. I changed from an outgoing, mischievous and affectionate child to a shy and introverted teenager. I developed a tremor in my right hand, one I couldn’t control. The boys at school tormented me by having me hold my arm out. Then they’d say. “Hold your arm still”. I’d try but the tremor was still noticeable. “Come on hold your arm still, they’d sneer. I’d defend myself with, “It is still”. They’d burst into taunts and laughter. My front teeth were crooked so I held my hand in front of my face when I spoke, hoping no one would notice. My weight, even as a sophomore in high school and five feet, six inches tall, was 86 pounds. To my great humiliation I was so flat chested that there was no need to ever wear a bra. This was another source of taunts that the boys loved. One time in Biology class when we were discussing different kinds of wood, one of them said, “Speaking of sticks. There’s little Margie Leick.” The laughter caused me to shrink into my seat wishing I could disappear. I wanted to be voluptuous. My father had strict rules about food. No second helpings, no snacks between meals and the last was the hardest to bear; he spooned the food onto our plates and therefore decided how much we could eat. It was never very much. My father had a problem with people that had even the slightest amount of extra weight. He said it was a sign of weak character. As a result I developed a compulsion about food. Years later I found out that the townspeople all thought we looked like concentration camp victims.
I spent a lot of time at Rae Creek about half a mile from town. It was my sanctuary. I sat on its limbs and wrote poetry, words to describe what I was going through, words I never read for fear of finding out what was inside of me that was an ugly secret. Words became my best friends. Rae Creek became my home. For many decades, whenever the pain of living became too much I tuned out my life and went into that room in my mind where Rae Creek waited for me
Even after I grew up, despite shoveling huge amounts of food into my mouth, I was still painfully thin. My wedding dress was a size one and the shop told me I could rent it for $25 or I could buy it for $15. It was too small for it to be of any benefit to the shop. I bought it.
I had friends over the years, especially Peggy, my best friend. She came from the same small town I did. I had a sister-in-law named Shirley that I spent a lot of time with. Then in my mid-twenties I met Debbie. She and Peggy and I took Astrology classes together and studied it for years. It was a great source of learning about ourselves and others. I was happy with my three friends. I knew I needed people in my life but it was so difficult for me to make the first overtures. I was still shy inside. Although at the time I couldn’t pinpoint the reason, I knew there was something wrong with me. I wasn’t sure what it was but mostly it had to do with shame. I had rooms in my mind that I didn’t dare enter. Terrible nightmares frequently assaulted me. I awoke screaming for help at the top of my lungs. Someone was crushing the life out of me. I became physically turbulent, out of control with terror as my arms lashed out and my breathing came in harsh and frightening gasps. It took a long time for me to stop screaming, to stop shaking, to stop feeling like I was being crushed.
I had four children. They became the most important people in my life. Each time I found out I was pregnant I began talking to the child inside my womb. I’d hold my hand on my swelling abdomen and sing songs to my newly forming child. I rocked while I sang. I rocked while I talked to them, telling them how much I loved them and what a wonderful person they were going to be. Today my four children are my best friends. They are also four of the finest people I know; each one is loving and giving, hardworking and intensely loyal to family. They are all I ever wanted them to be.
Once I went through recovery I developed confidence. I felt stable and focused. But I was still a loner. I know I need people. Peggy died two years ago and my loneliness increased. My sister-in-law is no longer in my life and I see Debbie rarely. I have a new friend but I’m just one of her many friends. There is still a part of me that feels on the outside of everything. I know a lot of people but they all live out of state. We keep in touch with frequent phone calls. Despite being grateful for having people in my life, there is a part of me that sits frequently on the lonely branch of an oak tree that lives near Rae Creek. I still write volumes of poems and now I know what the ugly secret is that I wrote about in my teenage poems. I still have them. They helped me through recovery as we worked together to unravel the mess my life had become. Words were my salvation. They were my friends. I currently have thousands of books. Whenever I need solace I go upstairs to the library. I look at my words and I think of Rae Creek and I am happy. They are my friends.
Today I live in Arizona in a town so small that downtown is only two blocks long. Tom and I have lived here for eight years. We are both still loners. We have no close friends in town. My brother Scott and I are close. He lives in Tucson. Together we carry the shame and the degradation that our lives were while we were growing up. Sometimes we talk about it. He’ll ask, “Sis, why do you suppose that happened?” He too lives alone. He too has words as his best friend. He lives with thousands of books stacked all over his house, bookcases crammed into every spare inch. We write long letters to each other and we speak on the phone frequently. We talk about words. We talk about our childhood. We pick at it as if we can find the answer to the abuse that lived side by side in our daily lives. We talk about the sister who is too fearful to reach out to us. She slept on the top bunk in my bedroom when my dad first entered that room. She told me she witnessed it. She will never be the same. I have another brother who is a recovering alcoholic. So many parts of him are missing. Scott and I love our siblings and talk frequently about why they have such problems. If only they had books. If only they had words. Then they would have friends
Scott and I when I was 13 at our Solemn Communion Ceremony
Please email your comments to margie@thelamplighters.org
My Brother’s Keeper
Posted by Marjorie McKinnon in Articles on November 19, 2011
Several years ago, while I was living in LA, I was heading east on the 91 Freeway when I noticed a green Jaguar in my rear view mirror driving very fast as he approached my right side. When he became abreast with my car he rammed into it, then stepped on the gas speeding away. Madder than a hound dog, I took pursuit. While weaving in and out of lanes trying to keep up with this idiot and honking my horn at him I saw a car on my left, their passenger window down. A lady stuck her head out the window and hollered, “We saw it all. We’ll testify. We’re with you. Get that guy!” I was amazed and kept on going now followed by my new friends. Then I saw a car to my right roll their window down and holler, “We got your back! We saw it all. We’re with you. Go get him.” Even more amazed by now I floor boarded it as I saw the green Jaguar head for the Green River off-ramp. I followed right behind him, honking my horn, my head out the window hollering for him to pull over. I noticed my other new friends following the first new friend car.
We all pulled over to the side of the road as the Jaguar came to a stop. I hopped out and went over to where he was standing. “Look what you did to my car!” he demanded pointing to a large dent in his side fender. I was stunned and pointing out the dents in my own car, we soon got into a screaming match. The other two cars emptied of their occupants as they joined us. They immediately began telling the true version of the story and that if he didn’t give me his name, insurance # and phone# they were calling the cops. They were ready to testify. Needless to say, while it took a few months, I eventually received a check for the damage done to my car.
I can’t tell you what this did to my belief in the goodness of human nature, especially the part about being your brother’s keeper. I’m sorry I can’t say the same for what happened at Penn State. Like most of us you are probably in shock. It’s one thing to have deadly accusations of 40 counts of sexual abuse against Jerry Sandusky; it’s another to be a witness and not lift a hand to stop it. Tim Curley, the longtime Athletic Director of Penn State had been told about Sandusky sexually assaulting a naked ten year old boy in a team locker room shower. In the midst of all the flying accusations and denials, coach, Joe Paterno and school president Graham Spanier were fired. The former vice-president for finance and business, Gary Schultz was also asked to leave. It is required by state law that Schultz and Curley were supposed to report to a law enforcement agency any knowledge they had of improper behavior by an adult to a child. This never happened. Are none of them their brother’s keeper? According to Fox News Report, “Among the charges is an alleged assault in 2002 that was not brought to the attention of police, according to a grand jury report, even though top officials at Penn State knew there was an accusation of inappropriate behavior.”
I keep trying to imagine what it would take for an adult who prides himself on the Penn State slogan, “Success with honor”, and is aware of his defensive coordinator’s sexual abuse of young boys to decide that he is indeed his “brother’s keeper” and step forward with the truth. If this had been done when the abuse first started coming to light it might have saved some of those eight boys from carrying the deep shame, the black cloak of humiliation and the sign “I am unclean and no good” that they will wear with silent hearts and pain wrenched souls for the rest of their lives. I would like to have just five minutes alone with Joe Paterno, with the President of Penn State, with Tim Curley. I would like to know how they would feel if it were their son in the headlights of Jerry Sandusky, an innocent youngster about to become a prey. I have a son and to the best of my knowledge he has never been sexually abused. The thought that someone would single him out for such a treacherous deed makes the killer instinct in me come to the fore.
Too many of us think we are not our brother’s keeper. Not my problem. I stay out of other people’s business. Don’t get involved. Most of us (I hope) have the maturity to differentiate between stepping in to save someone from harm and getting involved with something that really is not our business. If you’re in a shopping center and you hear a couple wrangling about which store has the cheaper prices I doubt if you need to step in and either referee the argument or tell them your opinion. On the other hand if you see a child in a stroller and someone grabs that child while the mother’s back is turned and begins to run with it, it is my hope that you (and me if I were there) would give pursuit screaming, “Stop that man,” and eventually wrest the child away from the stranger.
These eight boys (and there may be more) deserved someone stepping in and saving them from the fate waiting for them. If there were at least five adult males who were aware of Sandusky’s behavior you can bet there were a lot more than five. That particular problem must have been discussed with others who also felt it was not their problem. The thought that there may be a dozen or more people who were aware of what Jerry Sandusky was doing with young boys and didn’t lift a finger to stop it or report it is mind boggling. Even Tim Curley and Paterno, who had been told about an incident, had an obligation, to follow up and make sure something was being done so that Jerry Sandusky was apprehended. How do they sleep at night?
When following the path that Sandusky took, one can see that the suspicion that he was a pedophile had been evident for years. A child’s school district banned him from their property in 2009. The decision was made to separate him from all program activities involving children at the Second Mile, a foundation he established to help at-risk kids. The irony of this cannot be lost. Charged with sexually abusing eight boys over a fifteen year period, much has been written in defense of Sandusky, how he’s so shaky, how he’s never faced criminal charges and about his distinguished career. The students were upset, congregating in a large crowd near the administration building. Were they upset about what happened to these young boys? No, they were chanting, “We want Joe back!” Football and their beloved coach, who had been fired, were more important than eight children being sexually abused.
I guess they’re not their brother’s keeper either.
Please mail your comments to margie@thelamplighters.org
Follow Us …
Translator
