Sharing my life with those who either don't have one or who are interested in what I have to say. For your sake I hope it's the latter. Kudos to you either way. ;D

Saturday, October 9, 2010

The Shawn Hornbeck Influence

I frequently talk to my TV. That morning in October I said, “That’s nice. I think he’s alive too, but he’s dead. No one lasts four years. It’s going to be sad when they find his body, but at least that’ll be closure and you can move on.”
The mother, who was trying to keep her emotions under control, was telling the rest of the world about the event that forever scarred her life: her son had been abducted four years prior. If the fact that a mother of a missing-for-four-years boy had been able to get on the Today Show was strange, the connection I felt to the case was even stranger.
I was thirteen at the time and I knew about kidnappings. I had seen lots of horrible stuff on the news, countless victims, and the justice that comes when it almost seems like it doesn’t matter anymore. Quite honestly, nothing about any of those previous events affected me too much other than to make me feel lucky to be alive and have the family I do. It is so easy to stay detached from an event through the glare and static of a TV screen, with the newscasters moving onto a new topic every few minutes. Too easy.
Maybe it was the mother’s emotion. Maybe it was her ability, which I am still surprised by, to get on the Today Show with such an old case. But I don’t think so. I think what drew me in was the mother’s hope. Except it was more than hope. She knew Shawn was still alive. And in that instant, while my world stopped and all thoughts left my mind and the only thing that existed was what she was saying, I knew it too. Shawn was alive. It was beyond a hopeful statement given by someone who has begun to lose hope, because if anything she seemed to have gained hope. It was like a fact. Her reasoning, in a maternal way, was sound.
“If Shawn was dead, I would have felt it.”
Part of me agreed. There was something like a direct line from my heart to wherever Shawn was. And he was definitely on the other end. He was just lost.
While I felt all of this, this tangible connection that made me ache inside with a need for him to be alive, I began to prepare myself for the announcement of the finding of his body. I may not have known the actual statistics, but I did know that in over half of all abduction cases the victim is dead within twenty-four hours. The rate of death goes up drastically every hour over that. Sawn had been gone four years. He could have been killed hundreds of times, statistically speaking, so what were the odds that he was alive? I didn’t want to suffer a broken heart over someone I had never met or even heard of until that morning.
Eventually I came out of my trance, the interview over, and continued in my daily preparation for school. The monotony kept my mind fairly free, kept my mind able to stay abuzz with thoughts of Shawn. I mentioned the news story to someone that morning, while walking to class through the claustrophobically full halls, and was surprised by their total lack of interest or even reverence. It struck me, perhaps for the first time, that not everyone feels the same things; that what mattered so much to me may, in fact, mean very little or nothing to someone else. The revelation broadsided me. Now I had this epiphany combined with an unexplainable, stronger than blood, connection to a missing boy and I was thrown into a new, broader perspective I had never known before.
After the first person’s reaction, or lack thereof, I didn’t mention Shawn very much. That didn’t mean I didn’t think about him. I did. A lot.
I would pray routinely for him and his family; for him to be found, for acceptance and closure. And I prayed he was alive. God was the only one I could cry out to, the only one who knew exactly what this connection felt like to me, the only one who knew how much distress I felt over this incident. I recall, at one point, wanting to take Shawn’s place, because his family needed him back. But I was still struggling with whether he was alive or dead. Logic and heart collided in an agonizing emotional minefield. To this day I still don’t know why the connection was so powerful.
In three months the memory of the interview had faded, and the connection didn’t make me cry at night anymore, but I had by no means forgotten about Shawn. I don’t think I could have even if I wanted to.
In one of those strange moments of déjà vu I was in my living room, once again struggling to get ready for school in time, when a name mentioned on the TV once again stopped my world and me. “Shawn Hornbeck”. Found. Alive. Reunited with his parents.
I remember, quite distinctly, the image of Shawn being escorted out of a cop car and into some sort of facility or police station. His hair was longer, his ear was pierced, and he was wearing a dark sweatshirt. The image was in stark contrast with the photo of the clean-cut young boy that had been flashed on screen repeatedly during the interview with his mom. It didn’t matter in the least, because, did I mention, he was alive? I am not a crier but that day introduced me to tears of overwhelming joy. Shawn was alive! I told people, my mom that morning, and my friends at school, because I could not contain myself.
Again I was met with a lack of enthusiasm. A lack of caring. People were amazed, that’s true, but they forgot about it soon after I told them. My mom was most receptive, but that was just because she could see from my face and my exaggerated gestures how excited I was.
The lack of response made me quite angry. Shawn had been abused, or shall I say tortured, for four and a half years. And the response from those I told was not enough to even fill four and a half minutes. It crushed me, tore at my soul, broke me down.
I became obsessed; I can admit it now. I found out all I could about the case, and then later found out that about half of the information I thought I knew was false. The Internet cannot be trusted. When Shawn’s story aired on 60 Minutes I watched it, at least twice, and read the script to it once. Then, when that obsession budded and bloomed, the once pure connection I felt was tainted. Once I found out all I could about the case I realized what I had done. I felt ashamed that I could become so fascinated with something so horrible, especially when it involved someone I cared so deeply for.
After that I stopped thinking about the case so much, it was becoming unhealthy. I knew that it was. And thinking about how Shawn is, the amazing and forgiving and strong man Shawn has become, I feel even more contrite to have perverted the connection I felt to him.
Shawn does not want vengeance on Michael Devlin, the man who stole him, his childhood, and his innocence. All Shawn wanted was for Devlin to be “locked away for a long, long time so he can’t do that to anyone else”. Shawn is an awe-inspiring person who has recovered and moved on with his life. He has friends, is going to college, is working, and is pursuing his interest in motocross.
I think, after recovering from my obsession and moving back to a more distant perch, his case may have renewed my hope in people. What Devlin did was repulsive, but what Shawn did was truly shocking: he stayed alive and he offered forgiveness. I am looking into psychology now; I want to be able to help people: both the people like Devlin, the monsters, and the people like Shawn, the miracles. But more than anything, in the fashion of a proud parent, I want Shawn to make the most of his life, and I have no doubt he is. Every time Shawn’s name pops up in the media I will pay attention. Not because I have to, but because I want to. He inspires me.

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