Features

Upon discovering that my teenage daughter was writing an essay on William Golding’s seminal novel Lord of the Flies, I had her view the film version with me, a film that absolutely terrified me when I first saw it at about the age of 10. We watched it al ong with my 10-year-old son who couldn’t bear to watch the whole thing. “Why are they being so mean to him?” he cried, tears streaming down his face as he turned away from witnessing boys his own age stone pudgy, philosophical “Piggy” to death. 

When Lord of the Flies made its debut in 1954, it was hailed as not only superbly written but as a parable of the times. A large group of English boarding school boys is stranded on an uninhabited island. While they struggle to survive, two boys emerge as potential leaders. After Ralph, who uses reason and goodwill to convince the boys to elect him as leader wins in a democratic vote, His rival, Jack, uses fear and physical might to, in effect, steal the election by stealing the community fire and terrorizing all those who resist him into submission or death. Not only do the boys murder Piggy but they also, in a fear-induced frenzy, kill Simon, the weakest among them, who is also the only one to have seen the truth of the “beast” they are all so frightened of. “What if the beast is us?” he queries. No one hears him until it is too late. 

Is life a war? A continuous battle for domination not just over land and goods, but a nonstop competition for the allegiance of others’ thoughts, feelings and actions? Is the ego ever satisfied?  

On May 6, two teenagers at Hercules High School entered the boys’ bathroom and proceeded to brutally beat up 17-year-old Hassan Rahgozar, breaking his jaw and blackening his eyes. The attackers, 18-year-old non-student Eric Guillebeau and a 17-year-old who had already been suspended for beating Hassan two weeks before, were arrested and charged with felony battery charges. A fellow “student” stood by and videotaped the attack and then broadcast it on the Internet. 

The budding filmmaker was not charged with a crime. He was suspended, however, and may not be allowed to graduate with his class. Hassan will be placed at another school to “ensure his safety.” Why is his safety in jeopardy? He was the victim. Yet, it is anticipated that rathe r than being treated with the empathy and support he deserves, he had better be worried about castigation and retaliation. 

This incident reminded me of Sherrice Iverson. Remember her? Sherrice was 7 years old on May 25, 1997, when she was followed into t he bathroom of a Las Vegas casino by then-19-year-old Jeremy Strohmeyer. Strohmeyer cornered her in one of the stalls and began to rape the little girl. His best friend, former UC Berkeley engineering student David Cash, peeked over the stall, saw what St rohmeyer was up to and rather than rescue the little girl, went outside and sat on a bench for 24 minutes to give his buddy some space. After he raped Sherrice, Strohmeyer strangled her to death. While Strohmeyer is serving a life sentence for murder, Cas h was not charged with any crime. He was, instead, allowed to remain at UC Berkeley—where he was admitted based solely on his grades and SAT scores—and provided with security to boot. He expressed no remorse for Sherrice but rather sued his high school fo r not letting him into his prom and tried to sell his story to make money and attract girls. 

“My kid can beat up your honor student” the bumper sticker on the black truck ahead of me reads. I pass another driver, this time in a shiny white Mercedes compl ete with UC Alumnus decals, whose bumper sticker reads: “Honk—I’m re-loading.” I go home and my 10-year-old son is watching cartoons brimming with gratuitous violence—bullying, fighting and hysterical laughing at others’ misfortunes. I turn the station a nd see a young man in prison garb being interviewed by the mother of his victim, a teenaged girl he had kidnapped, sodomized and killed. The mother asks, “Why did you do it?” The convict pauses, looks down and then straight at her as he replies: “I wanted them all to remember my name.” Not interested in learning his name, I turn off the TV. My son is now on the computer, bobbing his head in rhythm to the theme song of one of his favorite wrestlers: “I lie, I cheat, I steal, I lie, I cheat, I steal… I don’t care if you don’t like me… everybody wants to fight me…” 

Violent behavior is not part of my son’s genetic make-up. I don’t want him to lose the sense of compassion he felt for Piggy and Simon. I think the capacity to feel for others is a good thing. Bu t, in a society bred of violence and greed, where the bad boys are made heroes—sung about and immortalized on TV, in films and now on the Internet—the cards are stacked against him.  

What’s a mother to do? I could use a little help out there. Think of it this way: The life you help save could be your own. 

o