In a year when one horror is stacked upon another, the killing of a 12-year-old student at a school in the San Fernando Valley may seem insignificant. It pales in comparison to the 165 or more who were killed by a US military strike at a girls’ school in Iran. And the countless other children who have perished in wars and other forms of violence. How do we determine which lives should be remembered and which ones don’t? Which lives have value and which ones can be discarded?
The answer comes from a murder that happened at what was called Reseda High School nearly 50 years ago. If you’ve spent any time on my site, you already know about this tragedy and the novel I wrote to cope with it. I’m not alone in mourning for Mary Ann Henderson. Those who remembered her still do after a half century. I assure you people will still be mourning for Khimberley Zavaleta, the schoolgirls in Iran, and the other children who have died a half century from now.
Losing a child is the most heartbreaking thing a parent can experience. When Mom died, my Grandma Toba cried, “I can’t believe I’m burying my own daughter!” This was when my mom was 63, and my grandma was 83.
As the years go on, the loss of a child grows deeper. Their death reminds us of graduations, weddings, and other celebrations that never happened. The children and grandchildren who were never born. The potential lost. The stories that won’t be written. The lives that won’t be saved. The hugs that won’t be felt. The death of a child leaves scars across the generations.
And some would respond, “So what?” They ask why should we care about the death of a child when there’s money to make, wars to win, reputations to protect, lawsuits to avoid, urges to gratify, and privileges to maintain. Some would go as far as to question the value of any human life as they imagine a future when everything can be done with robots, AI, and a few uber-rich men.
We mourn to protect our humanity against people like them. We affirm that everyone we share this planet with has inherent value. When we fail to grieve or scroll past a horrific loss, we add to a hardening of our collective hearts that allows even worse cruelty to happen. And there will be no one left to offer comfort when something horrible happens to us.
The killing of a child, whether it is in Reseda, California or Minab, Iran, should give us a moment to pause to grieve. It represents innocence that was unprotected, futures lost, and hearts broken. We value them as we value our own children, because they are. It is now up to us to build the future they should have been a part of—a world where all children can grow up in safety, comfort, and peace.
