How Much Are You Worth?

When I was a kid I asked my dad how much he would sell me for. To my amazement and outrage he said $100,000. But he reassured me that I was worth more than one of my brother's, who he said he would sell for $50,000.

Of course I know my dad was teasing, but in a story I had to write today, I was reminded of the memory.

In November a 15-year-old boy died. The .38 caliber hand gun was meant to be used only as a sound prop for the high school play the teen was participating in. One thing led to another and the next thing school staff and police knew they had a dead boy on their hands.

It was a tragedy. From what I can tell the family has suffered painfully through it. Who wouldn't? I can't imagine what it would be like to lose a sibling nor do I want to find out. I can't even begin to imagine how the parents must feel.

The family has decided to sue the police and school district for wrongful death. Reading over the claims, I can't tell you how many times I read the word "negligent." And what's the amount for? We're looking at more than $2 million.

Suing, especially in death cases, are so interesting to me because people have to put a dollar amount to their loss. But how do you put a dollar amount to the life of a child? When I think about it that way, $2 million just doesn't seem to be enough.

And why do people sue in the first place? Do they sue because wrong was truly done, or because they think they can get some money out of it? In this particular case I think wrong was done, but I think a $2 million hit to the school district and police department would not only be detrimental to those entities but also those involved with them. The schools would suffer and so would the streets.

As I look at this in the grand scheme of things and I wonder if it's worth it.

A person's life is priceless and unique. Once it's gone, it can never be brought back or replicated. No dollar amount can right the wrong of that boy's death. So how do we deal with it? I don't have that answer.

Receiving a Diploma Behind Bars

The actual accomplishment of receiving a high school diploma wasn't that big of a deal to me. It was just something I had to do. The day I completed high school and was given that piece of paper of completion was just another step closer to moving out of my mom's house and gaining freedom. At least that's what it was for me in my mind.

The inmates in Purgatory Correctional Facility have the opportunity to get a high school diploma or GED. Many of them take advantage of the adult education, and earlier this week I got to watch several men and one woman stand proudly in their caps and gowns as they received their high school diplomas.

Some of them were 18 years old. One man was 37. It didn't matter the age, each one was proud to pull the tassle from the right over to the left and be an official high school graduate.

While I was in the jail listening to the inmates' stories I couldn't help but respect their accomplishment and realize that a high school diploma or GED means much more than just a piece of paper or a means to get of your parents' house. Each one of those inmates worked hard to receive their diploma and they proudly received it.

Whether we realize it or not, a high school diploma or GED is the gateway to higher education. In most cases we can't move forward without accomplishing one of those.

Some of the people I talked to in jail that day have already had a lifetime of experience. They know how to work. But for one reason or another life's circumstances brought them to jail. One man said he'd been in jail 20 years of his life. But now they are making a change. They resolved to do something positive and do more than what they have done.

There's only one word I can think of when I think of these inmates, and that's respect. Some of them will still be in jail for another year and some don't know if they'll get out; they still might be institutionalized. It doesn't matter though. They've done something positive with their lives and it's another step forward.

Photo provided by Jud Burkett.

Hate is Never the Answer

Hate. It's been breeding, brewing, festering and exploding for centuries and centuries. Everyday when we turn on the television we're reminded of our differences. Today when I saw the breaking news I was stunned.

An 88-year-old male white supremacist is a suspect in the shooting and killing of Stephen Tyrone Johns, a member of staff security the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C. As I listened to the news as it unfolded I couldn't help but feel shocked.

How could another man walk into a museum, at the age of 88 no less, and "allegedly" murder someone in cold blood? Where does such hatred come from? How, after so many years, can Hitler's doctrine still compel people to hate those who are different? I don't understand it and yet I've been so close to it.

Several years ago I remember visiting my brother at his home. I don't remember much about the visit but what I do remember is when I was leaving his room my eye caught a glimpse of what was hanging in his closet. When I did a double-take, I realized it was a Nazi flag.

He had been involved with white supremacists before, but I thought he was through. Unable to comprehend what I was seeing, I left and didn't mention a word. To this day it rips me up inside to think my brother, my flesh and blood, had so much hatred for another group of people.

My brother did finally get over being a white supremacist. I can't imagine it was easy and I can imagine it was a long and rocky road. But he is now one of the most accepting and loving people I know. I look up to him for his courage to stand strong and make a change in his life for the good.

Knowing so intimately the ugly side of white supremacy and knowing people can change, it hurts to listen, to watch and to read the news of an elderly man not willing to open his heart, but instead fill it with the poison of hate and act upon that hate.

Hate will kill your spirit. I watched it as it almost killed my brother's. But love, compassion, tolerance and understanding is what brought him back to life. It will take forgiveness and just as much love and compassion to help us, the 88-year-old man and the other white supremacists out in the world to become more tolerant of each other.

Hate does not cure hate, it only fuels it. Love allows a cure to be found.

Liar, Liar. Are Your Pants On Fire?

I'm an adrenaline junky at heart. I hate to admit it, but when I hear sirens my ears perk up and my heart beats just a little bit faster. Being on the police beat for nearly two years has fed that beast in me, but like all things there is always some bad mixed in with the good.

If you were to ask me what the good things were I'd tell you running out the door at the drop of the hat when I heard something "big" go down on the scanner. This good be anything - bank robbery, car accident, stand off, fire, mountain lion in a tree.

And even if it turned out to be nothing , it still got me out of the office, which is always a plus, except maybe when it's cold.

Now what were the bad things you may ask? No matter how tough a reporter thinks they are, death and destruction eventually pulls a little too hard at myheart strings. It was always painful trying to get a hold of family members and friends involved in tragedy and then asking them to talk about it. The only way I knew how to deal with it was to just not think about it.

Then of course we had those who would give all this information, but then wouldn't go on record. But at the end of the day what I think I hated the most while working the beat was trying to work with liars.

Case in point: I got tipped off on a pretty good story. When I confronted three, count them three different coppers, each one lied. The story goes cold.

Now this is why the public thinks we reporters get our facts wrong, because people lie and don't go on record. These problems are not just in the police beat. These problems are everywhere. A reporter has to sift through tons of garbage before they find the truth.

What I have found is when the truth does come out, occasionally the officials cover it up with another lie. Honestly, if people just told the truth everyone would be better off.

So here's an idea for everyone. Just be straight-up honest, even if it makes you look bad. That way us reporters can tell a fair and accurate story.