The Cokeville Miracle

by Hartt

  The younger children had special problems to overcome. Those aged six and seven were just beginning to build a sense of confidence and order in their lives. Now both were, if not shattered, at least shaken. Trust, in particular, was damaged. Love and obedience were now suspect. “We did what the adults told us to do, and we got hurt,” was expressed by some. “What did we do wrong?” Many of the children began to feel guilty; they were taken hostage because, in some unknown way, they hadn’t “measured up.”

  Children who had been some of Jean Mitchell’s best huggers began to hold back. They were now aloof, sharing less love. She sorely missed their expressions of simple love. Yet she knew those emotions couldn’t be forced. Jean felt the kids might be feeling betrayed by the world of grown-ups that had let this thing happen to them. She was fearful about the youngsters losing trust in her. They had obeyed her, with this result. She was not sure what she could say to them.

  The slow process of working through fears and hostilities generated by the crisis went on among those who had not been taken hostage as well. Fear that precipitated a sense of vulnerability often manifested itself as parental over-protectiveness. Time and time again, mothers and fathers faced the mental hurdle of never wanting to let their young children out of sight, of not wanting to let them go back to school. Something as simple and familiar as a sonic boom could raise waves of panic and an intense desire to drop everything else and run to the child.

  The anger felt by victims mirrored the anger felt by their families. One did not have to be present in the classroom to feel the trauma there, counselors explained. “Families and people who were outside of the town when things were happening will still have some very real and important feelings that need to be worked through.”

  Sam Bennion had reason to be angry. His wife, Pat, was substituting for Briant Teichert, away at the track meet, when the takeover occurred. She had to be hospitalized and suffered complications from the infections in her arms. His widowed mother, Verlene, was in school as teacher’s aide and was injured while helping children escape through the windows. All three of the Bennion kids were among the hostages. Realistically, Sam had been threatened with the loss of his entire family. The anger and fear generated by that threat would not easily pass.

  Delayed complications were often exhibited by parents rather than hostages. A number of adults were traumatized almost as much by what their mature imaginations told them could have happened as they were by what actually did. Thinking about the awful possibilities became a coping mechanism of its own, as the mind tried to admit the existence of unthinkable scenarios in order to face them down.

  Understandably, some who entirely escaped the crisis had to struggle with feeling left out—unworthy of the test. The six children absent that day had missed the most important, dramatic thing ever to happen to their community. Morning kindergartners, eluding capture by half a day, felt the same—no one was paying attention to them. Had they also “not measured up” somehow?

  The name given to reactions like these, which seem so inconsistent on the surface, is “survivor guilt.” Most often seen in those who live when their fellow-hostages die in a violent confrontation, survivor guilt also hits those who are simply not involved while their friends or loved ones are suffering. No one in Cokeville envied those who had been burned in the aftermath of the explosion. Yet they wanted to know firsthand what had happened; they wanted to share the burden. Briant Teichert’s absence from school the day of the takeover was particularly hard on him. The thought, he said, of substitute teacher Pat Bennion being harmed while taking his place “was just unbearable.”

  Older students, who felt guilty about not helping rescue their younger brothers and sisters, were themselves helped toward a more balanced frame of mind by the attending psychologists and counselors. “What if you had gone back,” they were asked, “into the burning room? Wouldn’t you just be in the way of people trying to get out quickly?” As the students answered such questions, they were able to realize that it was, indeed, unselfish to care so much about the other pupils, but that they did the right thing in getting quickly out of the way.

  Families had to deal with the mundane responsibilities of daily life while they were also dealing with the serious emotional and physical burdens that the crisis forced upon them. One father, whose daughter was being treated for burns, later had a car wreck and had to be hospitalized himself—about the same time that his wife went to the hospital to give birth to unexpected twins. Fortunately for everyone, the showering of outside love and aid meant that no family had to lose their home or go hungry because they happened to cross the path of a confused and self-destructive man.

  Occasionally, denial was seen as a practical way out of the crisis: “Let’s not make too much of this whole thing. The kids are lucky to be alive. Let’s forget about it and get on with our lives. The sooner we do it, the sooner the kids can do it.” While the attitude was healthy in its effort not to wallow or dwell on the traumatic memories of their captive hours, most hostages and their parents realized that negative emotions were rising to the surface naturally and continually, and that it would be necessary to work through them, rather than deny them, before real healing could occur.

  But the process could begin immediately. From the moment the children escaped and commenced the process of confronting what they had just experienced, parents and school officials in the town and psychologists who came from outside began a process of their own—offering the hostages positive ways of handling their physical and emotional upheaval.

  Early on, townspeople were commended for immediately providing two positive experiences for the hostages. The first was total reassurance and the second was proper praise. When parents and other citizens were on hand to scoop up the first screaming youngster that crossed their paths, cuddling them personally or staying close while their parents were located, they provided crucial contrast to the detached, depersonalized malevolence David Young had shown. Familiar faces, familiar surroundings, behavior the children recognized as consistent and normal, even the sounds and smells they were used to helped them accept that they had really escaped from Room 4. However, while they would frequently relive the fear of their hours with David Young, they would also be able to relive the memory of people who welcomed them unconditionally back to normal life.

  Lincoln County attorney Richard Leonard noted with amazement how well the local people were coping, even just after the takeover. “Here were people, in terror of their lives just two hours before,” he said, “now serving drinks and sandwiches to out-of-town officials. They were bouncing back awfully fast, considering the circumstances. It was gratifying to see them recovering so quickly.”

  At the town meeting held the Monday after the crisis, everyone gathered to more formally assess what had happened. Dr. Allen Lowe, the district school superintendent, assured the listeners, “You have the prayers and support of many. There were many heroes to come out of the tragedy last Friday, including you and your children. Our purpose is to rebuild, restore, and strengthen.”

  At one point, teachers were singled out for their heroic efforts, particularly those who kept themselves and the children calm in the face of danger. The audience rose to applaud them. The children themselves were praised for obeying teachers and summoning up a brave front for each other. Peace officers from other areas, who had come in to assist Cokeville’s lawmen, praised the entire town for its discipline. “You were a great example,” one of them said.

  Someone stood to commend the EMTs for their work; then another spoke in praise of the law enforcement officers. Everyone was thanking everyone. “In the eyes of professionals around the country who have handled very serious situations, you are to be commended,” said Dr. Nohl Sandahl, head of the team of psychologists. “They stand in respect for how you have come out of this situation. You did things right.” Teachers wanted to convince the children that they had experienced a severe trial and passed it with flying colors. Parents and other
adults were counseled to show confidence; children can handle what parents can handle, townspeople were reminded.

  Talking and listening, as the townspeople did at this meeting, was the next critical step in healing. Shock was wearing off. People needed to tell each other where they were when the bomb went off. Never had so much happened in such a short time in the town. Never had so many intense and diverse emotions been generated.

  Rocky Moore took what he called a “realistic” attitude. “I wish David Young was here right now. Take away his guns and I’d like to have my hands on him—right now.”

  “Do you hate him?” Rocky was asked.

  “You bet I do. I love hating him.” At least Rocky could talk in a positive way about the negative feelings he felt for the man who held him and the others hostage.

  Dr. Sandahl and his team of psychologists were barraged with questions. “My child won’t talk about it, yet it seems that he hurts inside. If we ask why, he changes the subject. What should we do?”

  “Be supportive and open,” they were told. “Let them know they can talk about it freely when they’re ready.”

  “Some of the things I’m hearing from my child are gross and aggressive,” said a parent.

  “Just listen,” was the reply. “Some language or behavior may seem inappropriate for a while. Don’t let it shock or disturb you, but broaden your tolerance level to help them work through their feelings.”

  The children wanted to know if the Youngs were “bad people.” They were told, “Like machinery, people can sometimes go awry. These people did bad things.”

  Said one mother, “My child saw his father pull a rifle out from the truck today and was terrified.”

  The psychologists knew the reaction well: “Such reminders will initiate fear. This hunting community will have a lot of that.”

  Another mother said, “My son doesn’t really know what happened. When people talk about it, he isn’t sure he knows what happened, and he was there.”

  Said another, “My daughter says she will never go in Room 4 again.”

  Counselors from around the country came, wrote, or called in to urge the parents just to listen to their children. “Don’t even think of what you are going to say next. Simply listen, even if you say nothing.” Listening became as natural as breathing. As neighbor listened to neighbor, parent to child, classmate to classmate, love poured in.

  School district officials suggested that teachers begin working with therapists the following Tuesday to learn how they could best help the students start school again. It would be vital for teachers to talk through their own problems before helping the kids with theirs. It was decided that counseling would be made available on a walk-in basis and for as long as necessary. “We hesitate to put a time limit on it,” officials explained, as each victim works through his fears independently. Counseling would be available, furthermore, to anyone in town. “It is important that no feelings in the community be held in,” the psychologists stressed.

  Guidelines were taken from a program called Project Cope, provided by the Community Services of the San Diego California Mental Health Department. Five- to eleven-year-olds should, the recommendations read, be offered a physical reenactment of the disaster to provide clarification of what had happened. That was one reason school officials made Room 4, still in the condition they had left it on Friday, available to the children and their parents the following Sunday.

  The room was open all that day, and except for a tarp thrown on the floor in the room’s southwest corner, where Doris’s body was found, everything was left untouched. There was even a pair of shoes left behind. Children visiting the room were heard to ask if the owner had been blown right out of them.

  Tentatively at first, children with their parents relived the scene inside the blackened room. “This is where I sat,” said one.

  “I was coloring right here at this desk,” pointed out another.

  The children were putting the pieces together in their minds. Some noticed a message scrawled in black on the wall. “Help,” it read. Others took time to write their names in the soot. Nearly all the children had asked if they had to return to the hostage site. When they were told no, they went anyway. They didn’t want to be there, yet, as one child said, “I had to.”

  “Reestablishment of ownership is an important part of the healing process,” school psychologists told parents and teachers.

  Older children were encouraged, said the guidelines, to talk about the disaster and share their feelings, to rehearse safety measures to be taken in the future, and to express any deep feelings of loss or grieving. School officials told the parents that, as the guidelines predicted, “performance levels in various academic and other skills might drop off for a time—but parents and teachers should reassure the youngsters [that] competency will return.”

  One important question was when school would resume. Summer vacation was just around the corner. District officials felt that no matter how little work was accomplished in the final days, it was important for the children not to wait three months before returning. At the same time, psychologists felt it necessary to ease students back into school sessions. Students were invited to return when they felt up to it. Most came for a few hours on Wednesday, the first day classes were resumed, then half a day Thursday, and all day Friday, a mere week after the takeover.

  On that Wednesday, a few students returned with parents, but most came without them. “More than I expected,” said school district counselor Mike Cummings. Cummings and local psychologist George Chournos spent the morning watching children arrive, looking for signs of any problems. “I saw five kids walk up here by themselves real early, and I just about bawled,” Chournos said. As one who grew up on a rugged western sheep ranch, Chournos said it struck him that “some of these kids really are tough.” He thought the therapy of teachers and children seeing each other again, this time in safe and normal surroundings, “was just as good for the teachers as it was for the children.”

  Teachers practiced encouraging their students to express whatever was on their minds, he noted later. “Where were you when the bomb went off?” Kliss Sparks asked her fourth graders.

  Rusty Birch said he was right next to the lady on fire. “It took me about three seconds to figure out what was going on,” he said. “Then I got out of there!”

  A key approach to helping everyone leave behind the trauma and begin living normally again was the predictable one of seeking out activities that would reconstruct family and community ties. One such was a Little League Baseball game of alumni thirteen- to-fourteen-year-olds against the current nine- to-twelve-year-olds. Because the game was set for Saturday morning following the crisis, it was nearly canceled. Parents didn’t think the kids would be up to it. But the kids voted yes, and the game was played.

  There was an unusual twist to this event. Some of the children had baseball mitts and shoes in the school. Since it was less than a day after the takeover, the police cordon was still in place, sealing off the building. Even though bomb experts had combed the premises for any explosives, detonating them and removing all the weapons to be placed in evidence, investigators were still sifting the entire school property for additional clues needed in any future hearings.

  The children were not to go inside. But hearing that they would need to enter only the north wing, which was nowhere near Room 4, a sympathetic sheriff’s deputy listened to their requests. Still, permission was not given.

  “Come on, don’t you think we’ve suffered enough?” said one of the boys.

  The compassionate deputy gave in. “Go get your mitts,” he said.

  On the following Wednesday, an event of particular importance was held—the annual high school spring concert, led by John Miller. There had been speculation that the concert would be canceled because Miller had been injured. His recovery was considered amazingly swift, but everyone wondered if he would be up to conducting an hour-long concert less than a week after being shot near the
heart.

  “I’m not in pain; I’m glad to be here,” he announced to the packed auditorium. It was a simple statement, but it electrified the crowd. They erupted in a spontaneous standing ovation for Miller, for the children, for the teachers. It was also for the entire community. The applause lasted and lasted. People felt they were getting control of their lives again. It felt good to cheer, to whistle, to applaud.

  John Miller was known as a quiet, private person who didn’t often say much, except through his music. But on this night he wanted to share. A bit hesitant about embarrassing his wife, he proceeded to tell his friends and neighbors how hospital attendants had taken all his clothes in Montpelier and left him with little more than the traditionally awful, not-so-private hospital gown. In that garb he was airlifted to Bannock Memorial Hospital in Pocatello. When the nurse came in to record the valuables that arrived with him, she started at the top and began ticking off the long list of possibilities. John could see it was a very extensive list. “I told her I could save her some time,” he said to the crowd. “I have nothing with me but my shorts!”

  The audience roared with laughter. When they had quieted a bit, he added wryly, “Thank goodness for those shorts.”

  John also shared that when he was waiting to be taken to the examining room, he was visited by his Episcopal minister, Reverend Lawrence Perry, and the Reverend Gerald Sullivan of Cokeville’s Catholic parish. “We would like to give you a blessing,” they said.

  “I would very much like you to give me a blessing,” he replied.

  “You might say,” said Father Sullivan, “that we’re the SWAT team for God.”