jux·ta·po·si·tion

Noun: the act or an instance of placing two or more things side by side often to compare or contrast.

The first trip I made in my RV, Wanda, was to South Dakota. Everything I found there was unexpected. The sweeping landscape that unfolded along I-80 West included dappled, rolling fields of golden sunflowers that concealed bevies of ring-necked pheasants, a non-native fowl that became both the state bird and a hunter’s delight.

Once I could muster the courage to venture off the interstate, we pushed along back country roads that led like pulsing arteries into the heart of the Black Hills. With delight, we discovered the near-forgotten town of Interior. Located down a ways from the far edge of The Badlands, it is a dusty place void of greenery and concrete, and home to more bottles of liquor than populace.

I was awestruck and humbled by the might of Mount Rushmore, so much larger than I had imagined, and the devotion of the people inspired to create the Crazy Horse Memorial. In Rapid City, where presidential statuary stand on every corner, I was lured inside micro-breweries by the deep, warm smell of hops and the songs of local singers. Last, but certainly not least, the corny Corn Palace reminded me of the genius of human imagination and ingenuity.

When combined with the grace and goodness of South Dakota’s people, my eyes were opened to a part of America that I had not put much thought into before then, and I knew from those moments on, there was more – so much more – that I needed to see, hear, touch, and feel in this divine nation.

I cannot say with great certainty why I chose South Dakota for my first destination other than it was close to Wisconsin. Our son was moving there for his first post-college job, and Wanda was the perfect sherpa to get some of his larger things from Ann Arbor out to Madison. In looking at an atlas, South Dakota seemed like a logical choice. I had never been there, so it would help achieve my long-held goal of seeing America with my boots on the ground as opposed to looking down on it from a cruising altitude.

Plus, for a first outing with a decisive learning curve, it was far enough away from home without being ‘too far’ from civilization should I run into difficulty, and with some distinct landmarks, it fit the framework of adventure that I craved.

One of my most vivid memories from that trip was not monuments or a moment, it was a constant. All along the fields that bordered the highway, barbed wire fencing had captured pieces of clear plastic, and the vigorous winds of the plains had sheered them into tatters. These hostages to nature danced in the breeze like spirits caught between heaven and earth, and it was hard to tell if they were holding on or trying to free themselves.  

As I watched the helpless remnants fight the never-ending rush of winds, my mind went straight to Matthew Shepard, the 21-year-old University of Wyoming student that was robbed, brutally beaten, and left tied to a split rail fence in a gay-hate crime that led to his death in October 1998.

The story set the media ablaze, burning across the country, lighting fires on both the left and the right, and my heart felt as if it had been branded with a red-hot poker.  Even though my son was only two years old at the time, I was stricken with the thought of him being beaten or killed for who he may one day be. I also had gay family and friends, so I began to fear for them beyond the specter of HIV/AIDS. While this was not the first gay-hate crime to make news, it was the first time that I could relate as a mother.

Years later, when my son was a sophomore at one of the most progressive schools in the country, he took on the role of ‘Bicycle Boy’ in the theater department’s production of The Laramie Project. The play dramatized the descent of journalists into Laramie in the days and weeks following Matthew’s death, and it reenacted statements from nearly 200 individuals that knew him or had involvement with events leading up to the murder and the subsequent investigation.

‘Bicycle Boy’ found Matthew tied to a fence east of Laramie. As the character in the play, my son was responsible for delivering the lines that would share the details of the grisly discovery. Even though the role was not large, it was powerful. I watched my son act with intense emotion, his head in his hands as he explained to a listening journalist, “I thought it was a scarecrow,” and then went on to the moment when he realized he had found a person.

Long before this play was imagined by Moises Kaufman and the Tetonic Theater Project, Judy Shepard had to endure the details of the real Bicycle Boy’s accounting of how, on a freezing cold morning, he found her son’s blood-covered face unrecognizable as that of a living, breathing human, and his shoeless body trussed up and bound to ragged, splintered wood. I tried to imagine what that inconceivable moment must have been like for her; when every mother’s worst nightmare comes true, and unacceptable, unbelievable information, panic, and terror fuse together and course through the body like high voltage electricity, setting every nerve and membrane on edge until they go numb from overstimulation.

When I planned to make this trip, my fourth out West, I plotted a course that would take me through Kansas and Colorado, two states where Wanda’s wheels had not touched the ground. Then, I would cut across Wyoming again, but this time, through the Eastern portion of the state. In doing my usual research of weird, off-the-beaten path, and interesting sights and places to visit, I stumbled upon the Matthew Shepard Memorial Bench in Laramie, and I knew I had to go.

Leaving out of Fort Collins, Colorado, it was a quick jaunt to Laramie. GPS took me directly to the campus of the University of Wyoming, and I parked nearby, though illegally so. I thought it would be a quick visit, so I didn’t bother to take my backpack, only the keys to Wanda, my phone, and a dyed red, white, and blue rose I bought to brighten up my solo Fourth of July dinner. For no other reason than my heart still aches for his mother, I wanted to leave it at Matthew’s memorial.

It did not take long to find the bench. An identifying plaque with Matthew’s name read:

He continues to make a difference.

Peace be with him and all that sit here.

The bench was covered with handcrafted tributes, candles, painted rocks, and ribbons. I took a moment to look at each, trying to determine their significance to the person that left them on the solitary bench. In comparison, mine held no meaning other than it was a simple opportunity to leave a message that Matthew was not forgotten.  

As I let my mind and emotions absorb the trinkets, notes, and personal mementoes that had been left on Matthew’s bench, I stood and gazed out over Prexy’s Pasture, the lush green park across the way from the memorial. I wondered if Matthew had ever looked at this same scene. What did he see on that last day as a student? Did he have classes in the buff-colored stone building behind me, the one that boldly proclaims, “Prepare for Complete Living.”

Was Matthew preparing for a complete life when he died? There is no answer to that question. What is known is that he did not have a perfect one, and that he had been assaulted and raped during a trip to Morocco three years before his death. Despite an outgoing personality and an ability to bring people together, he suffered from depression and had mentioned suicide to his friends. There were rumors of a positive HIV status and drug use that persist to this day.  

The two men that killed Matthew, Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson, were local to Laramie, and admitted to the crime. Like Matthew, they were both 21, and said that robbery was the motive. Their plan was to pretend to be gay, lure Matthew outside of the Fireside Bar, and get his wallet. Then, their ill-conceived idea expanded to include driving him home and robbing his house.

Once in the truck, McKinney put a gun to Matthew’s head and demanded his wallet.  McKinney claimed that while Matthew was begging for his life, he put a hand on his knee, and this drove him into a fearful rage because he was sexually abused as a child, and he began to beat Matthew while Henderson laughed.

With the situation now spiraling out of control, the two drove Matthew to a remote split-rail fence outside of town where they tied him up, continued to pistol whip his head, took $20 and his shoes, and left him to bleed out in freezing temperatures until Bicycle Boy found him hours later.

Neither McKinny nor Henderson had storybook childhoods, and each walked their own individual, murky path towards this end point. Both had girlfriends, and they convinced them to provide an alibi for their whereabouts on the night of Matt’s abduction. These women would become central figures in the trial with McKinney’s girlfriend testifying that he was a homophobe because she believed it would help his defense. Later, she would recant.  

Both men were charged with first-degree murder, kidnapping, and aggravated robbery, and each faced the possibility of the death penalty. Henderson pled guilty and was sentenced to two life terms in jail with limited ability to seek parole. His girlfriend was sentenced to almost two years in jail for providing false information to the police and for hiding evidence -- Matthew’s shoes.

McKinney would go to trial with a defense of being under the influence of drugs and alcohol when he beat Matthew. His lawyers attempted to employ the excuse of “gay panic,” but evidence and Henderson’s confession directly refuted this claim.

After the jury returned a verdict of guilty of all charges, McKinney was left with the possibility of the death penalty. But before this separate trial could begin, McKinney agreed to serve life in prison with the provision that he would never seek parole or attempt to overturn his conviction.

This agreement had to be approved by Matthew’s parents, and McKinney’s defense team asked them for mercy, which they gave. To quote the words of Laramie prosecutor, Cal Rerucha, “I will never get over Judy Shepard’s capacity to forgive.”

This is true goodness in the face of ultimate evil.

While Matthew will live on through the legacy of his parent’s creation of the Matthew Shepard Foundation and the federal anti-gay hate law entitled the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd, Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act, both McKinney and Henderson will grow old and die in prison.

I have often wondered if they have looked back with regret on those moments when thoughtless, violent-infused recklessness permanently altered the trajectory of their lives when, at the young age of 21, there was still opportunity to redirect their futures. Or, is it as the judge in Henderson’s case suggested, and they remain remorseless. 

Since neither received the death penalty, I also wonder if they have been isolated from other prisoners or are they mixed in with gen pop? Have the guards turned their backs and allowed them to become submissive ‘kids’ or ‘girls’ to more dominant “daddy” inmates? Moreover, is McKinney still in a gay panic, or has it become old hat?  

If so, is this life’s little inside joke? I fully believe you must be careful of the words you choose, especially when you are attempting to dodge accountability for bad behavior. You may inadvertently give the universe ideas, and they won’t work out in your favor.

As I had walked on campus towards the memorial, I noticed the University of Wyoming’s Geological Museum where a T-Rex statue stood outside. On my way back to Wanda, I thought a quick run-through would refocus my mind on something positive, something that I love: dinosaurs.  

A gaggle of children were exiting the single door to the museum, so I waited my turn to enter. As I opened the door, the full face and 75-foot-long fossilized body of an apatosaurus, better known as a brontosaurus, was towering over me. Unknowingly, I had stumbled on a prime collection of dinosaur fossils, all discovered in the soils of Wyoming, and I was in heaven.

I stopped by each exhibit and read every notation. I paused by an allosaurus that was the most complete fossil of its kind ever discovered, and I took in every detail of a triceratops and the skull of a T-Rex. I felt like I was a little kid back at home in the old Museum of Natural History in Raleigh, only now I was not afraid that something large and bony would fall on me.  

To the right of the main exhibit room was the fossil laboratory, but no one was working because it was a holiday weekend. I was about to leave when a large display and write-up about a boy named Bridger Walker caught my attention.  It seemed very out of place in a geological museum, but as I read and learned, it became clear why there was a special section dedicated to him.

On July 9th, 2020, six-year-old Bridger and his younger sister went over to a friend’s house for a play date. They were introduced to the family dogs and told there is the ‘friendly one,’ and the ‘mean one.’ Within moments, and without provocation, the ‘mean one’ made a run at Bridger’s sister. 

Bridger placed himself between his sister and the dog and kept moving around so it would not get to her. Instead, the dog leapt for Bridger’s face. As the event was unfolding, Bridger kept yelling for his sister to run. Eventually, the dog was pulled off and emergency crews were called.

The bite left horrendous wounds on Bridger’s face that required two hours of surgery and more than 90 stitches to close. When he was finally able to explain to his father how he had protected his sister, his dad asked him why he did it. Bridger replied, “if someone had to die, I thought it should be me.”

If that is not enough, when local authorities told Bridger and his parents that the dog’s owner was going to have it put down, Bridger said he did not want that to happen because he had two ‘nice’ dogs of his own.

Through family and friends, Bridger’s heroism began to spread on social media, and people asked what they could do to help cheer him up. His family said that Bridger loves rocks, and asked if people could send photos of beautiful ones from all over the world. That is when thousands of rocks, minerals, and other geological specimens began showing up at the Walker home. Eventually, the University asked if Bridger could choose a few of his favorite rocks for a special display within the geological museum. Here, his act of selfless courage will remain for passersby like me to discover.

The closing paragraph on the informational panel next the photos of Bridger and his sister read, “every rock you see represents the love, generosity, and kindness of an individual who strengthen Bridger and his family during a time of fear and hopelessness…and Bridger dedicates this display to all those who sacrificed in some way, big or small, to support his healing.”

On another wall, there were cartoons and caricatures of Bridger as a member of the Avengers. Word of Bridger’s actions got to the actors that play the superheroes, and their response was overwhelming. Tom Holland promised Bridger a visit to the set of the next Spiderman movie, and Chris Evans offered him a real Captain America shield.

As a Marvel fan, I was deeply moved by the sentiment each of these world-famous individuals took time to send to Bridger, but it was the words of Mark Ruffalo that knit it all together for me. He wrote:

 “People who put the well-being of others in front of themselves are the most heroic and thoughtful people I know. I truly respect and admire your courage and your heart. Real courage isn’t dominating people or fighting against people or walking around like a tough guy. Real courage is knowing what is right to do and doing it even when it might end up hurting you somehow.”

I am not embarrassed to admit to tears as I thought about how, in such proximity to each other, I had seen the outcome of human decision-making at its most depraved as well as at its best.  Matthew Shepard died at the hands of two men who lacked courage and did not understand the value of human life. Yet, here was a little boy with a deeper understanding of life’s precious worth than some people ever find.

Is this something that can be taught? Psychologists will tell you that we are not born with empathy; it must be learned through modeling the behavior of those around us. What about the kind of courage that Mark Ruffalo described? How is that learned? How is it modeled to a child? Where did six-year-old Bridger learn to lean into the greater fear -- that of losing his sister – and glean the courage to fight for her life while knowing he may lose his own?

Is it nature versus nurture, or a combination of both that determines whether we become heroes or villains? Why do some children that suffer early torment rise above it while others cannot seem to shake off its specter. On the flip side, why do some kids that grow up having it all – a good, loving, stable family; financial security; solid education; nice vacations – make all the wrong choices and end up in constant turmoil?  

I don’t have the answers. I doubt that anyone truly does. What I do know is that two young men who had less-than-ideal childhoods killed another young man that did, and that a little boy chose to sacrifice his own life if it meant that his sister could keep hers.

When I was leaving the museum, I stopped to thank the volunteer at a catty-cornered desk near the door. We started chatting, and I learned he is a Ph.D. candidate in paleontology. At some juncture, I asked him if he had heard about the replica of Noah’s Ark that had been built in Kentucky and features a display of Noah’s son feeding hay to a dinosaur.

His voice lowered to a whisper, “that’s a real touchy subject here in Wyoming.”

Yet, another contrast within a small space. Here, in the epicenter of fossilized dinosaur discoveries, some residents of the state reject the knowledge that these prehistoric creatures existed hundreds of millions of years before man because they have been taught that the world is only 6000 years old. Despite definitive evidence to the contrary, there is no ‘change their minds’ because it would risk unraveling the core belief they embrace, so science must be wrong or worse, a hoax.

I was reminded of when, as a young teen, my son, aka “Bicycle Boy,” asked our then-minister about this particular quandary, and his reply was, “maybe God put dinosaur bones in the earth to test our faith.” While I already had one foot out the door of organized religion, this is when I made the choice to shut it altogether.  

As our conversation was wrapping up, I told my new friend, the son of college professors and now himself highly educated, about my father the farmer, the smartest man I have ever known but did not have the paper to back it up.

His wisdom was this: that science and the origins of the universe and life as described in the Bible are not inconsistent; that it began as an oral tradition passed on through the ages until Moses most likely wrote it down in what amounts to roughly 31 verses in the first chapter of Genesis.  My father’s position was that for people to comprehend the concepts, they had to be presented to them in the most basic of terms since there were no defined lengths of weeks, months, or years until the Bronze Age, thus days became the benchmark for the passing of time.

Finally, I told the young paleontologist that my father also said, “God never said exactly how He did it,” but today’s science has the opportunity to explain what we previously lacked the ability or words to describe with clarity.     

Not bad for a poor dirt farmer who never had the chance to fully explore the depths of his intellect.

In a sense, there will always be a stand-off between science and religion and what each asks of the other to recognize and accept as fact. This is the premise of the book, Contact, some of Carl Sagan’s most brilliant writing that explores the dichotomy of faith – ‘a strong reliance and trust that holds even in the face of doubts or the absence of proof,’ and belief – ‘an acceptance that something is true.’

When I walked back to Wanda, still illegally parked, I tried to absorb the last hour. Like South Dakota, it was unexpected. When I planned this stop, I could not have conceived that such a tiny whisp of my time would become a contrast between right and wrong; good and evil; acceptance and intolerance; courage and cowardice; heroes and villains, nature versus nurture; science and religion.

The range and diversity of these juxtaposed thoughts are still in their youth. Like the process of vinification, while I have harvested them, I am still crushing and pressing them to extract their best juices. Later, they will be fermented and clarified so that when aged and bottled, their taste will be pleasing.

As I drove away from Laramie, my thoughts and emotions were all over the place. I was still thinking about Matthew Shepard. I wondered if his spirit is still attached to a lonesome fence, fighting the whipping Wyoming winds to either stay or let go. My stomach was knotted, and my throat was tight, but my brain had an itch. There was something important, something relevant that I wanted to remember fully, but I could not dredge it up. 

When I stopped for the night, I had enough internet to consult Dear Google and found the words and perspective of the late adventurer, Anthony Bourdain, that helped me find the right balance of thought.

“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.”

‘Unexpected’ is something that you cannot plan. It isn’t always going to be sunflowers and pheasants. Sometimes it is going to be difficult and hard, but more often than not, that's where the good stuff is found.