Judgment comes from experience

I have a friend that ends every email with the tagline, “Good judgment comes from experience; experience comes from bad judgment.”

Mostly, this is supposed to be sort of amusing, but being that my friend is a career military man who served in both Iraq conflicts, I’ve always known that he means this quite seriously as well as in jest.

On the civilian side, however, since the tragedy in Palmer Township involving three young people, I’ve been stuck with this line in my head. Truly, the ability to form good judgments and act on them often does come from life experience, which often does come from the experience that comes from the consequences of bad judgment, both our own and others.

And tragically, sometimes bad judgment does not lend itself to gaining life experience and learning from it. Sometimes bad judgment or a series of bad judgments, combined with circumstance, leads to fatal consequences.

Lest anyone think that I’m about to start moralizing or assigning blame, let me assure you that I’m not. More than enough of that has been assigned elsewhere, and I’m not about to attempt to add to the grief and tears, which from what I’ve personally seen, rivals the volume of both the Delaware and the Lehigh at the moment.

The other thing I’ve not been able to get out of my head is how this sort of grievous situation is replayed over and over, no matter what the decade.

A few years before these kids were even a twinkle in their fathers’ eyes, the same sort of thing happened to a couple of my classmates in high school.

The circumstances were only slightly different. In the case of Tom and Paul, and their baseball team mate (whose name now eludes me, since he was the one I didn’t know, and in this case was the survivor, so he wasn’t immortalized in my school year book) the cause was still alcohol and speed and a probable lack of seat belt usage.
But in this case, no one was drunk—yet.

Tom, Paul, and their baseball team mate cut their last class one sunny spring day nearly twenty years ago before a big baseball game. Our school wasn’t very good at many sports when I was there (we won a total of two football games during my entire high school career—and one of them was against the local juvenile detention home, which only played two games a year), but this particular year, the baseball team was pretty hot. So the three of them drove off to the closest place they knew of they could find and buy a case or two of beer for after the game, New Brunswick, N.J., about 10 miles from our high school.

They were running late, and desperate to get back in time for the game they sped along Route 1, weaving in and out of traffic.

Paul was driving. He hit the divider in excess of 100 mph and flipped the car into oncoming traffic. No one was wearing a seatbelt.

Tom, who had flirted with me in geometry class for the entire year, died in the arms of one of my bandmates (yes, I used to be in a garage band, several, in fact), who was out of high school and happened to work across the street from the scene of the accident. The bandmate had trouble even identifying which victim he’d attempted to help, because Tom’s head was so badly damaged, he couldn’t tell whether he was blond or dark-haired. (Tom’s hair was dark brown, Paul was blonde.)

Paul, on the other hand, who had been the driver (and had teased me all through our six years together in grammar school), died in a similar manner. They couldn’t tell if he was killed on the first impact, when he was ejected from the car, or whether it was when the oncoming car that couldn’t stop impacted with his body.

The third victim, who had been the backseat passenger, was airlifted to the local trauma center, back in New Brunswick. His injuries were bad enough too, that I never saw him again before I graduated a year later. Rumor had it that while I was graduating, he was maybe learning to walk and talk again.

Why would I tell this story, at a time like this?

Because I want the students of EAHS who were friends of Amanda Schultz and Mike Cummings to know that I actually do know what you’re going through. And the pain does get better with time.

Life can change for any one of us in a heartbeat, though in the exuberance of youth, it never seems that way until cold reality comes knocking at the door personally. And some never learn this lesson of life, despite being “mature.” Better to take something of value from a terrible experience, I think, than let a tragedy go meaningless, I think.

The experience and wisdom I gained from the bad judgment and tragedy of that sunny spring day twenty years ago?

Always treasure the moments you have, but never forget your experiences, so you can form good judgment and honor the memory of those who haven’t been so fortunate. Grieve hard, but remember the good times, for they are easily lost, and temper the excitement of being on the threshold of true independence with a little caution. Alcohol often impairs judgment, whether it’s been imbibed yet or not, by oneself or another. Remember the laws of physics apply at all times, and we are all subject to them, no matter how immortal one is feeling. Wear your seatbelt every time you get into a car, even if you’re just going a little way down the road, as you never know what might happen.

And to truly honor those that are gone, don’t let history repeat itself once again. Your friends would likely tell you that much, if they could.

My sincerest condolences to everyone.

(Originally published in The Easton News, March 16, 2006)