It didn’t take long for the mood in the theater to change from excitement to shock. Watching regular, American kids experience verbal, physical and emotional abuse on the big screen made my popcorn unappealing, and had me reaching for a tissue. I felt my body convulse with sobs as I watched Ty’s parents bury their 11-year-old son, a boy who reminds me so much of my own. As his mother, nearly comatose, rocked in his bedroom, wondering what she could have done to prevent his suicide, it was more than I could take. I wanted to scream at the screen, lash out at the pathetic creatures who taunted this little boy day after day until he felt, at 11 years old, his life wasn’t worth living. What person has the right to inflict this type of torture on another human being?
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