The girls picked out their outfits
the night before, premeditated down to the red ponytail tie and royal-blue
striped socks. We arrived at our friend’s lawn party with twenty minutes to
spare. Enough time to nosh on cinnamon bagels and cantaloupe cubes, clink
seltzer waters, and jostle our folding chairs into the shade. We settled
underneath a sprawling maple as old as a WWII vet.
Candy bags were
divvied out.
Street curbs were
brushed free of ants and dead leaves.
Children lined up
for organic popsicles from the bicycle vendor.
Ears strained for
the sirens.
Not once did I
scan the surrounding homes and buildings, surveying rooftops for sniper
shooters.
Not. Once.
I utterly failed
to devise an escape route or identify what inanimate object might shield my
daughters from a torrent of bullets threatening to implode their spleens and gallbladders. A pole? A bench? A dumpster? It never dawned on me to prepare for war. We were there to scramble for Tootsie
Rolls, wave to the local gymnastic troupe, and cheer on the high school
marching band. We were there to celebrate our freedoms, to double down on our
rights as Americans to assemble peacefully.
Instead, we were
lambs to the slaughter—pawns of patriotism.
In truth, I wasn’t
up for indulging in merriment that morning. The recent rulings passed down by
our bought-n-sold judicial branch had left me pursing my lips in soured disgust.
In a span of several weeks, our originalist Supreme Court had eliminated the
federal right to abortion while expanding gun-owner rights. The conservative
majority had buttressed the role of religion in the public sphere while
hampering environmental protections. According to standard political measures, this
past term managed to erase over a century of democratic progress. When you put
a delusional psychopath in power, you must suffer the aftermath and swallow the
bitter pill. And keep swallowing. The three justices Trump appointed may remain
on the court for the next three decades.
In other words, I
didn’t feel much like gnawing on Tootsie rolls.
And yet, we dressed in our red,
white, and blue, waved our plastic Pride flags, and saluted the soldiers riding
in vintage automobiles. Our democracy may have been on life support, but it was
still our home, a nation we longed to revere.
And then reality pervaded.
Just as I was standing to applaud the Moms Demand Action procession in Oak Park,
30 miles north, a 21-year-old white male was gunning down toddlers and
grandparents with an assault rifle—a military-grade weapon of massacre. A
firearm he owned legally despite his criminal history. A firearm that dispenses
ammunition up to three times the speed of sound. A firearm that causes such horrific
bodily damage that victims are often identified through dental records.
There are lines in
the sand and then there are full-stop fissures.
I no longer accept
wrong place, wrong time. I no longer accept thoughts and prayers.
Posturing and platitudes. Hearts and minds. Special interest groups and
political inertia. I reject the ludicrous notion of arming educators and casting
blame on mental health. Take the rhetoric and shove it.
314 mass shootings
over five months in the Land of the Free.
30,000+ fatalities
every single year.
Movie theaters. Elementary
schools. Supermarkets and subways. Shopping malls and synagogues. Independence Day
parades. I’m fucking
pissed.
That tired, old adage
springs to mind:
The very definition of insanity is doing the same thing over
and over again and expecting different results.
Guns kill more
kids in the US than cancer. Our country is no longer that scrappy militia fighting
the Redcoats in the late 1700s. The assault rifles of today are not the
rudimentary muskets stashed in our apple cellars, just as our gas-guzzling SUVS
are a vast deviation from the horse and buggies of yesteryear. Laws bend and
evolve in response to the times. Cars require seatbelts. Federal labor regulations
protect children under the age of 14. People other than privileged, bigoted
white men are permitted to vote.
Progress is a
beautiful thing.
And yet, our gun
laws remain as archaic and outrageous as bloodletting with leeches. Only specially
trained pilots are permitted to fly bomber jets. Doctors grind through years of
medical training before they can write prescriptions. Even the average American
must pass a test to earn the privilege of getting behind the wheel of a used Honda
Civic. But any 18-year-old teenager with cystic acne can pack heat.
America’s Second Amendment
right to bear arms bludgeons the right of 2-year Aiden McCarthy to grow up with
his mom and dad or the right of Anthony Mendoza of West Ridge to reach his 16th
birthday. A law dating back to 1791 makes it easier to purchase a semiautomatic
rifle than a chocolate Kinder egg. Because, you know, some kid might choke on
the plastic surprise toy.
As the court’s three liberal justices noted in their dissent opinion on the recent abortion case, “the framers defined rights in general terms, to permit future evolution in their scope and meaning.”
Jefferson
and Madison sound like pretty smart dudes. I have to believe they understood that
change is inevitable—that they not only entrusted but expected future
generations to use their experience to inform constitutional interpretation.
Hampered by
inertia, we plod on, hitting the deck whenever a car backfires or tossing
our kids into garbage dumpsters while sprinting from parades so the metal tombs
might spare their lives. In the classroom, our kids practice lockdown drills
before their multiplication tables. Hide in your cubby. Bury your face in your
winter coat. Don’t make a single sound in the dark.
Meanwhile, our cowardly congressmen spout their condolences, obscuring the blood on their hands and their rubber backbones that fold on command. Our justices savor medium-rare ribeyes at Morton’s, cocooned within their security details, and slip seamlessly out the back door.
They should have to witness the carnage firsthand. Tiptoe
through the blood-stained hallways. Mop the body parts from the pavement. Stand beside
the ER physician desperately working to plug the holes of a human-turned-sieve.
They should be forced to study the evidence photos while depositing their NRA
donations and casting their votes.
There was no back
door escape hatch at Uvalde or Highland Park or Sandy Hook. There was no
security detail on high alert.
The only armor those
innocent victims had were their unalienable, constitutional rights:
To life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
Let freedom ring.
Just
as pissed?
Donate
to www.everytown.org or www.sandyhookpromise.org or https://momsdemandaction.org
Call
your representatives. Illinois residents, educate yourselves on the HB5522 Bill
to ban assault rifles.
