I am a black man living in an urban city. Being in this skin, one must think about chance encounters with police going horribly wrong and street crime. To my chagrin, it is not unusual to hear gunshots at least once a month, but things are getting better. Homicides are down in Philadelphia after a steady four-year increase. I still live in fear; no, I am not looking over my shoulder when I leave my home, nor do I have any plans to purchase a gun or wear body armor. The streets are not what scares me. Today is the tenth remembrance of the horrific shooting of twenty—six to seven-year-olds and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. I have multiple grandchildren still in elementary school, and I live in fear for them.
Sandy Hook is not the first, or sadly, the last, school shooting. Still, it may have been the most celebrated for conspiracy theorists, cranks, and human vermin like podcaster Alex Jones, who tormented the parents and survivors for years. When I was a child, I clearly remember my great-grandmother breathing a sigh of relief, saying to her friends, “at least he is safe in school.” That shield of safety was cracked at Columbine, broken at Sandy Hook, and irrevocably shattered by the countless shootings, anger, and grief we have come to expect as a part of life.
One of the things that will change—this memorium is that the surviving children of Sandy Hook are now young adults, and we will hear from them firsthand. We will listen to their lingering fears, see the vacant stares, and experience their sense of loss and guilt over their once playground buddies senselessly slaughtered. Sure, life has proven no place is safe any longer. Parishioners, shoppers, moviegoers, and concert attendees, America has become a shooting gallery for every miscreant, malcontent, and incel. Unfortunately, the politicians tasked with our protection feel chickens and guns should be in every pot.
The teens at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High in Parkland, Florida, who witnessed their classmates murdered, ushered in a new sense of militancy about saving their own lives. Not content to join in the thoughts and prayers circle, they marched, got loud, got angry, and got political.
There is a constant refrain from the conservative arena of politics haranguing us about cutting budgets for the kids, securing the border for the kids, and saving America for the kids. Somehow the simplicity of taking away the weapons of war that kill our kids by the thousands every year in schools, cities, and suburbs is a bridge too far. Again, when I was in elementary school, fire drills were the safety measure I most remember. My friends and I loved fire drills it got us outside and shortened the day. A few would sneak off to a local candy store and take the promised detention and butt whooping once you got home for a sweet treat.
Unbeknownst to them, I listened in on a few of my grandchildren discussing shooter drills, practicing silence, pushing the teacher’s desk in front of the door, and pressing their bodies against a back wall or coat room if available. I saw their hands shake a bit, and I heard their voices crack with repressed fear. No, I am not afraid of my neighbors or neighborhood, but I live in fear.
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