In 1968, as a twelve-year-old boy, ripping and running [that’s how my grandmother characterized it] the streets of Washington DC., I had great friends, great times and great fear. In the Spring of 1968 I saw parts of my neighborhood burn to the ground, in the riotous aftermath of the assassination of the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr.
At least three Soldiers, carrying M-14 rifles were stationed on the corner of every block in what had been my world of safety. They were tall, mostly white men, clad in olive green uniforms with crew cuts and stern faces. That was the first time I had a gun pointed at me. Me and my friends were brazen and brash, we were full of an anger, that we understood little about but we know others were mad and so should we. I remember feeling confused and liked the idea of uniforms and power. I approached a soldier to ask, “how old do I have to be to join?” I guess I startled him, he turned quickly at the sound of my voice raised his rifle briefly and said, “move before I shoot you. He could not have been any older than nineteen or twenty years old and I am sure he was scared.
I never forgot that moment because he looked at me with the genuine hate that I was told I should to be holding toward him. The streets calmed and the acrid smell of burning buildings lingered for months afterward. School, which had closed prematurely, reopened in September, the day after Labor Day. I had a few dreams about that gun raised in my direction but I was resilient and soon forgot the moment but hung onto the feeling of animus directed at me.
I was going to seventh grade and was a big boy now, no. no a man! I could go get my haircut alone and go to the corner store and buy cigarettes for the neighbor lady next door, “keep the change” she’d say, for running the errand. My biggest manhood achievement was being able to go, alone, to the local Little Tavern Restaurant that was located at 13th and Good Hope Rd. in the southeastern section of Washington DC and sold the world’s best mini burgers. The sign out front read, ‘buy ‘em by the bag.’ Nestled between the hardware store and the slider joint was a Texaco gas station that had a soda vending machine that sold 20 cent soft drinks. I was a man, so I took my skinny 12 ½ year old confident frame up the block, to get a cheap soda before buying a couple of 10 cent sliders. Standing in front of the vending machine making my choices, Tab, RC Cola or Mountain Dew, I heard a voice whisper,” empty your pockets” I was a man, so I wheeled around only to come face to face with the barrel of a gun two inches from my forehead. My manhood drained out of me and I peed my pants. The gunman was so startled, because I immediately began to cry, that he yelled at me to, “shut the hell up” and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked once but I was still alive. He ran off laughing. I will never know if it was not loaded or it misfired but I am alive to write this story. Unlike the frightened young man who lowered his rifle out of fear and hatred the second incident scared me even more because the teenager who could had taken my life thought it was funny, to see a young boy humiliated and broken. Yes, to this day guns scare me because of those incidents.
The good guy with a gun hated me and the bad guy with a gun delighted in my fear. I was not carrying a weapon strapped to my ankle as Donald Trump suggested. The gunman was a teenager, who thought his entertainment could be heightened behind the barrel of a gun and seeing a man-child cry. He laughed but I still have nightmares. Of the 102 shooting victims at the Pulse Night Club in Orlando, Florida lots of them cried, peed their pants and prayed. I am willing to bet the survivors will have the same recurring nightmares I have had for forty-seven and 1/2 years. I am a man, and I still weep in the middle of the night. It is up to all of us to stop the gun violence
Vote 2016
