Keeping a (raging) fire for the human race
Keep a fire for the human race,
Let your prayers go drifting into space
You never know what will be coming down…
~Jackson Browne, For a Dancer
I remember exactly where I was, and what I was doing, when the news of the Sandy Hook massacre flashed onto my phone. It was Dec. 14, 2012. My husband and I were Christmas shopping. The sun shone bright and warm as we strolled the black expanse that separated a sea of cars from the entrance to World Market.
My phone buzzed. I read the news alert and froze. I gasped, clutching my stomach as I bent over and burst into tears. Jamie grabbed my arm, as if to hold me up: “What?” he said. I could hear the concern in his tone but could not see his expression. I was staring at black asphalt, my eyes blurred and unfocused.
In the next few minutes, I released some of my outrage in a Facebook rant — the exact words are lost to my sketchy memory — but it was a blast at the people whose first words are always “It’s too soon to talk about this.” This admonishment comes almost immediately (I read it this morning). We get some form of: “This is not the time to talk about the societal cancer that is killing us.” My question on Facebook that day was something like: “When IS the time to talk about guns in the wake of such unspeakable horror?” An acquaintance, a deeply religious woman and someone I admire greatly, immediately admonished me. “Think of those babies and their families. Now is NOT the time.”
Worried I had offended, I took my post down.
I regret that.
And now, I am doing something uncharacteristic: Writing something for public consumption when I am in an angry, heartsick state of mind. I’m filled with a mind-numbing rage that springs from feeling completely helpless. For my own sanity, I know I will have to find a way to temper these feelings. Maybe writing this is part of that. But if you are easily offended, you might want to stop reading now.
I will not take this post down.
The news of Sandy Hook blotted out any light the holiday season offered that year. I felt bleak and dark for weeks. But even in the midst of it, I nurtured a tiny spark of hope. Surely this, THIS, the slaughter of these beautiful children, would at last spur action. Poll after poll showed an unheard of majority of Americans was clearly in favor of common sense gun control measures. Congress would be forced to act, right? And members could point to the polls as they passed some reasonable, not-too-radical measures. Polls would be their shield from political harm.
It didn’t happen, of course. I felt naïve.
In the summer of 2016, when political rhetoric had the whole country on edge and boiling with resentment, a friend of mine posted something on my wall that stopped my heart cold. I have loved this friend for a long, long time. I still do. He is a family man with a genuine, generous heart. And he wrote: “Someone could shoot Hillary Clinton for all I care, but it would be a waste of a good bullet.”
When I expressed my outrage at his remark, he immediately called and apologized. A joke gone too far. We had a conversation. He is still my friend. But this morning, as I heard the news of 50-and-counting dead and hundreds injured in Las Vegas, I found myself wondering, “Wasted bullets… Randomly killing people who are enjoying music in the wrong place at the wrong time — is THAT a waste of bullets? Or is that just the price we pay as a country in the name of protecting gun owners’ Second Amendment rights?” It’s a serious question for me.
My imagination is rich. It’s a gift I am grateful for except in times like these, when I can imagine too clearly the terror I would have felt if I, or someone I loved, had been there. I was haunted by words I recently wrote: “The random bullet will find you.” I could envision the parents who clung to their children, trying to protect them. I could feel the panic of not knowing where the spray of bullets that crack-crack-cracked in the air was coming from. I imagined seeing a fellow concert goer shot down before my eyes. Blood spattering. Another national nightmare writ large in my consciousness.
The number of mass shootings continues to climb. (I don’t even WANT to count, so I’ve included this graphic from Vox.com. They updated it this morning.)
And this morning, I woke up to numerous Facebook memes exhorting me to pray for Las Vegas. I hadn’t even heard the news about Las Vegas, and yet I immediately knew why I was being told to pray.
“Pray for [fill in the name of place where the latest massacre happened.]”
Please know that I am not disparaging your faith, or any faith, or discounting the good that prayers can do in the world. I believe in the power of prayer. But I am sick to my core of hearing this entreaty in the face of mass slaughters that could be, if not prevented entirely, at least entirely mitigated. Pray, by all means, if it offers you comfort. But don’t offer up prayer as a solution. If prayers could stop the killings, they would have ended long, long ago.
If prayers were answered, we wouldn’t consistently wake up to the news of these mass killings. Clearly, we are a country that seems to have become comfortable with carnage. Or at least willing to tolerate it. We pray, but refuse to act.
While I can’t imagine being persuaded that your civilian right to own assault weapons supersedes another human being’s right to live, for me this is not just a political issue. How could it be? These massacres have happened again and again, no matter which party lives in the White House or what party is controlling Congress.
For me, this is about our humanity, and our lack of collective will to do something far more than pray for the victims and their families. I’ve made calls to my representatives. I’ve sent post cards. I’ve donated to those David organizations trying to do something against the Goliath NRA. And they are being defeated again and again. And when I hear about another massacre, guilt washes over me. I think, “Why haven’t I done more?” even as I’m convinced that doing more won’t make a difference. I hate that feeling.
Jackson Browne’s lyrics cycled in my head this morning. “Let your prayers go drifting into space.”
Yes, let them. And his song continues:
Perhaps a better world is drawing near
And just as easily it could all disappear,
Along with whatever meaning you might have found.
Don’t let the uncertainty turn you around.
Go on and make a joyful sound.
Make a joyful sound? I will try to hold that hopeful thought in my heart.
But I will not make a joyful sound today. Not today.
Today, the uncertainty has turned me around.
